public domain works in the international children's digital library.) [illustration] chatterbox stories of natural history new york r. worthington 770 broadway. copyright, 1880, by r. worthington. new york: j. j. little & co., printers, 10 to 20 astor place. * * * * * +------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: there was no table of contents in the original book,| |and one has been provided for this version. | +------------------------------------------------------------------------+ the king of the castle. zebra and young. mrs. bruin and family. little owls. aurochs. the kangaroo. the peacock. swans. the sea lion. a--the ass. badgers. the bird's nest. the chamois. jacko with pussy's bone. members of the poaching fraternity. a cow working a pump. carrier pigeons. the siasin, or antelope of india. the common snipe. d--the doe. mrs. bunny and family. the lynx. the swan and the drake. the beaver. lioness and cubs. a pet jack. the swallow's nest. the brave dog of st. bernard. g--the giraffe. mother-deer and baby. whooping crane. the elk. toys for animals. the sucking-pig. bell-ringers. the guinea-pig. j--the jay. waiting. the argus. the young monkey. the clever fox. testing his strength. a wise dog. m--the mandrill. spring. summer. timothy. the brave cockatoo. hare taking the water. autumn. winter. our wild birds. p--the pelican. blackbirds and young. a useful pilot. jack. s--the swallow. a singular habit of the woodcock. the sky-lark the story of a seal. the king of the mountains. the bee. v--the vulture. mother and pups. the friendly terns. y--the yak. sheep and lambs. the captive squirrel. a stroll in the country. the otter. the mastiff. the cunning wood-pigeons. sea reptiles. swiss mountain scenery. partridge and young. the kingfishers' home. rats carrying eggs up stairs. a heron attacked by a hawk. a horse guardian. battle between a fox and a swan. tousy. * * * * * [illustration: carlo.] the king of the castle. as the lion is called the king of beasts, so the eagle is called the king of birds; but except that it is bigger, stronger, and swifter than other birds, there does not seem much reason for the name. it is a mistake to attribute noble or mean qualities to animals or birds, or to think they can do good or bad actions, when they can only do what god has created them to do, and as their instinct teaches. the most powerful of the eagles is the golden eagle, so called because of the rich yellowish-brown bordering to its feathers. it makes its nest in the clefts of the rocky sides of the mountains, and seldom on a tree, unless where one has sprung up in between the clefts, and the tangled roots make a sort of platform. this the eagles cover with sticks, and here they make their house, living in it always, and not only when they lay eggs or have young ones. if there are eaglets in the nest, the food is at once carried home to them, and the skinning and eating done at home. eagles are very attentive to their young, and feed them with great care until they are able to take care of themselves. [illustration] zebra and young. mrs. zebra, standing with her baby by her side, asks proudly of the lookers-on, "did you ever see such a likeness?" and certainly mother and child are very much alike, striped all over their bodies, from head to foot, and from nose to tail, with the same regular marks of black. strong and wild by nature, the zebra family are left very much to themselves, which is a source of great happiness to the mother and child in the picture before us. "no! no! my baby is not going to become as tame as the donkey, or to draw carts and carriages like the horse; it is to have its freedom, and go just where it likes all over these large plains;"--so says mrs. zebra, and she means it too, for if anybody took the trouble to go all the way to the hot country of africa, where mrs. zebra is at home, and tried to carry off her baby, they would find their journey a vain one, and that she would kick severely, and perhaps break the legs of the person bold enough to take away her darling. [illustration] mrs. bruin and family. this is the american black bear, who is looking so lively and seemingly inviting the young folks to have a romp, which they will be only too willing to join in. the black bear is of a timid disposition, and seldom attacks man except in self-defense. the female bear is a most affectionate mother, and many stories are related showing her care and love for her young, and her sorrow and mournful cries when any evil befalls them. on one occasion a black bear with her two cubs was pursued across the ice by some armed sailors. at first she urged her cubs to increased speed, but finding her pursuers gaining upon them, she carried, pushed, and pitched them, alternately, forward, until she effected their escape from her pursuers. [illustration] little owls. who has not at one time or other of his life read fairy tales and sympathized with stories of enchanted princes and princesses? i once thought of this when a country boy offered me a nest with four of the young of the little owl. i put them into a large cage, where they could stare at each other and at my pigeons to their hearts' content. let me say that this little owl is a very useful bird, for it keeps mice, bats, beetles, and other creatures in check, which might otherwise multiply too fast. on a spring or summer evening you may hear its plaintive hoot among the apple-blossoms of an orchard, or the sheaves of a cornfield. curiously enough, this simple sound earned the little bird the name of being the harbinger of death, and peasants believed that whenever its cry was heard where sickness was in the family, the patient was sure to die. [illustration] aurochs. an aurochs in blind rage, charging through thick and thin, has had a fascination for me as long as i can remember. the true aurochs and this, the european bison, ceased to exist in the british isles, except in the zoological gardens; but the latter is still found wild in lithuania, and is also carefully preserved in other parts of russia, of which the emperor has a herd. there is much talk about their being untamable--that they will not mix with tame cattle--that tame cows shrink from the aurochs' calves; but does not any cow shrink from any calf not her own? the american bison, with which you are all pretty familiar, is very similar to the one just mentioned. there have been several attempts made to domesticate the american bison, and have been so far successful. the size and strength of the animal make it probable that if domesticated, it would be of great use. [illustration] the kangaroo. "well," said little herbert joyce, as he looked over the books of drawings which his cousin had just brought home from australia, "i never saw anything so extraordinary before in all my life; why here is an animal with three heads, and two of them are very low down, and much smaller than the others." "what do you mean, herbert?" asked his cousin, who just then came into the room. "there are no three-headed animals--let me see the picture. oh! no wonder you were puzzled; it does look like a queer creature. that is a kangaroo, and the small heads belong to her children, whom she carries about in a bag formed by a hole in her skin, until they are old enough to walk; and the little things seem very happy there; and sometimes, as their mother moves along over the grass, you may see them nibbling it." [illustration] the peacock. proud bird! i watched thee stalking by, with stately step and slow, as though thou fain would'st charm each eye with glittering pomp and show: and truly thou art brave to see, in heaven's hues arrayed, and plainer birds at sight of thee might shrink and be dismayed: yet, pampered bird! there still are those i value higher far, albeit their garb nor glints nor glows with many a jeweled star. i love them for their gentle ways, their voices soft and sweet in summer chorus, that repays right well their winter's meat. for what is outward form at best but accident of birth? that form in splendid raiment drest is still but common earth. and yet 'tis he whose painted plumes shine fairest in the sun, who haughtiest look of pride assumes, as though by him 'twere done. we smile to see yon bird strut by, thus proud of his array; but human friends we may espy as foolish every day. not beauty's form nor grand attire upon the wise will tell, but _acts_ of those who e'er aspire to do their duty well. [illustration] [illustration: feeding the pet.] swans. this beautiful and majestic bird was considered the bird-royal in england, owing to a law of england that when found in a partially wild state on the sea and navigable rivers it belonged to the crown; but of course it is to be found on the ponds and lakes of many a gentleman's estate, and is always prized as a great ornament to the lake. the swan is also very valuable in clearing the ponds of weeds, and makes a most effective clearance, as they eat them before they rise to the surface. the swan affords a pleasing illustration of the love of the mother-bird for its young, and has been known to vanquish a fox who made an attack on its nest--showing that the instinct of motherhood kindles boldness and bravery in the breast of the most timid animals. the nest is generally made on an islet, and composed of reeds and rushes, and when the five or seven large eggs are hatched, the mother may be seen swimming about with the young ones on her back. [illustration] the sea lion. although such large and powerful creatures, these sea lions are innocent and playful. see, one of them has reared himself up on his hind legs, if legs they may be called, and is sitting on a chair with his flappers over the back of the chair. it inhabits the eastern shores of kamtchatka, and is in some places extremely abundant, and measuring about fifteen feet in length. it is much addicted to roaring, which, as much as the mane of the old males, has obtained for it the name of the sea lion. the old males have a fierce appearance, yet they fly in great haste on the approach of man, but if driven to extremities they will fight desperately; but in captivity they are capable of being tamed, and become very familiar with man. the scientific name of the sea lion is otary. [illustration] [illustration: the lion.] a--the ass. _a forbear to vex the patient ass, its heaving sides to goad, and far and safe its useful back will carry many a load._ b--the bittern. _in reedy swamp and lonely marsh, where all is shade and gloom, the bittern stalks, and you may hear his voice in sullen boom._ c--the camel. _the camel is a useful beast, patient, and slow, and mild; to man a blessing and a boon in afric's sandy wild._ badgers. one day at the zoological gardens, i saw the group of badgers as they are here given. little do visitors to the gardens take into account how much a wild animal goes through till it has got used to a state of things so opposite to its natural habits. their wants are attended to as much as possible, but cannot be always met; and so we have here a devoted mother, worn out by the demands of her cubs, and vainly anxious to hide herself from daylight and man's gaze. she has long given up trying to dig or scratch her way out. all she can do is to lean against the wall, ready for a last defence, should anybody come within her prison. she dares not curl up into a ball, like the one cub, and go to sleep; while this little careless imp on her back, happy and trustful, adds to her tiredness by his weight. [illustration] the bird's nest. "her little nest, so soft and warm, god teaches her to make it; i would not dare to do her harm, i would not dare to take it." how curious is the structure of the nest of the bullfinch or chaffinch! the inside of it is lined with cotton and fine silken threads; and the outside cannot be sufficiently admired, though it is composed only of various kinds of fine moss. the color of these mosses, resembling that of the bark of the tree in which the nest is built, proves that the bird intended it should not be easily discovered. in some nests, hair, wool, and rushes are cleverly interwoven. in others, the parts are firmly fastened by a thread, which the bird makes of hemp, wool, hair, or, more commonly, of spiders' webs. other birds--as, for instance, the blackbird and the lapwing--after they have constructed their nests, plaster the inside with mortar; they then stick upon it, while quite wet, some wool or moss to give warmth; but all alike construct their nests so as to add to their security. [illustration] the chamois. the chamois are indeed high-born, for among the high mountain-peaks, where the eternal snow rests and the alpine roses bloom, there they make their home! there they spring up over the snowy slopes to those heights to which man cannot climb. they rest upon the glittering ice, the snow does not blind them, neither does it cool their hot blood. carelessly they stride across the snowed-over crevices, and when the terrible storms, at which men are so alarmed, hurl down rocks and avalanches from the summits, the chamois do not fear them. they find their way safely through the thickest mist and darkest clouds. agile and light-footed, gentle and peaceable, proud and courageous, they lead a happy life among the mountains, as long as man does not molest them. [illustration] jacko with pussy's bone. jacko is a bird called a macaw, and has fine feathers--scarlet and yellow and blue. jacko can talk a little. he says, "come along, jacko, come along;" and when you come, as soon as he thinks you near enough, he pecks at you with his great beak. when he is in a good temper he will say, "poor, poor!" he will sit upon the ivy all the morning and talk to himself, and he will call the gardener, and he will cough and sneeze, and crow and cackle, in a very funny manner. if jacko sees sparrows picking up a few crumbs, he will rush up, sweeping his great wings along the ground, and take their meal for himself. if he sees poor pussy picking a bone, he takes great delight in creeping down from his ivy, helping himself down with beak and claws, and at a sight of jacko's approach pussy darts away, leaving the bone in jacko's possession. pussy, of course, does not like this, but stands at a respectable distance, and with curved back and flashing eyes shows her indignation at jacko. presently jacko retires to the ivy and pussy resumes her feast. [illustration] members of the poaching fraternity. among the various wild animals which inhabit the earth, it is difficult to decide which are really friendly and which are really hostile to man's interests. the actual fact appears to be that there is neither hostility nor friendship. if farmers and gardeners kill off too many birds, nature revenges herself by sending a plague of insects which the small birds, if alive, would have eaten. gamekeepers ruthlessly shoot hawks and kites, or snare stoats and polecats, with the result that their game grows up too thick for its feeding ground, sickly specimens are allowed to linger on, and a destructive murrain follows. the rook, no doubt, is fond of eggs; but nevertheless he does the farmer good service when he devours the grubs which are turned up by the plow; and as the salmon disease, which of late has proved so destructive, is attributed by the best authorities to overcrowding, that glossy-coated fisherman, the otter, is really a benefactor to the followers of izaak walton's gentle craft. [illustration] [illustration: neddy's breakfast.] a cow working a pump. my informant writes me as follows: "we have a wonderful cow here--about ten years old, and very clever at opening gates and breaking fences. there is an abyssinnian pump about three feet high in the center of the field, near my house, over a trough, which is, or ought to be, filled daily. it was on a hot day, when my man had omitted to pump the trough full, that the cow was first observed to help herself: the way in which she managed to pump was by pushing the handle up with her head and then forcing it down with her horns. very little elevation of the handle is required to get water, and she would work it for five minutes together, and sometimes drank from the spout, and sometimes from the trough." [illustration] carrier pigeons. the carrier pigeon is remarkable for the degree in which it possesses the instinct and power of returning from a distance to its accustomed home. in eastern countries it is the practice to bathe the pigeon's feet in vinegar to keep them cool, and to prevent it from alighting in quest of water, by which the letter might sustain injury. pigeons intended for this use must be brought from the place to which they are to return, within a short period, and must be kept in the dark and without food for at least eight hours before being let loose. the carrier pigeon was of great service during the siege of paris in 1871, and conveyed many important messages. it goes through the air at the rate of thirty miles an hour, but has been known to fly even faster. [illustration] [illustration: the golden eagle. the stork. the virginian horned owl. the crane.] [illustration: the whale. the elephant. the white rhinoceros. the hippopotamus, or behemoth.] the siasin, or antelope of india. the siasin, or antelope of india, roams over the open and rocky plains of that immense country. it is distinguished from the rest of its family by the beauty and singular shape of its horns, which are annulated or ringed, and spirally convoluted or curved together, making two or more turns, according to the age of the animal. the fakirs and dervishes of india, who are enjoined by their religion from carrying swords, frequently wear at their girdles the polished horns of the siasin instead of the usual military arm. this antelope is one of the fleetest-footed of its family, and its leap is something wonderful. it is not uncommon for it to vault to the height of twelve or thirteen feet, passing over ten or twelve yards at a single bound. in color it is almost black on the upper part of the body, and light-colored beneath. when full grown, it is about the size of our common deer. [illustration] the common snipe. these birds frequent swampy woods, marshes, morasses, and the borders of rivers. their usual time for seeking their food is early in the morning and during the twilight of the evening. they subsist principally upon insects and worms; for these they search among the decayed leaves, and probe the mud and ooze with their lengthened bills. when alarmed, they generally lie close to the ground, or among the grass, or, suddenly starting on the wing, escape by flight, which is short but elevated, rapid, and irregular. the eggs, which are four in number, are deposited on the ground. in the snipe, and all its immediate allies, the bill is thickened, soft, and very tender at its extremity; so that this part, which is richly supplied with nerves, serves as a delicate organ of touch, and is used for searching in the soft ground for the insects and worms that constitute the food of these birds. [illustration] [illustration: a visit to the monkeys.] d--the doe. graceful and gentle is the doe; its tawny coat how sleek! how bright yet tender are its eyes! its glance how softly meek! e--the eagle. upon the lonely mountain peak the eagle builds her nest, and there, when weary of the chase, in silence takes her rest. f--the fox. the fox will skulk in ferny brake, yet loves the haunts of men; and prowls around the farm, to pounce on capon, goose, or hen. mrs. bunny and family. this wild rabbit has been startled by some noise, and the next moment she may be scampering away to her burrow, with the little bunnies, at the top of their speed, and crouch there until all is quiet again. rabbits usually select, if possible, a sandy soil overgrown with furze, in which to make their burrows, as such a soil is easily removed, and the dense prickly furze hides their retreat, whilst it affords them a wholesome and never-failing food. these furze bushes are constantly eaten down, as far as the rabbits can reach standing on their hind legs, and consequently present the appearance of a solid mass with the surface even and rounded. these animals retire into their burrows by day to rest, and come out only in the twilight to obtain food. [illustration] the lynx. the body of the lynx, beautifully spotted with black and brown rings, is more solid and hardy than that of the wild cat. his ears are longer, his tail is shorter, his great eyes light up like bright flames; and since he prowls about chiefly at night, he is thought to have very keen sight. for this reason, when we wish to say that a person can see very clearly or can look beyond the outward appearance of things, we call him _lynx-eyed_. like all cats, the lynx possesses in his mustache a very correct power of feeling. this, with the sense of hearing and sight, guides him in all his expeditions. the lynx in the picture is in the act of springing upon a timid hare. although he can measure twenty paces in a jump, i think for once he has made a misstep, and the dear little creature with one more bound will be safe. one very remarkable fact about these animals is this: if there are several together, and one starts over the snow in pursuit of booty, all the others will follow in exactly the same tracks, so that it will look as if but one lynx had passed over the snow-covered earth. [illustration] [illustration: good morning, birdie!] the swan and the drake. slowly, in majestic silence, sailed a swan upon a lake; round about him, never quiet, swam a noisy quacking drake. "swan," exclaimed the latter, halting, "i can scarcely comprehend why i never hear you talking: are you really dumb, my friend?" said the swan, by way of answer: "i have wondered, when you make such a shocking, senseless clatter, whether you are deaf, sir drake!" better, like the swan, remain in silence grave and dignified, than keep, drake-like, ever prating, while your listeners deride. w. r. e. [illustration] the beaver. this industrious animal is generally found in canada and the northern portions of the united states, where it makes its home on the banks of the rivers and lakes. here they assemble in hundreds to assist each other in the construction of their dams, and in the building of their houses, which are put together with a considerable amount of engineering skill. the materials used in building the dams are wood, stones, and mud, which they collect themselves for that purpose, and after finishing the dam, or winter storehouse, they collect their stores for the winter's use, and then make a connection with their houses in the banks. their skins are valuable in making fine hats, and their flesh is much relished by the hunters. the beaver is an interesting animal in many respects, and the expression "busy as a beaver" is borne out by its habits. [illustration] [illustration: the turtle-dove.] [illustration: the cuckoo.] [illustration: the peacock.] [illustration: the tame, or mute swan.] [illustration: the lioness and cubs.] [illustration: the leopard.] [illustration: the syrian bear.] [illustration: the jackal.] lioness and cubs. the lioness is much smaller than the lion, and her form is more slender and graceful. she is devoid of the mane of her lord and master, and has four or five cubs at a birth, which are all born blind. the young lions are at first obscurely striped and spotted. they mew like cats, and are as playful as kittens. as they get older, the uniform color is gradually assumed. the mane appears in the males at the end of ten or twelve months, and at the age of eighteen months it is very considerably developed, and they begin to roar. both in nature and in a state of captivity the lioness is very savage as soon as she becomes a mother, and the lion himself is then most to be dreaded, as he will then brave almost any risk for the sake of his lioness and family. [illustration] a pet jack. the first fish i ever saw in an aquarium, twenty years ago, was a "jack," as he is called when young, or a "pike," when he grows older; and ever since then i have contrived to have a pet one, and this, drawn from life by mr. harrison weir, is an accurate portrait of the one i now possess in the crystal palace aquarium. there he is, just as he steals round the corner of a bit of rock. he is glaring at a minnow, at which he is taking most accurate aim; he hardly seems to move, but yet he does by a very trifling motion of the edge of his back fin--sometimes resting a little on the tips of his two foremost fins, as they touch the ground, carefully calculating his distance; and then, at the very moment when the minnow has got into a position which leaves a space of clear water in front, so that mr. jack shall not hurt his nose against any hard substance when he gets carried on by the violence of his rush, he darts at the minnow with the speed of shakspeare's puck:-"i go, i go! look, how i go! swifter than arrow from the tartar's bow." [illustration] the swallow's nest. often in former years the twitter of the birds glittering in the morning sun was the first sound that met my ear during the wakeful hours which frequently accompany illness after the worst crisis has passed, and you are recovering by degrees. the gutters ran beneath my bedroom windows, and i could see the steel-blue backs of the swallows as they sat on the rims of the gutter, twisting their little heads, opening their yellow-lined beaks, singing to their hearts' content. whole families would perch there together, or the young would rest in rows of four or five, according to the nest-broods of each. how delightful to see them fed by their agile parents! how tantalizing to have them almost within reach of my hands, yet not to be able to catch them or give them a kiss, as they would cower in my hollow hands if i only could have got them in there! [illustration] the brave dog of st. bernard. where the st. bernard pass climbs up amid the alpine snows, the far-famed hospice crowns the heights with shelter and repose. its inmates, with their faithful dogs, are truly friends in need when snowdrifts block the traveler's way, and blinding storms mislead. brave "barry," once, far down the track that crossed a glacier steep, found buried deep beneath the snow a poor boy, fast asleep. he licked the cold, numb hands and face to warmth and life once more, and bore him safely on his back up to the hospice door. [illustration] [illustration: come to me!] g--the giraffe. _full seventeen feet the giraffe tall measures "from top to toe," and with his neck outstretched can reach the branch that bendeth low._ [illustration] h--the hyena. _in asia and in africa the fierce hyenas prowl, and oft at night the traveler starts to hear their savage howl._ [illustration] i--the ichneumon. _a foe to birds and rats and mice, see the ichneumon glide! oft, too, on reptiles or their eggs its hungry teeth are tried._ mother-deer and baby. something has startled them, as they fed securely enough, one would think, on the grass at the foot of the rocks; and if we could only get a little nearer, this is what we should hear the mother-deer saying to her baby: "my child, i am sure there is danger about; look out and tell me if you see the slightest movement on the hill yonder, or if i see it first, i will give you the signal, and you must follow me, and run for your very life." and the baby, with cocked ears and glistening eyes, promises to do as it is told. but after all it will probably prove a false alarm, for this is not the time of year for deerstalking; and i dare say the noise they heard was made by a party of people coming up the valley below to see the waterfall, which is famous in the neighborhood. [illustration] whooping crane. the whooping crane is much larger than the common crane, which it otherwise much resembles except in color; its plumage, in its adult state, is pure white, the tips of the wings black. he spends the winter in the southern parts of north america, and in summer migrates far northwards. the crane feeds on roots, seeds, etc., as well as on reptiles, worms, insects, and on some of the smaller quadrupeds. they journey in flocks from fifty to a hundred, and rise to an immense height in the air, uttering their loud harsh cries, and occasionally alighting to seek food in fields or marshes; and when they descend on a field they do sad havoc to the crops, several doing sentinel duty while the majority are feeding. in general it is a very peaceful bird, both in its own society and those of the forest. [illustration] [illustration: the raven. the ring-dove. the hoopoe. the cock.] [illustration: the ibex, or rock goat. deer. the syrian goat. the roe.] the elk. this is the largest existing species of the deer family, and is a native of the northern parts of europe, asia, and africa. it grows to be six feet high and twelve hundred pounds in weight. they are very rare in europe and this country, but at one time they extended as far south as the ohio river. they love the woods and marshy places, and live off of the branches of trees, being unable to eat grass unless they get upon their knees. they are very timid, and not easily approached by the hunter, but should a dog come in the way, one stroke from an elk's foot will kill it. many of the parents of our little friends in maine and canada are, no doubt, familiar with the elk and its habits. [illustration] toys for animals. the "daily news" says: "our readers have often doubtless observed appeals in the papers for toys for sick children. we hear that a naturalist who feels much for animals is struck with the cruelty of leaving the creatures at the 'zoo' without anything to play with. this gentleman had in his possession a young otter, for whom he made a wooden ball, to the extreme delight of his pet, who used to divert his simple instinct with it for whole hours at a stretch. following up the idea, the same gentleman presented the elephants and rhinoceroses in the zoological gardens with globes for diversion suited to their sizes, but it seems the elephants took to playing ball so furiously, that 'there was danger of their houses being swept down altogether; so they were forbidden to use them indoors.' the polar bear was given a toy which, we are told, 'amuses him immensely.'" [illustration] the sucking-pig. the other day our children came home delighted at having seen a little pig drinking out of a bottle, just like a baby. i went to see it, and i was introduced to its owner, who lived in a cottage, the principal room of which was painted light blue. a good-natured old woman was there with her two orphan grand-children. the red tiles of the cottage floor were enlivened by a gray-and-white cat, and a shiny-skinned little pig, of about a month old, which was fed out of a feeding-bottle. this was the hero of the place. the little pig is grateful for good treatment, and as capable of attachment as a horse or a dog. the pig is intelligent, and it can be taught tricks. performing pigs are often the attractions of country fairs. i have seen pigs in the poor neighborhoods of london follow their masters through noisy streets, and into busy public-houses, where they laid down at their masters' feet like a dog. [illustration] bell-ringers. when a child, my father took me to see some feats performed by some traveling cats. they were called "the bell-ringers," and were respectively named jet, blanche, tom, mop, and tib. five bells were hung at regular intervals on a round hoop erected on a sort of stage. a rope was attached to each bell after the manner of church bells. at a given signal from their master, they all sprang to their feet, and at a second signal, each advanced to the ropes, and standing on their hind feet, stuck their front claws firmly into the ropes, which were in that part covered with worsted, or something of the kind, so as to give the claws a firmer hold. there was a moment's pause--then no. 1 pulled his or her rope, and so sounded the largest bell; no. 2 followed, then no. 3, and so on, till a regular peal was rung with almost as much precision and spirit as though it were human hands instead of cats' claws that effected it. [illustration] the guinea-pig. the guinea-pig is a native of south america, and is remarkable for the beauty and variety of its colors, and the neatness of its appearance. these little pets are very careful in keeping themselves and their offspring neat and tidy, and may be frequently seen smoothing and dressing their fur, somewhat in the manner of a cat. after having smoothed and dressed each other's fur, both turn their attention to their young, from whose coats they remove the smallest speck of dirt, at the same time trying to keep their hair smooth and unruffled. the guinea-pig feeds on bread, grain, fruit, vegetables, tea leaves, and especially garden parsley, to which it is very partial. it generally gives birth to seven and eight young at a time, and they very soon are able to take care of themselves. [illustration] [illustration: faithful friends.] [illustration] j--the jay. _methinks the jay's a noisy bird, yet now with crimson breast, silent and fond, she watches o'er the treasures of her nest._ [illustration] k--the kangaroo. _the timid kangaroo frequents the wild australian brakes; with long hind-legs and fore-legs short tremendous leaps he takes._ [illustration] l--the lion. _with tawny hide and flowing mane, and loud-resounding roar, of animals the lion's king, and all bow down before._ waiting. waiting for master to come down the stair, are "noble" and "floss," and his favorite mare-"brenda" the gentle, with skin soft and gray, waiting the signal, "now off and away." noble stands holding the whip and the rein, his gaze fixed on brenda, who tosses her mane; while dear little floss sits quietly by, winking and blinking her liquid brown eye. master's so kind to them--nothing to fear have horse or dogs when his footsteps they hear; look how they're waiting with eagerness there, ready to go with him everywhere. and what a pleasure it is when these three there on the staircase their kind master see; now he is mounted, the waiting is o'er-floss, brenda, and noble race off from the door. [illustration] [illustration: the baboon. the orang-outan. the barbary ape. the marimonda.] [illustration: the four-horned ram. the chamois. the ethiopian hog. the otter.] the argus. the argus is a bird with magnificent plumage; it inhabits the forests of java and sumatra, and takes its place beside the pheasant, from which it only differs in being unprovided with spurs, and by the extraordinary development of the secondary feathers of the wings in the male. the tail is large and round, and the two middle feathers are extremely long and quite straight. when paraded, as it struts round the female, spreading its wings and tail, this bird presents to the dazzled eye of the spectator two splendid bronze-colored fans, upon which is sprinkled a profusion of bright marks much resembling eyes. it owes its name of argus to these spots. [illustration] the young monkey. a little monkey chanced to find a walnut in its outward rind; he snatched the prize with eager haste, and bit it, but its bitter taste soon made him throw the fruit away. "i've heard," he cried, "my mother say (but she was wrong), the fruit was good; preserve me from such bitter food!" a monkey by experience taught, the falling prize with pleasure caught; took off the husk and broke the shell, the kernel peeled, and liked it well. "walnuts," said he, "are good and sweet, but must be opened ere you eat." and thus in life you'll always find labor comes first--reward behind. [illustration] the clever fox. one summer's day on the banks of the river tweed, in scotland, a fox sat watching a brood of wild ducks feeding in the river. presently a branch of a fir tree floated in their midst, which caused them to rise in the air, and after circling round for some time, they again settled down on their feeding ground. at short intervals this was repeated, the branch floating from the same direction, until the ducks took no further notice of it than allowing it to pass by. mr. reynard noticed this; so he got a larger branch than the others, and crouching down among the leaves, got afloat, and coming to the ducks, who took no notice of the branch, he seized two of the ducks, and then allowed himself to be floated to the other side, where, we suppose, he had a repast. [illustration] testing his strength. see this monster of the forest uprooting trees, as a test of its strength before entering on a fight with one of its companions, which is often a bitter struggle for supremacy. there are two species of elephants, the indian and african; the ears of the latter are much larger than the indian, covering the whole shoulder, and descending on the legs. elephants live in herds, and each herd has a leader--generally the largest and most powerful animal--who exercises much control over the herd, directing its movements, and giving the signal in the case of danger. the trunk of the elephant is of great service to it, and is a wonderful combination of muscle; curier, the famous naturalist, stating that there is not far short of 40,000 muscles, having distinct action, and so giving it an acute sense of touch and smell--so much so, that it can pick up a pin, or pluck the smallest leaf. the elephant is generally about ten feet high, and sometimes reaches to twelve feet, and lives to the age of seventy or eighty years. [illustration] a wise dog. there is a curly retriever at arundel bearing the name of "shock," which sets an example of good manners and intelligence to the animals which are not dumb. he carries the cat of the stables tenderly in his mouth, and would carry the kitten, but at present the kitten prefers its own means of locomotion. when sanger's elephant got into trouble in the river arun, this wise shock was sent to turn him out, and his perseverance succeeded. he often will insist on carrying a bundle of umbrellas to the station, and safely he delivers them to their owners, and then, with many wags of his brown tail, he demands a halfpenny for his trouble. this halfpenny he carries to the nearest shop, lays it on the counter, and receives his biscuit in return. need we say this dog has a kind, sensible master? [illustration] [illustration: summer.] [illustration] m--the mandrill. _in africa the mandrill lives, full five feet tall he stands; with furrowed cheek-bones, tufted hair, and hairy arms and hands._ [illustration] n--the nylghau. _in hindustan's dense forest-depths, among the tangled groves, with slender limbs but powerful frame the shapely nylghau roves._ [illustration] o--the ostrich. _o'er desert sands the ostrich skims, beneath a burning sky; swift as the swiftest horse he runs, but has no wings to fly._ [illustration] spring. when spring's soft breath sets free the rills, and melts the winter's hoards of snow, how fast they leap adown the hills, how wildly t'wards old ocean flow! jack frost! we gladly part with thee, for long indeed thy iron hand hath crushed the flowers relentlessly that longed to brighten all the land. and now the busy plow can trace its furrows through the fallow ground, while countless lovely blossoms grace the blooming fruit trees all around. yet though the snow amidst the brook is gliding fast--it fain would stay, and as it takes a lingering look, says:--"listen ere i flow away! "soon as spring spoke its royal word, i humbly doffed my wintry cap-but when the north wind's voice was heard, i covered up the earth's green lap. "and gently swathed each baby flower, as snug as in a feather bed-until in field, and wood, and bower, their fragrance might be safely shed. "and now my snowdrops gaily ring a merry peal to herald may-and all rejoice at coming spring, while i must hasten far away!" [illustration] summer. now the corn has grown ripe in the summer's hot days, and the reaping began with the sun's early rays, mike and jack since the morn, have been cutting the corn, which is bound up by peggy and sue; and gay, flaunting poppies and flow'rets of blue wag their heads o'er the sheaves and seem nodding at you. but when noon's sultry hour proves oppressively hot, the reapers look out for a cool, shady spot, and a respite they snatch, their short meal to dispatch, and well earned indeed is their rest! while the children give chase to the hare that's hard prest, or the bird by the harvest disturbed from her nest. for what care the children for heat or for work, at that age when all labor so gaily we shirk? play, then, little ones, play, and enjoy while ye may, but to all of god's creatures be kind-then when months have rolled by and left summer behind, its joys unalloyed shall still dwell in your mind. timothy. timothy was our pet hedgehog. i bought him in leadenhall market, brought him home, and put him into the back-garden, which is walled in. there, to that extent, he had his liberty, and many, and many a time did i watch him from my study window walking about in the twilight among the grass, searching for worms and other insects. and very useful was he to the plants by so doing. when the dry weather came food got more scarce; then timothy was fed with bread and milk from the back-kitchen window, which is on a level with the stone. soon he came to know that when he was hungry there was the supply; and often he would come and scratch at the glass or at the back-door for his supper, and after getting it, walk off to the garden beds to make himself useful. few people know of the great use of a hedgehog in a garden, or they would be more generally kept. our timothy, poor fellow, however, in spite of all his good qualities, came to a bad end. a strange dog coming one day, saw him walking about in search of his accustomed food, and pounced on him and bit him; still i had hopes of his recovery, but in a few days he died, and all of us were sorry. [illustration] [illustration: gold ore. silver ore. tin ore. iron ore.] [illustration: north american indian. mongolian. caucasian. head of belvedere apollo. caucasian.--modern turk.] the brave cockatoo. one charles durand, of whose travels and adventures a book has been written, owned a cockatoo, which he carried about with him on his journeys; the bird's name was billy, and he seems to have been as wise as he was loving. charles was asleep in his tent, when he was roused by a sharp, shrill cry of the bird, of "time to rise! time to rise!" accompanied by a violent flapping of the wings. so awakened, charles looked around, wondering what had disturbed his feathered friend. the cause was soon plain--a deadly snake lay coiled up close to his bed, prepared to spring on the defenseless man. just when he thought that all hope was at an end, the brave cockatoo sprang from his perch, seized the reptile by the neck, and held him tight till his master could summon help. [illustration] hare taking the water. i was pike-fishing one season on the dorset stour below canford major, when on passing from one field to another, i disturbed a hare. the animal at once entered an open, dry drain, and i lost sight of her. presently, as i silently made my way plying my rod by the bank, i saw her, this time without any appearance of alarm, take to the water, and making her way through the sedges. she put her head to the stream so that the force of the current, with but slight exertion by swimming on her part, carried her nearly in a straight line to the opposite bank. here i watched her to see whether she would trundle herself like a dog, but she merely rested a bit, letting the water run from her, and then set off at a rattling pace across the mead, which doubtless soon thoroughly dried her. [illustration] [illustration] autumn. the breeze is somewhat cooler growing, the flowers less scent unfold-but see!--the luscious grape is growing with purple or with gold. now drain we up the social cup, when music blithe invites us-though winter threatens from afar our present mirth he shall not mar, while autumn still delights us. yes! autumn brings the best of pleasures, with grape and garnered corn-and lays in stores of future treasures to glad the year unborn. what need we dread, when wine and bread god's bounteous hand hath given? oh! rather let our voices raise, in fervent hope and humble praise, a grateful hymn to heaven! [illustration] winter. stern winter--most unwelcome guest!-the earth in whitest robes has drest; and hast'ning through the crunching snow, with tinkling bells, the sledges go. the leafless wood looks drear and sad, no birds sing now with voices glad;-but boys are romping far and wide, and o'er the ice delight to slide. when on the panes with frost encased, the mimic fir-trees may be traced, in spite of biting cold and snow, poor housewives to the forest go. and there they gather moss to form their children's bed all soft and warm, and dried up twigs to make a blaze that cheers the hearth with kindling rays. their treasures next the ashes yield, and hot potatoes lie revealed, which little hungry mouths invite, with dainty smell and welcome sight. lord! all thy ways are great and good! thou giv'st e'en orphaned birds their food-thy blessing and thy fostering care alike the hut and palace share! our wild birds. i dare say you notice that all the birds in this picture have long beaks. we may be sure from this that they live in places and seek for their food in ways in which long beaks are just what they want. the fact is they are all marsh birds, and the soil of marshes being wet and soft, and full of worms, these long beaks enable them to probe it, and so get at the worms. i think the beaks of birds afford a striking example of how good god is in adapting creatures to the mode of life he has appointed for them. the eagles and hawks, you know, are provided with strong, short bills to enable them to seize and tear flesh. those of canaries and all the finches are just the very instruments to crack seeds with. parrots, with their tremendous weapons, can crush the hardest nuts of the tropic forest. the crossbill is fitted with a wonderful tool for tearing fir-cones to pieces. robins and the other warblers have soft bills, which are all they want for eating insects and grubs. [illustration] [illustration] i would rather be my lady's hawk, and perch upon her hand, than i would be the deerhound grim, to range this forest-land. [illustration] p--the pelican. _on river banks, on shores of lakes, or marge of sounding sea, the pelican, in quest of fish, roams uncontrolled and free._ [illustration] q--the quail. _when come the leaves and buds of spring then comes the swift-winged quail: but ever quits our western lands before the winter pale._ [illustration] r--the rhinoceros. _down to the waterside to drink, within the jungle's shade, has come the huge rhinoceros, in knotty hide arrayed._ blackbirds and young. a country lad having taken the nest of some blackbirds containing young ones, made off with it, but was closely pursued by the parents, who tried to peck his face so as to make him give them up. mr. jesse relates a similar instance, where a pair of old birds followed a boy into a house, pecking at his head while he was carrying off one of their young ones. people little think of the misery they cause when they rob the birds of their nestlings. the bird's nest is thus described: now put together odds and ends, picked up from enemies and friends: see bits of thread and bits of rag, just like a little rubbish bag. [illustration] a useful pilot. there is a trained sheep kept on board a steamer plying in california. it goes out on the gang-plank, when a flock is to be loaded, to show that the approach is safe, and to act as pilot to the flock, which readily follows it on to the boat. the sheep, when in a flock, are all alike timid, and it is difficult to find a leader among them, each being afraid to go first; but when one goes, they all follow after, so that this clever sheep is very valuable. the only other way to get a flock on board a ship is to catch one and drag it on board; but this is not such a good way as having the clever "pilot." [illustration] jack. the name of the bear is "jack." i fetched him from the west india import dock on the 5th of november, 1870. he was running about with another bear on board ship, but the job was to catch him. after many attempts we at last put a strong collar round his neck, to which was attached a long chain, and then we got him into a large barrel, and fastened the head on with hoop-iron, lowered him over the side of the vessel into a boat, and then pulled to the quay, and hauled him up into a cart. for a time the little fellow was quiet enough, but he got very inquisitive when being driven toward the city, and wanted to have a look round. i managed to quiet him by giving him pieces of lump sugar. he arrived safely at the crystal palace, and has lived in an aviary till the beginning of last month, when he was put into his new bear-pit. the little fellow has grown twice the size he was when he first came. he is very playful, but sometimes shows his teeth when he is teased. [illustration] [illustration: just arrived!] [illustration] s--the swallow. _now hovering on rapid wing, now down to earth, now high, and, circling round in airy ring to chase the painted fly._ [illustration] t--the tiger. _fiercest of all the beasts of prey, with eyes that glow like fire, and glossy hide, who does not dread the tiger, yet admire?_ [illustration] u--the ursine opossum. _in hollow trees the opossum lives, and slumbers through the day, but when the shades of night descend, goes forth in search of prey._ a singular habit of the woodcock. among several curious habits of the woodcock, described by the editor of the _zoologist_, its practice of carrying its young is perhaps the most interesting. the testimony of many competent witnesses is cited to corroborate the statement. the late l. lloyd, in his "scandinavian adventures," wrote, "if, in shooting, you meet with a brood of woodcocks, and the young ones cannot fly, the old bird takes them separately between her feet, and flies from the dogs with a moaning cry." the same author makes a similar statement in another work, this habit of the woodcock having been observed by a friend. one of the brothers stuart gives, in "lays of the deer forest," a graphic account of the performance. he says, "as the nests are laid on dry ground, and often at a distance from moisture, in the latter case, as soon as the young are hatched, the old bird will sometimes carry them in her claws to the nearest spring or green strip. in the same manner, when in danger, she will rescue those which she can lift; of this we have frequent opportunities for observation in tarnaway. various times when the hounds, in beating the ground, have come upon a brood, we have seen the old bird rise with the young one in her claws and carry it fifty or a hundred yards away." the sky-lark has any one ever told you that they were "happy as a lark," and have you stopped to think how happy a lark is?--its joyous flight up into the sky, as high or higher than the sight of man can reach, singing louder and louder, and more and more gayly the higher it ascends? when the sweet hay-time comes on, and mowers are busy in the fields with their great scythes, it is sometimes a dangerous season for larks, who make their nests on the ground. often the poor little nests must suffer; but only think how ingenious their owners are if they do. a mower once cut off the upper part of a lark's nest. the lark sitting in it was uninjured. the man was very sorry for what he had done; but there was no help for it--at least so he thought. the lark knew better, and soon afterward a beautiful dome was found made of grass over the nest by the patient, brave bird. [illustration] [illustration: the silkworm. the bat. carrion beetles. the spider.] [illustration: the syrian ox. the horse. the mule. the arabian horse.] the story of a seal. some years ago a german artist was travelling in norway, on foot, with his knapsack on his back and his stick in his hand. he lodged most of time in the cottages that he fell in with on his road. in one of them there was a seal, which the fisherman had found on the sand, after harpooning the mother of the poor animal. no sooner was it admitted into the cottage than the seal became the friend of the family and the playmate of the children. it played from morning till night with them, would lick their hands, and call them with a gentle little cry, which is not unlike the human voice, and it would look at them tenderly with its large blue eyes, shaded by long black lashes. it almost always followed its master to fish, swimming around the boat and taking a great many fish, which it delivered to the fisherman without even giving them a bite. a dog could not have been more devoted, faithful, teachable, or even more intelligent. [illustration] the king of the mountains. "what is that, mother?" "the eagle, boy, proudly careering his course with joy, firm on his own mountain vigor relying, breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying; his wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, he swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. close to the sun in lonely lands, ringed with the azure world he stands; the wrinkled sea beneath him crawls, he watches from his mountain walls. boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, onward and upward, and true to the line." [illustration] the bee. oh! busy bee, on wing so free, yet all in order true; each seems to know, both where to go, and what it has to do. 'mid summer heat, the honey sweet, it gathers while it may; in tiny drops, and never stops to waste its time in play. i hear it come, i know its hum; it flies from flower to flower; and to its store, a little more it adds, each day and hour. [illustration] [illustration: the lark and young.] [illustration] v--the vulture. _on rugged rods the vulture waits to scent its carrion prey, when down, into the plains below it takes its rapid way._ [illustration] w--the wolf. _fierce is the wolf, and crafty too, and swift of foot is he; in forest depths and mountain glens he loves to wander free._ [illustration] x--the xema. _in far-off lands, 'neath northern skies, and on the surfy shore, lives the lone xema, and delights in ocean's thunder roar._ mother and pups. the dog that you see here looking quite maternal with her family around her, is the sheep dog, the shepherd's faithful and invaluable friend. it is the most sagacious and intelligent of all dogs, and volumes of anecdotes might be written of its intelligence and affection. mr. st. john, in his "highland sports," tells the following: "a shepherd once, to prove the quickness of his dog, who was lying before the fire where we were talking, said to me in the middle of a sentence concerning something else, 'i'm thinking, sir, the cow is in the potatoes;' when the dog, who appeared to be asleep, immediately jumped up, and leaping through the open window and on to the roof of the house, where he could get a view of the potato field, and not seeing the cow there, he looked into the farm-yard, where she was, and finding that all was right, returned to his old position before the fire." [illustration] the friendly terns. one day mr. edward, the scotch naturalist shot at a tern, hoping to secure the beautiful creature as a specimen. the ball broke the bird's wing, and he fell screaming down to the water. his cries brought other terns to the rescue, and with pitiful screams they flew to the spot where the naturalist stood, while the tide drifted their wounded brother toward the shore. but before mr. edward could secure his prize, he observed, to his astonishment, that two of the terns had flown down to the water, and were gently lifting up their suffering companion, one taking hold of either wing. but their burden was rather heavy; so, after carrying it seaward about six or seven yards, they let it down, and two more came, picked it up, and carried it a little farther. by means of thus relieving each other they managed to reach a rock where they concluded they would be safe. [illustration] [illustration: an exciting tail.] [illustration] y--the yak. _in central asia, far away, 'mid thibet's pastures green, with shaggy hide and bushy tail, the valued yak is seen._ [illustration] z--the zebra. _as strong and swift as any horse, the zebra skims the plain; with glossy bands of deepest black, long ears, and upright mane._ sheep and lambs. _the sheep were in the fold at night; and now a new-born lamb totters and trembles in the light, or bleats beside its dam. how anxiously the mother tries, with every tender care, to screen it from inclement skies, and the cold morning air! the hail-storm of the east is fled, she seems with joy to swell; while ever, as she bends her head, i hear the tinkling bell. so while for me a mother's prayer ascends to heaven above, may i repay her tender care with gratitude and love._ [illustration] [illustration: the water-rat. the wild cat. the weasel. the syrian dog.] [illustration: the glow-worm. the locust. the hercules beetle. the chameleon.] [illustration] the captive squirrel "squirrel--squirrel lithe and wee! thy fur's as soft as down can be, thy teeth as ivory are white, yet hard enough through nuts to bite. "squirrel--squirrel lithe and wee! how gladly would i purchase thee-but mother says: 'twill never do, thou nibblest table, book and shoe.'" squirrel--squirrel hung his head; "oh! speak not thus," he sadly said, "heav'n gave me once a woodland home where i the livelong day might roam, and gaily leap from branch to twig as blithe and merry as a grig; then came a wicked man who laid the snare by which i'm captive made, and now 'twill be my mournful doom instead of in the forest free, to live pent in a narrow room by way of bush or stately tree! what wonder if, thus sad and lorn, from all my dearest habits torn, a-foraging i sometimes go and get a snubbing or a blow? child, should you on some summer's day, within the greenwood chance to stray, i pray you that from me you greet the happy creatures that you meet, the fawns, ants, sparrows and the hares and tell them how with me it fares, that while they leap, creep, sing and fly. in chains and prison i must lie." [illustration] a stroll in the country put on your hat and let us take a stroll amidst the rural scene- the boat is gliding o'er the lake, [illustration] the cows are browsing pastures green, the herdsman's horns the echoes wake, and holiday like nature's self we'll make! [illustration] into the garden next let's come to pluck a pear or downy plum, and hear the bird's sweet trilling-[illustration: ] while all around, on fragrant beds, the flowerets lift their little heads, the air with perfume filling. [illustration: ] the merry kid is leaping gaily, and soberer nanny gives us daily sweet milk to make us cheese; while all our tastes to please, his nets the busy fisher flings, and eels and carp for dinner brings. the otter. the otter belongs to a class of animals which we may call the weasel tribe. their bodies are long and lithe, and their legs short. this family includes the weasel (its smallest member), the stoat, the ferret, the pole-cat, the marten, and the otter (its largest member). you may then think of the otter as a water-ferret, or water-weasel. he can swim most elegantly, and he is a beautiful diver. let a fish glide underneath him, and he is after it in a moment; and as the fish darts here and there to escape, the otter follows each rapid movement with unerring precision. when the fish is caught, the otter carries it to the bank and makes a meal. but the otter is like naughty jack who leaves a saucy plate--he spoils much more fish than he eats. the trout and other fish are so much alarmed at the appearance of an otter, that they will sometimes fling themselves on the bank to get out of his way. [illustration] the mastiff. the mastiff is a large, grave, sullen-looking dog, with a wide chest, noble head, long switch tail, bright eyes, and a loud, deep voice. of all dogs this is the most vigilant watcher over the property of his master, and nothing can tempt him to betray the confidence reposed in him. notwithstanding his commanding appearance, and the strictness with which he guards the property of his master, the mastiff is possessed of great mildness of character, and is very grateful for any favors bestowed upon him. i once went into the barn of a friend where there was a mastiff chained; i went up to the dog and patted him on the head, when out rushed the groom from the stable exclaiming, "come away, sir! he's dangerous with strangers." but i did not remove my hand nor show any fear. the consequence was, that the dog and i were the best of friends; but had i shown any fear, and hastily removed my hand, i might have fared rather badly, for this dog always couples fear with guilt. [illustration] the cunning wood-pigeons. one who loves our feathered friends has described a curious instance of their instinct. on the back lawn at a gentleman's house, they have a feeding-box for the pheasants, which opens on their perching upon it, but remains shut if any lesser bird than a hen pheasant perches there, which saves the contents from the thefts of these, and of rats, mice, and other vermin. but the gentleman discovered that the contents of the box was being more rapidly emptied than the wants of the pheasants warranted. so he kept a watch on the box, and soon discovered a wood-pigeon perch on the box, but his weight not being sufficient to open the lid, he beckoned to another pigeon, and their combined weight made the lid fly open, and after each had taken what they required, they flew away, and the box closed with a "click." [illustration] sea reptiles. there were in the sea in very ancient times--long before the flood--two very large and wonderful reptiles. of them we present striking illustrations. one of them has been named the ichthyosaurus, which means fish reptile. its head somewhat resembled that of the crocodile, except that the orbit was much larger, and had the nostril placed close to it, as in the whale, and not near the end of the snout. it had four paddles and a powerful tail, and was very active in its movements and a rapid swimmer. the other huge reptile was the plesiosaurus, the meaning of which is "near to a reptile." its structure was very singular and its character very strange. in the words of buckland: "to the head of a lizard, it united the teeth of the crocodile, a neck of enormous length, resembling the body of a serpent, a trunk and a tail of the size of an ordinary quadruped, the ribs of a chameleon, and the paddles of a whale." [illustration] swiss mountain scenery. in switzerland, one of the chief employments of the people is that of herdsmen and shepherds, and nearly the half of the surface of the country is occupied as mountain pastures and meadows. here you see the woman tending the sheep and goats, and spinning industriously, while her husband is busy with some other part of the duties of tending the sheep. it is often painful to see how much the poor sheep and oxen suffer while being driven through the streets. it is pitiful to see them looking in vain for some place of rest and shelter. little boys in towns sometimes like to help--as they call it--to drive cattle, but they generally increase the terror and confusion of the poor beasts, and little think of the pain they are causing. sheep and goats are very useful to us; besides serving us for food, they supply our cloth and flannel clothes, blankets, and other warm coverings. [illustration] partridge and young. one afternoon, while walking across a meadow, near a village, i saw a dog of the terrier breed pursuing a partridge, which every now and then turned and made at it with its wings down, then rolled over, then ran, and again rushed at the dog. i drove the dog away, when i was surprised to see a number of young partridges running from behind the old bird who had been trying to protect them from the dog, and guarding their retreat. so you see how brave the most timid creatures become when in danger, and when their young are near. instinct tells them that they have to protect their little ones, and risk everything, even their own lives, for their safety. we can get beautiful lessons every day from the birds and poor dumb animals, if we only study them as we ought. [illustration] the kingfishers' home. very pretty birds were mr. and mrs. kingfisher, with dark, glossy, green wings, spotted with light blue. their tails were also light blue, and there was a patch of yellow near their heads. the little kingfishers were quite as pretty as their parents, and mr. and mrs. kingfisher were exceedingly proud of them. "only they eat a great deal," said mr. kingfisher; "i am getting very tired." for mr. kingfisher had been flying backward and forward all day, and it was surprising to see the quantity of fish he caught for his family. when he built his nest he took care that it should be near a stream, and he found one close by a high cliff that mrs. kingfisher said would be just the place; so they scooped out a deep hole, and there the eggs were laid, and in due time six little kingfishers burst out of the shells. [illustration] rats carrying eggs up stairs. rats are very ingenious little creatures; they have actually been known to convey eggs up a staircase, from the pantry to their nest! here is a beautiful picture, by mr. harrison weir, from the "children's friend," showing how they did it. the rat bears little resemblance to the rats with which we are chiefly acquainted, namely, the black rat, the albino or white rat, and the brown rat. the other day, as i was walking by the river-side, i saw a beautiful little creature sitting on a stone in the stream, with a piece of succulent root between its forepaws, and nibbling its repast in perfect peace with every living thing. it was timid and innocent in the expression of its countenance. its color was of a reddish brown. it was about as large as the common rat of the sewers, but its tail was much shorter, and covered with hair. [illustration] a heron attacked by a hawk. the heron when attacked by an eagle or falcon endeavors to escape by rising in the air and getting above its foe. the wings of the heron strike the air with an equal and regular motion which raises its body to such an elevation that at a distance nothing is seen except the wings, which are at last lost sight of in the region of the clouds. if its enemy gets above it, and upon or near its body, it defends itself vigorously with its long and powerful beak, and often comes off victorious. the heron frequents the neighborhood of rivers and lakes. almost always solitary, it remains for hours motionless on the same spot. when seeking the fish or frogs on which it chiefly feeds, the heron wades into the water, folds its long neck partially over its back and forward again, and with watchful eye waits till a fish comes within reach of its beak, when it darts its head into the water and secures its slimy, slippery prey. [illustration] a horse guardian. on one occasion a gentleman was returning home from a fatiguing journey, and became very drowsy. he fell asleep, and, strange to say, he also fell from his saddle, but in so easy a manner that the tumble did not rouse him, and lay sleeping on where he alighted. his faithful steed, on being eased of his burden, instead of scampering home as one might have expected, stood by his prostrate master, and kept a strict watch over him. some laborers at sunrise found him very contentedly snoozing on a heap of stones. they wished to approach the gentleman, that they might awaken him, but every attempt on their part was resolutely opposed by the grinning teeth and ready heels of his determined and faithful guardian. they called out loudly, and the gentleman awoke and was very much surprised at his position, while his faithful horse showed his pleasure by neighing and scraping his feet on the ground. the gentleman then mounted, and they galloped away at great speed, both glad to be able to make up for lost time. [illustration] battle between a fox and a swan. a fierce battle between a fox and a swan took place at sherborne park. master reynard seems to have caught the old swan napping, and to have seized him by the throat. the bird defended himself with his wings so powerfully that its assailant was done to death in no time, and a workman going past the lake above the bridge next morning found both fox and swan lying dead together. the bird had received a fatal bite in the throat; the fox had one leg broken and the side of its head completely broken in. the swan was the oldest bird on the lake. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration: the sand lizard. the crocodile. the viper. the asp.] [illustration: the wild boar. the badger. the ferret. the lynx.] tousy. we have a beautiful long-haired little dog called tousy, which lately had a pup. this queer little bantling was jumping and tumbling about the green one day, when a lady entered followed by a dog. tousy made a ferocious assault on the four-footed stranger, by way of defending her young, and our magnificent white cat, which was sitting on the doorstep, seeing or supposing that his friend tousy was in danger, made two immense bounds, and alighted on the back of the intruder, whose eyes would have been scratched out but for prompt rescue. the mutual affection of these two animals is unbounded, and yet we hear human disagreements compared to cat-and-dog life! these animals, and many others, are capable of the most devoted affection to their young, and to their mates, and frequently teach us lessons of kindness to one another. [illustration] [illustration: the nest in the apple tree.] this file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions. lady mary and her nurse; or, a peep into the canadian forest. by mrs. traill contents chapter i. the flying squirrel--its food--story of a wolf--indian village--wild rice chapter ii. sleighing--sleigh robes--fur caps--otter skins--old snow-storm--otter hunting--otter slides--indian names--remarks on wild animals and their habits chapter iii. part i.--lady mary reads to mrs. frazer the first part of the history of the squirrel family part ii.--which tells how the grey squirrels get on while they remained on pine island--how they behaved to their poor relations, the chitmunks-and what happened to them in the forest part iii.--how the squirrels got to the mill at the rapids--and what happened to velvet-paw chapter iv. squirrels--the chitmunks--docility of a pet one--roguery of a yankee pedlar--return of the musical chitmunk to his master's bosom--sagacity of a black squirrel chapter v. indian baskets--thread--plants--maple sugar-tree--indian ornamental works --racoons chapter vi. canadian flowers--american porcupine--canadian birds--snow sparrow-robin red-breast chapter vii. indian bag--indian embroidery--beaver's tail--beaver architecture--habits of the beaver--beaver tools--beaver meadows chapter viii. indian boy and his pets--tame beaver at home--kitten, wildfire--pet racoon and the spaniel puppies--canadian flora chapter ix. nurse tells lady mary about a little boy who was eaten by a bear in the province of new brunswick--of a baby that was carried away, but taken alive--a walk in the garden--humming birds--canadian balsams chapter x. aurora borealis, or northern lights, most frequently seen in northern climates--called merry dancers--rose tints--tint-like appearance--lady mary frightened chapter xi strawberries--canadian wild fruits--wild raspberries--the hunter and the lost child--cranberries--cranberry marshes--nuts chapter xii garter snakes--rattle snakes--anecdote of a little boy--fisherman and snake--snake charmers--spiders--land tortoise chapter xiii ellen and her pet pawns--docility of pan--jack's droll tricks-affectionate wolf--fall flowers--departure of lady mary--the end a peep into the canadian forest. chapter i. the flying squirrel--its food--story of a wolf--indian village--wild rice. "nurse, what is the name of that pretty creature you have in your hand? what bright eyes it has! what a soft tail, just like a grey feather! is it a little beaver?" asked the governor's [footnote: lady mary's father was governor of canada.] little daughter, as her nurse came into the room where her young charge, whom we shall call lady mary, was playing with her doll. carefully sheltered against her breast, its velvet nose just peeping from beneath her muslin neckerchief, the nurse held a small grey-furred animal, of the most delicate form and colour. "no, my lady," she replied, "this is not a young beaver; a beaver is a much larger animal. a beaver's tail is not covered with fur; it is scaly, broad, and flat; it looks something like black leather, not very unlike that of my seal-skin slippers. the indians eat beavers' tails at their great feasts, and think they make an excellent dish." "if they are black, and look like leather shoes, i am very sure i should not like to eat them; so, if you please, mrs. frazer, do not let me have any beavers' tails cooked for my dinner," said the little lady in a very decided tone. "indeed, my lady," replied her nurse, smiling, "it would not be an easy thing to obtain, if you wished to taste one, for beavers are not brought to our market. it is only the indians and hunters who know how to trap them, and beavers are not so plentiful as they used to be." mrs. frazer would have told lady mary a great deal about the way in which the trappers take the beavers, but the little girl interrupted her by saying, "please, nurse, will you tell me the name of your pretty pet? ah, sweet thing! what bright eyes you have!" she added, caressing the soft little head which was just seen from beneath the folds of the muslin handkerchief to which it timidly nestled, casting furtive glances at the admiring child, while the panting of its breast told the mortal terror that shook its frame whenever the little girl's hand was advanced to coax its soft back. "it is a flying squirrel, lady mary," replied her nurse; "one of my brothers caught it a month ago, when he was chopping in the forest. he thought it might amuse your ladyship, and so he tamed it and sent it to me in a basket filled with moss, with some acorns, and hickory-nuts, and beech-mast for him to eat on his journey, for the little fellow has travelled a long way: he came from the beech-woods near the town of coburg, in the upper province." "and where is coburg, nurse? is it a large city like montreal or quebec?" "no, my lady; it is a large town on the shores of the great lake ontario." "and are there many woods near it?" "yes; but not so many as there used to be many years ago. the forest is almost all cleared, and there are fields of wheat and indian corn, and nice farms and pretty houses, where a few years back the lofty forest grew dark and thick." "nurse, you said there were acorns, and hickory-nuts, and beech-mast in the basket. i have seen acorns at home in dear england and scotland, and i have eaten the hickory-nuts here; but what is beech-mast? is it in granaries for winter stores; and wild ducks and wild pigeons come from the far north at the season when the beech-mast fall, to eat them; for god teaches these, his creatures, to know the times and the seasons when his bounteous hand is open to give them food from his boundless store. a great many other birds and beasts also feed upon the beech-mast." "it was very good of your brother to send me this pretty creature, nurse," said the little lady; "i will ask papa to give him some money." "there is no need of that, lady mary. my brother is not in want; he has a farm in the upper province, and is very well off." "i am glad he is well off," said lady mary; "indeed, i do not see so many beggars here as in england." "people need not beg in canada, if they are well and strong and can work; a poor man can soon earn enough money to keep himself and his little ones." "nurse, will you be so kind as to ask campbell to get a pretty cage for my squirrel? i will let him live close to my dormice, who will be pleasant company for him, and i will feed him every day myself with nuts and sugar, and sweet cake and white bread. now do not tremble and look so frightened, as though i were going to hurt you; and pray, mr. squirrel, do not bite. oh! nurse, nurse, the wicked, spiteful creature has bitten my finger! see, see, it has made it bleed! naughty thing! i will not love you if you bite. pray, nurse, bind up my finger, or it will soil my frock." great was the pity bestowed upon the wound by lady mary's kind attendant, till the little girl, tired of hearing so much said about the bitten finger, gravely desired her maid to go in search of the cage, and catch the truant, which had effected its escape, and was clinging to the curtains of the bed. the cage was procured--a large wooden cage, with an outer and an inner chamber, a bar for the little fellow to swing himself on, and a drawer for his food, and a little dish for his water. the sleeping-room was furnished by the nurse with soft wool, and a fine store of nuts was put in the drawer; all his wants were well supplied, and lady mary watched the catching of the little animal with much interest. great was the activity displayed by the runaway squirrel, and still greater the astonishment evinced by the governor's little daughter, at the flying leaps made by the squirrel in its attempts to elude the grasp of its pursuers. "it flies! i am sure it must have wings. look, look, nurse! it is here, now it is on the wall, now on the curtains! it must have wings, but it has no feathers!" "it has no wings, dear lady, but it has a fine ridge of fur, that covers a strong sinew or muscle between the fore and hinder legs; and it is by the help of this muscle that it is able to spring so far, and so fast; and its claws are so sharp that it can cling to a wall, or any flat surface. the black and red squirrels, and the common grey, can jump very far, and run up the bark of the trees very fast, but not so fast as the flying squirrel." at last lady mary's maid, with the help of one of the housemaids, succeeded in catching the squirrel, and securing him within his cage. but though lady mary tried all her words of endearment to coax the little creature to eat some of the good things that had been provided so liberally for his entertainment, he remained sullen and motionless at the bottom of the cage. a captive is no less a captive in a cage with gilded bars, and with dainties to eat, than if rusted iron shut him in, and kept him from enjoying his freedom. it is for dear liberty that he pines, and is sad, even in the midst of plenty! "dear nurse, why does my little squirrel tremble and look so unhappy? tell me if he wants anything to eat that we have not given him. why does he not lie down and sleep on the nice soft bed you have made for him in his little chamber? see, he has not tasted the nice sweet cake and sugar that i gave him." "he is not used to such dainties, lady mary. in the forest, he feeds upon hickory-nuts, and butter-nuts, and acorns, and beech-mast, and the buds of the spruce, fir and pine kernels, and many other seeds and nuts and berries, that we could not get for him; he loves grain too, and indian corn. he sleeps on green moss and leaves, and fine fibres of grass and roots; and drinks heaven's blessed dew, as it lies bright and pure upon the herbs of the field." "dear little squirrel, pretty creature! i know now what makes you sad. you long to be abroad among your own green woods, and sleeping on the soft green moss, which is far prettier than this ugly cotton wool. but you shall stay with me, my sweet one, till the cold winter is passed and gone, and the spring flowers have come again; and then, my pretty squirrel, i will take you out of your dull cage, and we will go to st. helen's green island, and i will let you go free; but i will put a scarlet collar about your neck before i let you go, that, if any one finds you, they may know that you are my squirrel. were you ever in the green forest, nurse? i hear papa talk about the 'bush' and the 'backwoods;' it must be very pleasant in the summer, to live among the green trees. were you ever there?" "yes, dear lady, i did live in the woods when i was a child. i was born in a little log-shanty, far, far away up the country, near a beautiful lake, called rice lake, among woods, and valleys, and hills covered with flowers, and groves of pine, and white and black oaks." "stop, nurse, and tell me why they are called black and white; are the flowers black and white?" "no, my lady; it is because the wood of the one is darker than the other, and the leaves of the black oak are dark and shining, while those of the white oak are brighter and lighter. the black oak is a beautiful tree. when i was a young girl, i used to like to climb the sides of the steep valleys, and look down upon the tops of the oaks that grew beneath; and to watch the wind lifting the boughs all glittering in the moonlight; they looked like a sea of ruffled green water. it is very solemn, lady mary, to be in the woods by night, and to hear no sound but the cry of the great wood-owl, or the voice of the whip-poor-will, calling to his fellow from the tamarack swamp; or, may be, the timid bleating of a fawn that has lost its mother, or the howl of a wolf." "nurse, i should be so afraid; i am sure i should cry if i heard the wicked wolves howling in the dark woods, by night. did you ever know any one who was eaten by a wolf?" "no, my lady; the canadian wolf is a great coward. i have heard the hunters say, that they never attack any one, unless there is a great flock together and the man is alone and unarmed. my uncle used to go out a great deal hunting, sometimes by torchlight, and sometimes on the lake in a canoe, with the indians; and he shot and trapped a great many wolves and foxes and racoons. he has a great many heads of wild animals nailed up on the stoup in front of his log-house." "please tell me what a stoup is, nurse?" "a verandah, my lady, is the same thing, only the old dutch settlers gave it the name of a stoup; and the stoup is heavier and broader, and not quite so nicely made as a verandah. one day my uncle was crossing the lake on the ice; it was a cold winter afternoon; he was in a hurry to take some food to his brothers, who were drawing pine-logs in the bush. he had, besides a bag of meal and flour, a new axe on his shoulder. he heard steps as of a dog trotting after him; he turned his head, and there he saw close at his heels, a big, hungry-looking grey wolf; he stopped and faced about, and the big beast stopped and showed his white sharp teeth. my uncle did not feel afraid, but looked steadily at the wolf, as much as to say, 'follow me if you dare,' and walked on. when my uncle stopped, the wolf stopped; when he went on, the beast also went on. "i would have run away," said lady mary. "if my uncle had let the wolf see that he was afraid of him, he would have grown bolder, and have run after him and seized him. all animals are afraid of brave men, but not of cowards. when the beast came too near, my uncle faced him, and showed the bright axe, and the wolf then shrank back a few paces. when my uncle got near the shore, he heard a long wild cry, as if from twenty wolves at once. it might have been the echoes from the islands that increased the sound; but it was very frightful, and made his blood chill, for he knew that without his rifle he should stand a poor chance against a large pack of hungry wolves. just then a gun went off; he heard the wolf give a terrible yell, he felt the whizzing of a bullet pass him, and, turning about, saw the wolf lying dead on the ice. a loud shout from the cedars in front told him from whom the shot came; it was my father, who had been on the look-out on the lake shore, and he had fired at and hit the wolf, when he saw that he could do so without hurting his brother." "nurse, it would have been a sad thing if the gun had shot your uncle." "it would; but my father was one of the best shots in the district, and could hit a white spot on the bark of a tree at a great distance without missing. it was an old indian from buckhorn lake, who taught him to shoot deer by torchlight, and to trap beavers." "well, i am glad that horrid wolf was killed, for wolves eat sheep and lambs; and i dare say they would devour my little squirrel if they could get him. nurse, please to tell me again the name of the lake near which you were born." "it is called rice lake, my lady. it is a fine piece of water, more than twenty miles long, and from three to five miles broad. it has pretty wooded islands, and several rivers or streams empty themselves into it. the otonabee river is a fine broad stream, which flows through the forest a long way. many years ago, there were no clearings on the banks, and no houses, only indian tents or wigwams; but now, there are a great many houses and farms." "what are wigwams?" "a sort of light tent, made with poles stuck into the ground, in a circle, fastened together at the top, and covered on the outside with skins of wild animals, or with birch bark. the indians light a fire of sticks and logs on the ground, in the middle of the wigwam, and lie or sit all round it; the smoke goes up to the top and escapes. in the winter, they bank it up with snow, and it is very warm." "i think it must be a very ugly sort of house; and i am glad i do not live in an indian wigwam," said the little lady. "the indians are a very simple folk, my lady, and do not need fine houses, like this in which your papa lives. they do not know the names or uses of half the fine things that are in the houses of the white people. they are happy and contented without them. it is not the richest that are happiest, lady mary, and the lord careth for the poor and the lowly. there is a village on the shores of rice lake where the indians live. it is not very pretty. the houses are all built of logs, and some of them have gardens and orchards. they have a neat church, and they have a good minister, who takes great pains to teach them the gospel of the lord jesus christ. the poor indians were pagans until within the last few years." "what are pagans, nurse?" "people, lady mary, who do not believe in god, and the lord jesus christ, our blessed saviour." "nurse, is there real rice growing in the rice lake? i heard my governess say that rice grew only in warm countries. now, your lake must be very cold if your uncle walked across the ice." "this rice, my lady, is not real rice. i heard a gentleman tell my father, that it was, properly speaking, a species of oats, [footnote: zizania or water oats.]--water oats he called it, but the common name for it is wild rice. this wild rice grows in vast beds in the lake, in patches of many acres. it will grow in water from eight to ten or twelve feet deep; the grassy leaves float upon the water like long narrow green ribbons. in the month of august, the stem that is to bear the flower and the grain rises straight up, above the surface, and light delicate blossoms come out of a pale straw colour and lilac. they are very pretty, and wave in the wind with a rustling noise. in the month of october, when the rice is ripe, the leaves turn yellow, and the rice-heads grow heavy and droop; then the squaws--as the indian women are called--go out in their birch-bark canoes, holding in one hand a stick, in the other a short curved paddle, with a sharp edge. with this, they bend down the rice across the stick, and strike off the heads, which fall into the canoe, as they push it along through the rice-beds. in this way they collect a great many bushels in the course of the day. the wild rice is not the least like the rice which your ladyship has eaten; it is thin and covered with a light chaffy husk. the colour of the grain itself is a brownish green, or olive, smooth, shining, and brittle. after separating the outward chaff, the squaws put by a large portion of the clean rice in its natural state for sale; for this they get from a dollar and a half to two dollars a bushel. some they parch, either in large pots, or on mats made of the inner bark of cedar or bass wood, beneath which they light a slow fire, and plant around it a temporary hedge of green boughs, closely set to prevent the heat from escaping; they also plant stakes, over which they stretch the matting at a certain height above the fire. on this they spread the green rice, stirring it about with wooden paddles, till it is properly parched; this is known by its bursting and showing the white grain of the flour. when quite cool it is stowed away in troughs, scooped out of butter-nut wood, or else sewed up in sheets of birch-bark or bass-mats, or in coarsely made birch-bark baskets." "and is the rice good to eat, nurse?" "some people like it as well as the white rice of carolina; but it does not look so well. it is a great blessing to the poor indians, who boil it in their soups, or eat it with maple molasses. and they eat it when parched without any other cooking, when they are on a long journey in the woods, or on the lakes. i have often eaten nice puddings made of it with milk. the deer feed upon the green rice. they swim into the water, and eat the green leaves and tops. the indians go out at night to shoot the deer on the water; they listen for them, and shoot them in the dark. the wild ducks and water-fowls come down in great flocks to fatten on the ripe rice in the fall of the year; also large flocks of rice buntings and red wings which make their roosts among the low willows, flags, and lilies close to the shallows of the lake." "it seems very useful to birds as well as to men and beasts," said little lady mary. "yes, my lady, and to fishes also, i make no doubt; for the good god has cast it so abundantly abroad on the waters, that i dare say they also have their share. when the rice is fully ripe, the sun shining on it gives it a golden hue, just like a field of ripened grain. surrounded by the deep blue waters, it looks very pretty." "i am very much obliged to you, nurse, for telling me so much about the indian rice, and i will ask mamma to let me have some one day for my dinner, that i may know how it tastes." just then lady mary's governess came to bid her nurse dress her for a sleigh-ride, and so for the present we shall leave her; but we will tell our little readers something more in another chapter about lady mary and her flying squirrel. chapter ii. sleighing--sleigh robes--fur caps--otter skins--old snow-storm--otter hunting--otter slides--indian names--remarks on wild animals and their habits. "nurse, we have had a very nice sleigh-drive. i like sleighing very much over the white snow. the trees look so pretty, as if they were covered with white flowers, and the ground sparkled just like mamma's diamonds." "it is pleasant, lady mary, to ride through the woods on a bright sunshiny day, after a fresh fall of snow. the young evergreens, hemlocks, balsams, and spruce-trees, are loaded with great masses of the new-fallen snow; while the slender saplings of the beech, birch, and basswood are bent down to the very ground, making bowers so bright and beautiful, you would be delighted to see them. sometimes, as you drive along, great masses of the snow come showering down upon you; but it is so light and dry, that it shakes off without wetting you. it is pleasant to be wrapped up in warm blankets, or buffalo robes, at the bottom of a lumber-sleigh, and to travel through the forest by moonlight; the merry bells echoing through the silent woods, and the stars just peeping down through the frosted trees, which sparkle like diamonds in the moonbeams." "nurse, i should like to take a drive through the forest in winter. it is so nice to hear the sleigh-bells. we used sometimes to go out in the snow in scotland, but we were in the carriage, and had no bells." "no, lady mary: the snow seldom lies long enough in the old country to make it worth while to have sleighs there; but in russia and sweden, and other cold northern countries, they use sleighs with bells." lady mary ran to the little bookcase where she had a collection of children's books, and very soon found, in one of peter parley's books, a picture of laplanders and russians wrapped in furs sleighing. "how long will the winter last, nurse?" said the child, after she had tired herself with looking at the prints; "a long, long time--a great many weeks?--a great many months?" "yes, my lady; five or six months." "oh, that is nice--nearly half a year of white snow, and sleigh-drives every day, and bells ringing all the time! i tried to make out a tune, but they only seemed to say, 'up-hill, up-hill! down-hill, down-hill!' all the way. nurse, please tell me what are sleigh-robes made of?" "some sleigh-robes, lady mary, are made of bear-skins, lined with red or blue flannel; some are of wolf-skins, lined with bright scarlet cloth; and some of racoon; the commonest are buffalo-skins: i have seen some of deer-skins, but these last are not so good, as the hair comes off, and they are not so warm as the skins of the furred or woolly-coated animals." "i sometimes see long tails hanging down over the backs of the sleigh and cutters--they look very pretty, like the end of mamma's boa." "the wolf and racoon skin robes are generally made up with the tails, and sometimes the heads of the animals are also left. i noticed the head of a wolf, with its sharp ears, and long white teeth, looking very fierce, at the back of a cutter, the other day." "nurse, that must have looked very droll. do you know, i saw a gentleman the other day, walking with papa, who had a fox-skin cap on his head, and the fox's nose was just peeping over his shoulder, and the tail hung down his back, and i saw its bright black eyes looking so cunning. i thought it must be alive, and that it had curled itself round his head; but the gentleman took it off, and showed me that the eyes were glass." "some hunters, lady mary, make caps of otter, mink, or badger skins, and ornament them with the tails, heads, and claws." "i have seen a picture of the otter, nurse; it is a pretty, soft-looking thing, with a round head and black eyes. where do otters live?" "the canadian otters, lady mary, live in holes in the banks of sedgy, shallow lakes, mill-ponds, and sheltered creeks. the indian hunters find their haunts by tracking their steps in the snow; for an indian or canadian hunter knows the track made by any bird or beast, from the deep broad print of the bear, to the tiny one of the little shrewmouse, which is the smallest four-footed beast in this or any other country. "indians catch the otter, and many other wild animals, in a sort of trap, which they call a 'dead-fall.' wolves are often so trapped, and then shot. the indians catch the otter for the sake of its dark shining fur, which is used by the hatters and furriers. old jacob snowstorm, an old indian who lived on the banks of the rice lake, used to catch otters; and i have often listened to him, and laughed at his stories." "do, please, nurse, tell me what old jacob snow-storm told you about the otters; i like to hear stories about wild beasts. but what a droll surname snow-storm is!" "yes, lady mary; indians have very odd names; they are called after all sorts of strange things. they do not name the children, as we do, soon after they are born, but wait for some remarkable circumstance, some dream or accident. some call them after the first strange animal or bird that appears to the new-born. old snow-storm most likely owed his name to a heavy fall of snow when he was a baby. i knew a chief named musk-rat, and a pretty indian girl who was named 'badau'-bun,' or the 'light of the morning.'" "and what is the indian name for old snow-storm?" "'be-che-go-ke-poor,' my lady." lady mary said it was a funny sounding name, and not at all like snow-storm, which she liked a great deal better; and she was much amused while her nurse repeated to her some names of squaws and papooses (indian women and children); such as long thrush, little fox, running stream, snow-bird, red cloud, young eagle, big bush, and many others. "now, nurse, will you tell me some more about jacob snow-storm and the otters?" "well, lady mary, the old man had a cap of otter-skin, of which he was very proud, and only wore on great days. one day as he was playing with it, he said:--'otter funny fellow; he like play too, sometimes. indian go hunting up ottawa, that great big river, you know. go one moonlight night; lie down under bushes in snow: see lot of little fellow and big fellow at play. run tip and down bank; bank all ice. sit down top of bank; good slide there. down he go splash into water; out again. funny fellow those!' and then the old hunter threw back his head, and laughed, till you could have seen all his white teeth, he opened his mouth so wide." lady mary was very much amused at the comical way in which the old indian talked. "can otters swim, nurse?" "yes, lady mary; the good god, who has created all things well, has given to this animal webbed feet, which enable it to swim; and it can also dive down in the deep water, where it finds fish and mussels, and perhaps the roots of some water-plants to eat. it makes very little motion or disturbance in the water when it goes down in search of its prey. its coat is thick, and formed of two kinds of hair; the outer hair is long, silky, and shining; the under part is short, fine, and warm. the water cannot penetrate to wet them,--the oily nature of the fur throws off the moisture. they dig large holes with their claws, which are short, but very strong. they line their nests with dry grass and rushes and roots gnawed fine, and do not pass the winter in sleep, as the dormice, flying squirrels, racoons, and bears do. they are very innocent and playful, both when young and even after they grow old. the lumberers often tame them, and they become so docile that they will come at a call or whistle. like all wild animals, they are most lively at night, when they come out to feed and play." "dear little things! i should like to have a tame otter to play with, and run after me; but do you think he would eat my squirrel? you know cats will eat squirrels--so mamma says." "cats belong to a very different class of animals; they are beasts of prey, formed to spring and bound, and tear with their teeth and claws. the otter is also a beast of prey, but its prey is found in the still waters, and not on the land; it can neither climb nor leap. so i do not think he would hurt your squirrel, if you had one." "see, nurse, my dear little squirrel is still where i left him, clinging to the wires of the cage, his bright eyes looking like two black beads." "as soon as it grows dark he will begin to be more lively, and perhaps he will eat something, but not while we look at him--he is too shy for that." "nurse, how can they see to eat in the dark?" "the good god, lady mary, has so formed their eyes that they can see best by night. i will read you, lady mary, a few verses from psalm civ.:- "verse 19. he appointed the moon for seasons: the sun knoweth his going down. 20. thou makest darkness, and it is night: wherein all the beasts of the forest do creep forth. 21. the young lions roar after their prey, and seek their meat from god. 22. the sun ariseth, they gather themselves together, and lay them down in their dens. 23. man goeth forth unto his work and to his labour until the evening. 24. o lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all: the eath is full of thy riches. "thus you see, my dear lady, that our heavenly father taketh care of all his creatures, and provideth for them both by day and by night." "i remember, nurse, that my dormice used to lie quite still, nestled among the moss and wool in their little dark chamber in the cage, all day long; but when it was night they used to come out and frisk about, and run along the wires, and play all sorts of tricks, chasing one another round and round, and they were not afraid of me, but would let me look at them while they ate a nut, or a bit of sugar; and the dear little things would drink out of their little white saucer, and wash their faces and tails--it was so pretty to see them!" "did you notice, lady mary, how the dormice held their food?" "yes, they sat up, and held it in their fore-paws, which looked just like tiny hands." "there are many animals whose fore-feet resemble hands, and these, generally, convey their food to their mouths--among these are the squirrel and dormice. they are good climbers and diggers. you see, my dear young lady, how the merciful creator has given to all his creatures, however lowly, the best means of supplying their wants, whether of food or shelter." "indeed, nurse, i have learned a great deal about squirrels, canadian rice, otters, and indians; but, if you please, i must now have a little play with my doll. good-bye, mrs. frazer,--pray take care of my dear little squirrel, and mind that he does not fly away." and lady mary was soon busily engaged in drawing her wax doll about the nursery in a little sleigh lined with red squirrel fur robes, and talking to her as all children like to talk to their dolls, whether they be rich or poor--the children of peasants, or governors' daughters. chapter iii. lady mary reads to mrs. frazer the first part of the history of the squirrel family. one day lady mary came to her nurse, and putting her arms about her neck, whispered to her,--"mrs. frazer, my dear good governess has given me something--it is in my hand," and she slily held her hand behind her-"will you guess what it is?" "is it a book, my lady?" "yes, yes, it is a book, a pretty book; and see, here are pictures of squirrels in it. mrs. frazer, if you like, i will sit down on this cushion by you and read some of my new book. it does not seem very hard." then mrs. frazer took out her work-basket and sat down to sew, and lady mary began to read the little story, which, i hope, may entertain my little readers as much as it did the governor's daughter. the history of a squirrel family it must be a pleasant thing to be a squirrel, and live a life of freedom in the boundless forests; to leap and bound among the branches of the tall trees; to gambol in the deep shade of the cool glossy leaves, through the long warm summer day; to gather the fresh nuts and berries; to drink the pure dews of heaven, all bright and sparkling from the opening flowers; to sleep on soft beds of moss and thistle-down in some hollow branch rocked by the wind as in a cradle. yet, though this was the happy life led by a family of pretty grey squirrels that had their dwelling in the hoary branch of an old oak-tree that grew on one of the rocky islands in a beautiful lake in upper canada, called _stony lake_ (because it was full of rocky islands), these little creatures were far from being contented, and were always wishing for a change. indeed, they had been very happy, till one day when a great black squirrel swam to the island and paid them a visit. he was a very fine handsome fellow, nearly twice as large as any of the grey squirrels; he had a tail that flourished over his back, when he set it up, like a great black feather; his claws were sharp and strong, and his eyes very round and bright; he had upright ears, and long, sharp teeth, of which he made good use. the old grey squirrels called him cousin, and invited him to dinner. they very civilly set before him some acorns and beech-nuts; but he proved a hungry visitor, and ate as much as would have fed the whole family for a week. after the grey squirrels had cleared away the shells and scraps, they asked their greedy guest where he came from, when blackie told them he was a great traveller, and had seen many wonderful things; that he had once lived on a forked pine at the head of the waterfall, but being tired of a dull life, he had gone out on his travels to see the world; that he had been down the lake, and along the river shore, where there were great places cut out in the thick forest, called clearings, where some very tall creatures lived, who were called men and women, with young ones called children; that though they were not so pretty as squirrels--for they had no fur on them, and were obliged to make clothes to cover them and keep them warm--they were very useful, and sowed corn and planted fruit-trees and roots for squirrels to eat, and even built large grain stores to keep it safe and dry for them. this seemed very strange, and the simple little grey squirrels were very much pleased, and said they should like very much to go down the lakes too, and see these wonderful things. the black squirrel then told them that there were many things to be seen in these clearings: that there were large beasts, called oxen, and cows, and sheep, and pigs; and these creatures had houses built for them to live in; and all the men and women seemed to employ themselves about, was feeding and taking care of them. now this cunning fellow never told his simple cousins that the oxen had to bear a heavy wooden yoke and chain, and were made to work very hard; nor that the cows were fed that they might give milk to the children; nor that the pigs were fatted to make pork; nor that the sheep had their warm fleeces cut off every year that the settlers might have the wool to spin and weave. blackie did not say that the men carried guns, and the dogs were fierce, and would hunt poor squirrels from tree to tree, frightening them almost to death with their loud, angry barking; that cats haunted the barns and houses, and, in short, that there were dangers as well as pleasures to be met with in these clearings; and that the barns were built to shelter the grain for men, and not for the benefit of squirrels. the black squirrel proved rather a troublesome guest, for he stayed several days, and ate so heartily, that the old grey squirrels were obliged to hint that he had better go back to the clearings, where there was so much food, for that their store was nearly done. when blackie found that all the nice nuts were eaten, and that even pine-kernels and beech-nuts were becoming scarce, he went away, saying that he should soon come again. the old grey squirrels were glad when they saw the tip of blackie's tail disappear, as he whisked down the trunk of the old oak; but their young ones were very sorry that he was gone, for they liked very much to listen to all his wonderful stories, which they thought were true; and they told their father and mother how they wished they would leave the dull island and the old tree, and go down the lakes, and see the wonderful things that their black cousin had described. but the old ones shook their heads, and said they feared there was more fiction than truth in the tales they had heard, and that if they were wise they would stay where they were. "what do you want more, my dear children," said their mother, "than you enjoy here? have you not this grand old oak for a palace to live in; its leaves and branches spreading like a canopy over your heads, to shelter you from the hot sun by day and the dews by night? are there not moss, dried grass, and roots beneath, to make a soft bed for you to lie upon? and do not the boughs drop down a plentiful store of brown ripe acorns? that silver lake, studded with islands of all shapes and sizes, produces cool clear water for you to drink and bathe yourselves in. look at those flowers that droop their blossoms down to its glassy surface, and the white lilies that rest upon its bosom,--will you see anything fairer or better if you leave this place? stay at home and be contented." "if i hear any more grumbling," said their father, "i shall pinch your ears and tails." so the little squirrels said no more, but i am sorry to say they did not pay much heed to their wise, old mother's counsels; for whenever they were alone, all their talk was how to run away, and go abroad to see the world, as their black cousin had called the new settlement down the lakes. it never came into the heads of the silly creatures that those wonderful stories they had been told originated in an artful scheme of the greedy black squirrel, to induce them to leave their warm pleasant house in the oak, that he and his children might come and live in it, and get the hoards of grain, and nuts, and acorns, that their father and mother had been laying up for winter stores. moreover, the wily black squirrel had privately told them that their father and mother intended to turn them out of the nest very soon, and make provision for a new family. this indeed was really the case; for as soon as young animals can provide for themselves, their parents turn them off, and care no more for them. very different, indeed, is this from our parents; for they love and cherish us as long as they live, and afford us a home and shelter as long as we need it. every hour these little grey squirrels grew more and more impatient to leave the lonely little rocky island, though it was a pretty spot, and the place of their birth; but they were now eager to go abroad and seek their fortunes. "let us keep our own counsel," said nimble-foot to his sisters velvet-paw and silver-nose, "or we may chance to get our tails pulled; but be all ready for a start by early dawn to-morrow." velvet-paw and silver-nose said they would be up before sunrise, as they should have a long voyage down the lake, and agreed to rest on pine island near the opening of clear lake. "and then take to the shore and travel through the woods, where, no doubt, we shall have a pleasant time," said nimble-foot, who was the most hopeful of the party. the sun was scarcely yet risen over the fringe of dark pines that skirted the shores of the lake, and a soft creamy mist hung on the surface of the still waters, which were unruffled by the slightest breeze. the little grey squirrels awoke, and looked sleepily out from the leafy screen that shaded their mossy nest. the early notes of the wood-thrush and song-sparrow, with the tender warbling of the tiny wren, sounded sweetly in the still, dewy morning air; while from a cedar swamp was heard the trill of the green frogs, which the squirrels thought very pretty music. as the sun rose above the tops of the trees, the mist rolled off in light fleecy clouds, and soon was lost in the blue sky, or lay in large bright drops on the cool grass and shining leaves. then all the birds awoke, and the insects shook their gauzy wings which had been folded all the night in the flower-cups, and the flowers began to lift their heads, and the leaves to expand to catch the golden light. there was a murmur on the water as it played among the sedges, and lifted the broad floating leaves of the white water-lilies, with their carved ivory cups; and the great green, brown, and blue dragon-flies rose with a whirring sound, and darted to and fro among the water flowers. it is a glorious sight to see the sun rise at any time, for then we can look upon him without having our eyes dazzled with the brightness of his beams; and though there were no men and women and little children, in the lonely waters and woods, to lift up their hands and voices in prayer and praise to god, who makes the sun to rise each day, yet no doubt the great creator is pleased to see his creatures rejoice in the blessings of light and heat. lightly running down the rugged bark of the old oak-tree, the little squirrels bade farewell to their island home--to the rocks, mosses, ferns, and flowers that had sheltered them, among which they had so often chased each other in merry gambols. they thought little of all this, when they launched themselves on the silver bosom of the cool lake. "how easy it is to swim in this clear water!" said silver-nose to her sister velvet-paw. "we shall not be long in reaching yonder island, and there, no doubt, we shall get a good breakfast." so the little swimmers proceeded on their voyage, furrowing the calm waters as they glided noiselessly along; their soft grey heads and ears and round black eyes only being seen, and the bright streaks caused by the motion of their tails, which lay flat on the surface, looking like silver threads gently floating on the stream. not being much used to the fatigue of swimming, the little squirrels were soon tired, and if it had not been for a friendly bit of stick that happened to float near her, poor velvet-paw would have been drowned; however, she got up on the stick, and, setting up her fine broad tail, went merrily on, and soon passed nimble-foot and silver-nose. the current drew the stick towards the pine island that lay at the entrance of clear lake, and velvet-paw leaped ashore, and sat down on a mossy stone to dry her fur, and watch for her brother and sister: they, too, found a large piece of birch-bark which the winds had blown into the water, and as a little breeze had sprung up to waft them along, they were not very long before they landed on the island. they were all very glad when they met again, after the perils and fatigues of the voyage. the first thing to be done was to look for something to eat, for their early rising had made them very hungry. they found abundance of pine-cones strewn on the ground, but, alas for our little squirrels! very few kernels in them; for the crossbills and chiccadees had been at work for many weeks on the trees; and also many families of their poor relations, the chitmunks or ground squirrels, had not been idle, as our little voyagers could easily guess by the chips and empty cones round their holes. so, weary as they were, they were obliged to run up the tall pine and hemlock trees, to search among the cones that grew on their very top branches. while our squirrels were busy with the few kernels they chanced to find, they were startled from their repast by the screams of a large slate-coloured hawk, and velvet-paw very narrowly escaped being pounced upon and carried off in its sharp-hooked talons. silver-nose at the same time was nearly frightened to death by the keen round eyes of a cunning racoon, which had come within a few feet of the mossy branch of an old cedar, where she sat picking the seeds out of a dry head of a blue flag-flower she had found on the shore. silvy, at this sight, gave a spring that left her many yards beyond her sharp-sighted enemy. a lively note of joy was uttered by nimblefoot, for, perched at his ease on a top branch of the hemlock-tree, he had seen the bound made by silver-nose. "well jumped, silvy," said he; "mister coon must be a smart fellow to equal that. but look sharp, or you will get your neck wrung yet; i see we must keep a good look-out in this strange country." "i begin to wish we were safe back again in our old one," whined silvy, who was much frightened by the danger she had just escaped. "pooh, pooh, child; don't be a coward," said nimble, laughing. "cousin blackie never told us there were hawks and coons on this island," said velvet-paw. "my dear, he thought we were too brave to be afraid of hawks and coons," said nimble. "for my part, i think it is a fine thing to go out a little into the world. we should never see anything better than the sky and the water, and the old oak-tree on that little island." "ay, but i think it is safer to see than to be seen," said silvy, "for hawks and eagles have strong beaks, and racoons sharp claws and hungry-looking teeth; and it is not very pleasant, nimble, to be obliged to look out for such wicked creatures." "oh, true indeed," said nimble; "if it had not been for that famous jump you made, silvy, and, velvet, your two admirers, the hawk and racoon, would soon have hid all your beauties from the world, and put a stop to your travels." "it is very well for brother nimble to make light of our dangers," whispered velvet-paw, "but let us see how he will jump if a big eagle were to pounce down to carry him off." "yes, yes," said silvy; "it is easy to brag before one is in danger." the squirrels thought they would now go and look for some partridge-berries, of which they were very fond, for the pine-kernels were but dry husky food after all. there were plenty of the pretty white star-shaped blossoms, growing all over the ground under the pine-trees, but the bright scarlet twin-berries were not yet ripe. in winter the partridges eat this fruit from under the snow; and it furnishes food for many little animals as well as birds. the leaves are small, of a dark green, and the white flowers have a very fine fragrant scent. though the runaways found none of these berries fit to eat, they saw some ripe strawberries among the bushes; and, having satisfied their hunger, began to grow very merry, and whisked here and there and everywhere, peeping into this hole and under that stone. sometimes they had a good game of play, chasing one another up and down the trees, chattering and squeaking as grey squirrels only can chatter and squeak, when they are gambolling about in the wild woods of canada. indeed, they made such a noise, that the great ugly black snakes lifted up their heads, and stared at them with their wicked spiteful-looking eyes, and the little ducklings swimming among the water-lilies, gathered round their mother, and a red-winged blackbird perched on a dead tree gave alarm to the rest of the flock by calling out, _geck, geck, geck,_ as loudly as he could. in the midst of their frolics, nimble skipped into a hollow log--but was glad to run out again; for a porcupine covered with sharp spines was there, and was so angry at being disturbed, that he stuck one of his spines into poor nimble-foot's soft velvet nose, and there it would have remained if silvy had not seized it with her teeth and pulled it out. nimble-foot squeaked sadly, and would not play any longer, but rolled himself up and went to sleep in a red-headed woodpecker's old nest; while silvy and velvet-paw frisked about in the moonlight, and when tired of play got up into an old oak which had a large hollow place in the crown of it, and fell asleep, fancying, no doubt, that they were on the rocky island in stony lake; and so we will bid them good night, and wish them pleasant dreams. * * * * * lady mary had read a long while, and was now tired; so she kissed her nurse, and-said "now, mrs. frazer, i will play with my doll, and feed my squirrel and my dormice." the dormice were two soft, brown creatures, almost as pretty and as innocent as the squirrel, and a great deal tamer; and they were called jeannette and jeannot, and would come when they were called by their names, and take a bit of cake or a lump of sugar out of the fingers of their little mistress. lady mary had two canaries, dick and pet; and she loved her dormice and birds, and her new pet the flying squirrel, very much, and never let them want for food, or water, or any nice thing she could get for them. she liked the history of the grey squirrels very much; and was quite eager to get her book the next afternoon, to read the second part of the adventures and wanderings of the family. part ii. which tells how the grey squirrels get on while they remained on pine island--how they behaved to their poor relations, the chitmunks--and what happened to them in the forest. it was noon when the little squirrels awoke, and, of course, they were quite ready for their breakfast; but there was no good, kind old mother to provide for their wants, and to bring nuts, acorns, roots, or fruit for them; they must now get up, go forth, and seek food for themselves. when velvet-paw and silver-nose went to call nimble-foot, they were surprised to find his nest empty; but after searching a long while, they found him sitting on the root of an upturned tree, looking at a family of little chitmunks busily picking over the pine-cones on the ground; but as soon as one of the poor little fellows, with great labour, had dug out a kernel, and was preparing to eat it, down leaped nimble-foot, and carried off the prize; and if one of the little chitmunks ventured to say a word, he very uncivilly gave him a scratch, or bit his ears, calling him a mean, shabby fellow. now, the chitmunks were really very pretty. they were, to be sure, not more than half the size of the grey squirrels, and their fur was short, without the soft thick glossy look upon it of the grey squirrels'. they were of a lively tawny yellow-brown colour, with long black and white stripes down their backs; their tails were not so long nor so thickly furred; and instead of living in the trees, they made their nests in logs and wind-falls, and had their granaries and winter houses too under ground, where they made warm nests of dried moss and grass and thistledown; to these they had several entrances, so that they had always a chance of refuge if danger were nigh. like the dormice, flying squirrels, and ground hogs, they slept soundly during the cold weather, only awakening when the warm spring sun had melted the snow. [footnote: it is not quite certain that the chitmunk is a true squirrel, and he is sometimes called a striped rat. this pretty animal seems, indeed, to form a link between the rat and squirrel.] the vain little grey squirrels thought themselves much better than these little chitmunks, whom they treated with very little politeness, laughing at them for living in holes in the ground, instead of upon lofty trees, as they did; they even called them low-bred fellows, and wondered why they did not imitate their high breeding and behaviour. the chitmunks took very little notice of their rudeness, but merely said that, if being high-bred made people rude, they would rather remain humble as they were. "as we are the head of all the squirrel families," said silver-nose, "we shall do you the honour of breakfasting with you to-day." "we breakfasted hours ago, while you lazy fellows were fast asleep," replied an old chitmunk, poking his little nose out of a hole in the ground. "then we shall dine with you: so make haste and get something good for us," said nimble-foot. "i have no doubt you have plenty of butter and hickory-nuts laid up in your holes." the old chitmunk told him he might come and get them, if he could. at this the grey squirrels skipped down from the branches, and began to run hither and thither, and to scratch among the moss and leaves, to find the entrance to the chitmunks' grain stores. they peeped under the old twisted roots of the pines and cedars, into every chink and cranny, but no sign of a granary was to be seen. then the chitmunks said, "my dear friends, this is a bad season to visit us; we are very poor just now, finding it difficult to get a few dry pine-kernels and berries, but if you will come and see us after harvest, we shall have a store of nuts and acorns." "pretty fellows you are!" replied nimble, "to put us off with promises, when we are so hungry; we might starve between this and harvest." "if you leave this island, and go down the lake, you will come to a mill, where the red squirrels live, and where you will have fine times," said one of the chitmunks. "which is the nearest way to the mill?" asked velvet-paw. "swim to the shore, and keep the indian, path, and you will soon see it." but while the grey squirrels were looking out for the path, the cunning chitmunks whisked away into their holes, and left the inquirers in the lurch, who could not tell what had become of them; for though they did find a round hole that they thought might be one of their burrows, it was so narrow that they could only poke in their noses, but could get no further; the grey squirrels being much fatter and bigger than the slim little chitmunks. "after all," said silvy, who was the best of the three, "perhaps, if we had been civil, the chitmunks would have treated us better." "well," said nimble, "if they had been good fellows, they would have invited us, as our mother did cousin blackie, and have set before us the best they had. i could find it in my heart to dig them out of their holes, and give them a good bite." this was all brag on nimble's part, who was not near so brave as he wished silvy and velvet-paw to suppose he was. after spending some time in hunting for acorns, they made up their minds to leave the island; and as it was not very far to the mainland, they decided on swimming thither. "indeed," said silver-nose, "i am tired of this dull place; we are not better off here than we were in the little island in stony lake, where our good old mother took care we should have plenty to eat, and we had a nice warm nest to shelter us." "ah! well, it is of no use grumbling now; if we were to go back, we should only get a scolding, and perhaps be chased off the island," said nimble. "now let us have a race, and see which of us will get to shore first;" and he leaped over velvet-paw's head, and was soon swimming merrily for the shore. he was soon followed by his companions, and in half an hour they were all safely landed. instead of going into the thick forest, they agreed to take the path by the margin of the lake, for there they had a better chance of getting nuts and fruit; but though it was the merry month of june, and there were plenty of pretty flowers in bloom, the berries were hardly ripe, and our little vagrants fared but badly. besides being hungry, they were sadly afraid of the eagles and fish-hawks that kept hovering over the water; and when they went further into the forest to avoid them, they saw a great white wood-owl, noiselessly flying out from among the close cedar swamps, that seemed just ready to pounce down upon them. the grey squirrels did not like the look of the owl's great round shining eyes, as they peered at them, under the tufts of silky white feathers, which almost hid his hooked bill; and their hearts sunk within them, when they heard his hollow cry, "_ho, ho, ho, ho!" "waugh, ho!"_ dismally sounding in their ears. it was well that velvet-paw was as swift afoot as she was soft, for one of these great owls had very nearly caught her, while she was eating a filbert that she had found in a cleft branch, where a nuthatch had fixed it, while she pecked a hole in the shell. some bird of prey had scared away the poor nuthatch, and velvet-paw no doubt thought she was in luck when she found the prize; but it would have been a dear nut to her, if nimble, who was a sharp-sighted fellow, had not seen the owl, and cried _"chit, chit, chit, chit!"_ to warn her of her danger. _"chit, chit, chit, chit!"_ cried velvet-paw, and away she flew to the very top of a tall pine-tree, springing from one tree-top to another, till she was soon out of the old owl's reach. "what shall we do for supper to-night?" said silver-nose, looking very pitifully at nimble-foot; whom they looked upon as the head of the family. "we shall not want for a good supper and breakfast too, or i am very much mistaken. do you see that red squirrel yonder, climbing the hemlock-tree? well, my dears, he has a fine store of good things in that beech-tree. i watched him run down with a nut in his teeth. let us wait patiently, and we shall see him come again for another; and as soon as he has done his meal, we will go and take ours." the red squirrel ran to and fro several times, each time carrying off a nut to his nest in the hemlock; after a while, he came no more. as soon as he was out of sight nimble led the way, and found the hoard. the beech was quite hollow in the heart, and they went down through a hole in the branch, and found a store of hazel-nuts, with acorns, hickory-nuts, butter-nuts, and beech-mast, all packed quite close and dry. they soon made a great hole in the red squirrel's store of provisions, and were just choosing some nuts to carry off with them, when they were disturbed by a scratching against the bark of the tree. nimble, who was always the first to take care of himself, gave the alarm, and he and velvet-paw, being nearest to the hole, got off safely; but poor silvy had the ill luck to sneeze, and before she had time to hide herself the angry red squirrel sprang upon her, and gave her such a terrible cuffing and scratching, that silvy cried out for mercy. as to nimble-foot and velvet-paw, they paid no heed to her cries for help; they ran away, and left her to bear the blame of all their misdeeds, as well as her own. thieves are always cowards, and are sure to forsake one another when danger is nigh. the angry red squirrel pushed poor silvy out of her granary, and she was glad to crawl away, and hide herself in a hole at the root of a neighbouring tree, where she lay in great pain and terror, licking her wounds, and crying to think how cruel it was of her brother and sister to leave her to the mercy of the red squirrel. it was surely very cowardly of foot-foot and velvet-paw to forsake her in such a time of need; nor was this the only danger that befel poor silvy. one morning, when she put her nose out of the hole, to look about her before venturing out, she saw seated on a branch, close beside the tree she was under, a racoon, staring full at her, with his sharp cunning black eyes. she was very much afraid of him, for she thought he looked very hungry; but as she knew that racoons are very fond of nuts and fruit, she said to herself, "perhaps if i show him where the red squirrel's granary in the beech-tree is, he will not kill me." then she said very softly to him, "good mister coon, if you want a very nice breakfast, and will promise to do me no hurt, i will tell you where to find plenty of nuts." the coon eyed her with a sly grin, and said, "if i can get anything more to my taste than a pretty grey squirrel, i will take it, my dear, and not lay a paw upon your soft back." "ah! but you must promise not to touch me, if i come out and show you where to find the nuts," said silvy. "upon the word and honour of a coon!" replied the racoon, laying one black paw upon his breast; "but if you do not come out of your hole, i shall soon come and dig you out, so you had best be quick; and if you trust me, you shall come to no hurt." then silvy thought it wisest to seem to trust the racoon's word, and she came out of her hole, and went a few paces to point out the tree, where her enemy the red squirrel's store of nuts was; but as soon as she saw mister coon disappear in the hollow of the tree, she bade him good-bye, and whisked up a tall tree, where she knew the racoon could not reach her; and having now quite recovered her strength, she was able to leap from branch to branch, and even from one tree to another, whenever they grew, close and the boughs touched, as they often do in the grand old woods in canada; and so she was soon far, far away from the artful coon, who waited a long time, hoping to carry off poor silvy for his dinner. silvy contrived to pick up a living by digging for roots, and eating such fruits as she could find; but one day she came to a grassy cleared spot, where she saw a strange-looking tent, made with poles stuck into the ground and meeting at the top, from which came a bluish cloud that spread among the trees; and as silvy was very curious, she came nearer, and at last, hearing no sound, ran up one of the poles, and peeped in, to see what was within side, thinking it might be one of the fine stores of grain that people built for the squirrels, as her cousin blackie had made her believe. the poles were covered with sheets of birch-bark, and skins of deer and wolves, and there was a fire of sticks burning in the middle, round which some large creatures were sitting on a bear's skin, eating something that smelt very nice. they had long black hair, and black eyes, and very white teeth. silvy felt alarmed at first; but thinking they must be the people who were kind to squirrels, she ventured to slip through a slit in the bark, and ran down into the wigwam, hoping to get something to eat; but in a minute the indians jumped up, and before she had time to make her escape she was seized by a young squaw, and popped into a birch box, and the lid shut down upon her: so poor silvy was caught in a trap; and all for believing the artful black squirrel's tales. silver-nose remembered her mother's warning now, when it was too late; she tried to get out of her prison, but in vain; the sides of the box were too strong, and there was not so much as a single crack for a peep-hole. after she had been shut up some time, the lid was raised a little, and a dark hand put in some bright, shining hard grains for her to eat. this was indian corn, and it was excellent food; but silvy was a long, long time before she would eat any of this sweet corn, she was so vexed at being caught and shut up in prison; besides, she was very much afraid that the indians were going to eat her. after some days, she began to get used to her captive state; the little squaw used to feed her, and one day took her out of the box, and put her into a nice light cage, where there was soft green moss to lie on, a little bark dish with clear water, and abundance of food. the cage was hung up on the bough of a tree, near the wigwam, to swing to and fro as the wind waved the tree. here silvy could see the birds flying to and fro, and listen to their cheerful songs. the indian women and children had always a kind look, or a word to say to her; and her little mistress was so kind to her, that silvy could not help loving her. she was very grateful for her care; for when she was sick and sulky, the little squaw gave her bits of maple-sugar and parched rice out of her hand. at last silvy grew tame, and would suffer herself to be taken out of her house, to sit on her mistress's shoulder, or in her lap; and though she sometimes ran away and hid herself, out of fun, she would not have gone far from the tent of the good indians, on any account. sometimes she saw the red squirrels running about in the forest, but they never came very near her; but she used to watch ail day long for her brother nimble-foot, or sister velvet; but they were now far away from her, and no doubt thought that she had been killed by the red squirrel, or eaten up by a fox or racoon. * * * * * "nurse, i am so glad pretty silvy was not killed, and that the good indians took care of her." "it is time now, my dear, for you to put down your book," said mrs. frazer, "and to-morrow we will read some more." "yes, if you please, mrs. frazer," said lady mary. part iii. how the squirrels got to the mill at the rapids--and what happened to velvet-paw. nimble-foot and velvet-paw were so frightened by the sight of the red squirrel, that they ran down the tree without once looking back to see what had become of poor silver-nose; indeed the cowards, instead of waiting for their poor sister, fled through the forest as if an army of red squirrels were behind them. at last they reached the banks of the lake, and, jumping into the water, swam down the current till they came to a place called the "narrow," where the wide lake poured its waters through a deep rocky channel, not more than a hundred yards wide; here the waters became so rough and rapid, that our little swimmers thought it wisest to go on shore. they scrambled up the steep rocky bank, and found themselves on a wide open space, quite free from trees, which they knew must be one of the great clearings the traveller squirrel had spoken of. there was a very high building on the water's edge, that they thought must be the mill that the chitmunks had told them they would come to; and they were in good spirits, as they now expected to find plenty of good things laid up for them to eat, so they went in by the door of the mill. "dear me, what a dust there is!", said nimble, looking about him; "i think it must be snowing." "snow does not fall in hot weather," said velvet; "besides, this white powder is very sweet and nice;" and she began to lick some of the flour that lay in the cracks of the floor. "i have found some nice seeds here," said nimble, running to the top of a sack that stood with the mouth untied; "these are better than pine-kernels, and not so hard. we must have come to one of the great grain-stores that our cousin told us of. well, i am sure the people are very kind to have laid up so many good things for us squirrels." when they had eaten as much as they liked, they began to run about to see what was in the mill. presently, a man came in, and they saw him take one of the sacks of wheat, and pour it into a large upright box, and in a few minutes there was a great noise--a sort of buzzing, whirring, rumbling, dashing, and splashing;--and away ran velvet-paw in a terrible fright, and scrambled up some beams and rafters to the top of the wall, where she sat watching what was going--on, trembling all over; but finding that no harm happened to her, took courage, and after a time ceased to be afraid. she saw nimble perched on a cross-beam looking down very intently at something; so she came out of her corner and ran to him, and asked what he was looking at. "there is a great black thing here," said he, "i cannot tell what to make of him at all; it turns round, and round, and round, and dashes the water about, making a fine splash." (this was the water-wheel.) "it looks very ugly indeed," said velvet-paw, "and makes my head giddy to look at it; let us go away. i want to find out what these two big stones are doing," said she; "they keep rubbing against one another, and making a great noise." "there is nothing so wonderful in two big stones, my dear," said nimble; "i have seen plenty bigger than these in stony lake." "but they did not move about as these do; and only look here at the white stuff that is running down all the time into this great box. well, we shall not want for food for the rest of our lives; i wish poor silvy were with us to share in our good luck." they saw a great many other strange things in the mill, and they thought that the miller was a very funny-looking creature; but as they fancied that he was grinding the wheat into flour for them, they were not much afraid of him; they were more troubled at the sight of a black dog, which spied them out as they sat on the beams of the mill, and ran about in a great rage, barking at them in a frightful way, and never left off till the miller went out of the mill, when he went away with his master, and did not return till the next day; but whenever he saw the grey squirrels, this little dog, whose name was "pinch," was sure to set up his ears and tail, and snap and bark, showing all his sharp white teeth in a very savage manner. not far from the mill was another building: this was the house the miller lived in; and close by the house was a barn, a stable, a cow-shed, and a sheep-pen, and there was a garden full of fruit and flowers, and an orchard of apple-trees close by. one day velvet-paw ran up one of the apple-trees and began to eat an apple; it looked very good, for it had a bright red cheek, but it was hard and sour, not being ripe. "i do not like these big, sour berries," said she, making wry faces as she tried to get the bad taste out of her mouth by wiping her tongue on her fore-paw. nimble had found some ripe currants; so he only laughed at poor velvet for the trouble she was in. these little grey squirrels now led a merry life; they found plenty to eat and drink, and would not have had a care in the world, if it had not been for the noisy little dog pinch, who let them have no quiet, barking and baying at them whenever he saw them; and also for the watchful eyes of a great tom-cat, who was always prowling about the mill, or creeping round the orchard and outhouses; so that with all their good food they were not quite free from causes of fear, and no doubt sometimes wished themselves safe back on the little rocky island, in their nest in the old oak-tree. time passed away--the wheat and the oats were now ripe and fit for the scythe, for in canada the settlers mow wheat with an instrument called a "cradle scythe." the beautiful indian corn was in bloom, and its long pale green silken threads were waving in the summer breeze. the blue-jays were busy in the fields of wheat; so were the red-winged blackbirds, and the sparrows, and many other birds, great and small; field-mice in dozens were cutting the straw with their sharp teeth, and carrying off the grain to their nests; and as to the squirrels and chitmunks, there were scores of them, black, red, and grey, filling their cheeks with the grain, and laying it out on the rail fences and on the top of the stumps to dry, before they carried it away to their storehouses. and many a battle the red and the black squirrels had, and sometimes the grey joined with the red, to beat the black ones off the ground. nimble-foot and his sister kept out of these quarrels as much as they could; but once they got a severe beating from the red squirrels for not helping them to drive off the saucy black ones, who would carry away the little heaps of wheat, as soon as they were dry. "we do not mean to trouble ourselves with laying up winter stores," said nimble one day to his red cousins; "don't you see peter, the miller's man, has got a great wagon and horses, and is carting wheat into the barn for us?" the red squirrel opened his round eyes very wide at this speech. "why, cousin nimble," he said, "you are not so foolish as to think the miller is harvesting that grain for your use. no, no, my friend; if you want any, you must work as we do, or run the chance of starving in the winter." then nimble told him what their cousin blackie had said. "you were wise fellows to believe such nonsense!" said the red squirrel. "these mills and barns are all stored for the use of the miller and his family; and what is more, my friend, i can tell you that men are no great friends to us poor squirrels, and will kill us when they get the chance, and begrudge us the grain we help ourselves to." "well, that is very stingy," said velvet-paw; "i am sure there is enough for men and squirrels too. however, i suppose all must live, so we will let them have what we leave; i shall help myself after they have stored it up in yonder barn." "you had better do as we do, and make hay while the sun shines," said the red squirrel. "i would rather play in the sunshine, and eat what i want here," said idle velvet-paw, setting up her fine tail like a feather over her back, as she ate an ear of corn. "you are a foolish, idle thing, and will come to no good," said the red squirrel. "i wonder where you were brought up?" i am very sorry to relate that velvet-paw did not come to a good end, for she did not take the advice of her red cousin, to lay up provisions during the harvest; but instead of that, she ate all day long, and grew fat and lazy; and after the fields were all cleared, she went to the mill one day, when the mill was grinding, and seeing a quantity of wheat in the feeder of the mill, she ran up a beam and jumped down, thinking to make a good dinner from the grain she saw; but it kept sliding down and sliding down so fast, that she could not get one grain, so at last she began to be frightened, and tried to get up again, but, alas! this was not possible. she cried out to nimble to help her; and while he ran to look for a stick for her to raise herself up by, the mill-wheel kept on turning, and the great stones went round faster and faster, till poor velvet-paw was crushed to death between them. nimble was now left all alone, and sad enough he was, you may suppose. "ah," said he, "idleness is the ruin of grey squirrels, as well as men, so i will go away from this place, and try and earn an honest living in the forest. i wish i had not believed all the fine tales my cousin the black squirrel told me." then nimble went away from the clearing, and once more resolved to seek his fortune in the woods. he knew there were plenty butter-nuts, acorns, hickory-nuts, and beech-nuts, to be found, besides many sorts of berries; and he very diligently set to work to lay up stores against the coming winter. as it was now getting cold at night, nimble-foot thought it would be wise to make himself a warm house; so he found out a tall hemlock-pine that was very thick and bushy at the top; there was a forked branch in the tree, with a hollow just fit for his nest. he carried twigs of birch and beech, and over these he laid dry green moss, which he collected on the north side of the cedar-trees, and some long grey moss that he found on the swamp maples, and then he stripped the silky threads from the milk-weeds, and the bark of the cedar and birch-trees. these he gnawed fine, and soon made a soft bed; he wove and twisted the sticks, and roots, and mosses together, till the walls of his house were quite thick, and he made a sort of thatch over the top with dry leaves and long moss, with a round hole to creep in and out of. making this warm house took him many days' labour; but many strokes will fell great oaks, so at last nimble-foot's work came to an end, and he had the comfort of a charming house to shelter him from the cold season. he laid up a good store of nuts, acorns, and roots: some he put in a hollow branch of the hemlock-tree close to his nest; some he hid in a stump, and another store he laid under the roots of a mossy cedar. when all this was done, he began to feet very lonely, and often wished no doubt that he had had his sisters silvy and velvet-paw with him, to share his nice warm house; but of silvy he knew nothing, and poor velvet-paw was dead. one fine moonlight night, as nimble was frisking about on the bough of a birch-tree, not very far from his house in the hemlock, he saw a canoe land on the shore of the lake, and some indians with an axe cut down some bushes, and having cleared a small piece of ground, begin to sharpen, the ends of some long poles. these they stuck into the ground close together in a circle; and having stripped some sheets of birch-bark from the birch-trees close by, they thatched the sides of the hut, and made a fire of sticks inside. they had a dead deer in the canoe, and there were several hares and black squirrels, the sight of which rather alarmed nimble; for he thought if they killed one sort of squirrel, they might another, and he was very much scared at one of the indians firing off a gun close by him. the noise made him fall down to the ground, and it was a good thing that it was dark among the leaves and grass where the trunk of the tree threw its long shadow, so that the indian did not see him, or perhaps he might have loaded the gun again, and shot our little friend, and made soup of him for his supper. nimble ran swiftly up a pine-tree, and was soon out of danger. while he was watching some of the indian children at play, he saw a girl come out of the hut with a grey squirrel in her arms; it did not seem at all afraid of her, but nestled to her shoulder, and even ate out of her hand; and what was nimble's surprise to see that this tame grey squirrel was none other than his own pretty sister silver-nose, whom he had left in the hollow tree when they both ran away from the red squirrel. you may suppose the sight of his lost companion was a joyful one; he waited for a long, long time, till the fire went out, and all the indians were fast asleep, and little silvy came out to play in the moonlight, and frisk about on the dewy grass as she used to do. then nimble, when he saw her, ran down the tree, and came to her and rubbed his nose against her, and licked her soft fur, and told her who he was, and how sorry he was for having left her in so cowardly a manner, to be beaten by the red squirrel. the good little silvy told nimble not to fret about what was past, and then she asked him for her sister velvet-paw. nimble had a long sorrowful tale to tell about the death of poor velvet; and silvy was much grieved. then in her turn she told nimble all her adventures, and how she had been caught by the indian, girl, and kept, and fed, and tamed, and had passed her time very happily, if it had not been for thinking about her dear lost companions. "but now," she said, "my dear brother, we will never, part again; you shall be quite welcome, to share my cage, and my nice stores of indian corn, rice, and nuts, which my kind mistress gives me." "i would not be shut up in a cage, not even for one day," said nimble, "for all the nice and grain in canada. i am a free squirrel, and love my liberty. i would not exchange a life of freedom in these fine old woods, for all the dainties in the world. so, silvy, if you prefer a life of idleness and ease to living with me in the forest, i must say good-bye to you." "but there is nothing to hurt us, my dear nimble--no racoons, nor foxes, nor hawks, nor owls, nor weasels; if i see any hungry-looking birds or beasts, i have a safe place to run to, and never need be hungry!" "i would not lead a life like that, for the world," said nimble. "i should die of dullness; if there is danger in a life of freedom, there is pleasure too, which you cannot enjoy, shut up in a wooden cage, and fed at the will of a master or mistress." "well, i shall be shot if the indians awake and see me; so i shall be off." silvy looked very sorrowful; she did not like to part from her newly-found brother, but she was unwilling to forego all the comforts and luxuries her life of captivity afforded her. "you will not tell the indians where i live, i hope, silvy, for they would think it a fine thing to hunt me with their dogs, or shoot me down with their bows and arrows." at these words silvy was overcome with grief, so jumping off from the log on which she was standing, she said, "nimble, i will go with you and share all your perils, and we will never part again." she then ran into the wigwam; and going softly to the little squaw, who was asleep, licked her hands and face, as if she would say, "good-bye, my good kind friend; i shall not forget all your love for me, though i am going away from you for ever." silvy then followed nimble into the forest, and they soon reached his nice comfortable nest in the tall hemlock-tree. * * * * * "nurse, i am glad silvy went away with nimble, are not you? poor nimble must have been so lonely without her, and then you know it must have seemed so hard to him if silvy had preferred staying with the indians, to living with him." "those who have been used to a life of ease do not willingly give it up, my dear lady; thus you see, love for her old companion was stronger even than love of self. but i think you must have tired yourself with reading so long to me." "indeed, nurse, i must read a little more, for i want you to hear how silvy and nimble amused themselves in the hemlock-tree." then lady mary went on and read as follows. * * * * * silvy was greatly pleased with her new home, which was as soft and as warm as clean dry moss, hay, and fibres of roots could make it. the squirrels built a sort of pent or outer roof of twigs, dry leaves, and roots of withered grass, which was pitched so high that it threw off the rain and kept the inner house very dry. they worked at this very diligently, and also laid up a store of nuts and berries. they knew that they must not only provide plenty of food for the winter, but also for the spring months, when they could get little to eat beside the buds and bark of some sort of trees, and the chance seeds that might still remain in the pine-cones. thus the autumn months passed away very quickly and cheerfully with the squirrels while preparing for the coming winter. half the cold season was spent, too, in sleep; but on mild sunny days the little squirrels, roused by the bright light of the sunbeams on the white and glittering snow, would shake themselves, rub their black eyes, and after licking themselves clean from dust, would whisk out of their house and indulge in merry gambols up and down the trunks of the trees, skipping from bough to bough, and frolicking over the hard crisp snow, which scarcely showed on its surface the delicate print of their tiny feet, and the sweep of their fine light feathery tails. sometimes they met with some little shrewmice, running on the snow. these very tiny things are so small, they hardly look bigger than a large black beetle; they lived on the seeds of the tall weeds, which they, might be seen climbing and clinging to, yet were hardly heavy enough to weigh down the heads of the dry stalks. it is pretty to see the footprints of these small shrewmice, on the surface of the fresh fallen snow in the deep forest-glades. they are not dormant during the winter like many of the mouse tribe, for they are up and abroad at all seasons; for however stormy and severe the weather may be, they do not seem to heed its inclemency. surely, children, there is one who cares for the small tender things of earth, and shelters them from the rude blasts. nimble-foot and silver-nose often saw their cousins, the black squirrels, playing in the sunshine, chasing each other merrily up and down the trees, or over the brush-heaps; their jetty coats, and long feathery tails, forming a striking contrast with the whiteness of the snow, above which they were sporting. sometimes they saw a few red squirrels too, but there was generally war between them and the black ones. in these lonely forests, everything seems still and silent, during the long wintry season, as if death had spread a white pall over, the earth, and hushed every living thing into silence. few sounds are heard through the winter days, to break the death-like silence that reigns around, excepting the sudden rending and cracking of the trees in the frosty air, the fall of a decayed branch, the tapping of a solitary woodpecker, two or three small species of which still remain after all the summer birds are flown; and the gentle, weak chirp of the little tree-creeper, as it runs up and down the hemlocks and pines, searching the crevices of the bark for insects. yet in all this seeming death lies hidden the life of myriads of insects, the huge beast of the forest, asleep in his lair, with many of the smaller quadrupeds, and forest-birds, that, hushed in lonely places, shall awake to life and activity as soon as the sun-beams shall once more dissolve the snow, unbind the frozen streams, and loosen the bands which held them in repose. at last the spring, the glad joyous spring, returned. the leaf-buds, wrapped within their gummy and downy cases, began to unfold; the dark green pines, spruce, and balsams began to shoot out fresh spiny leaves, like tassels, from the ends of every bough, giving out the most refreshing fragrance; the crimson buds of the young hazels, and the scarlet blossoms of the soft maple, enlivened the edges of the streams; the bright coral bark of the dogwood seemed as if freshly varnished, so brightly it glowed in the morning sunshine; the scream of the blue jay, the song of the robin and wood-thrush, the merry note of the chiccadee, and plaintive cry of the pheobe, with loud hammering strokes of the great red-headed woodpecker, mingled with the rush of the unbound forest streams, gurgling and murmuring as their water flowed over the stones, and the sighing of the breeze, playing in the tree-tops, made pleasant and ceaseless music. and then as time passed on, the trees unfolded all their bright green leaves, the buds and forest flowers opened; and many a bright bell our little squirrels looked down upon, from their leafy home, that the eye of man had never seen. it was pleasant for our little squirrels, just after sunset, in the still summer evenings, when the small silver stars came stealing out, one by one, in the blue sky, to play among the cool dewy leaves of the grand old oaks and maples; to watch the fitful flash of the fireflies, as they glanced here and there, flitting through the deep gloom of the forest boughs, now lost to sight, as they closed their wings, now flashing out like tiny tapers, borne aloft by unseen hands in the darkness. where that little creek runs singing over its mossy bed, and the cedar-boughs bend down so thick and close, that only a gleam of the bright water can be seen, even in the sunlight--there the fireflies crowd, and the damp foliage is all alive with their dazzling light. in this sweet still hour, just at the dewfall, the rush of whirring wings may be heard from the islands, or in the forest, bordering on the water's edge; and out of hollow logs and hoary trunks of trees come forth the speckled night-hawks, cutting the air with their thin sharp wide wings, and open beak, ready to entrap the unwary moth, or moskitoe, that float so joyously upon the evening air. one after another, sweeping in wider circles, come forth these birds of prey, till the whole air seems alive with them; darting hither and thither, and uttering wild shrill screams, as they rise higher and higher in the upper air, till some are almost lost to sight. sometimes one of them will descend with a sudden swoop, to the lower regions of the air, just above the highest tree-tops, with a hollow booming sound, as if some one were blowing in an empty vessel. at this hour, too, the bats would quit their homes in hollow trees and old rocky banks, and flit noiselessly abroad, over the surface of the quiet star-lit lake; and now also would begin the shrill, trilling note of the green-frog, and the deep hoarse bass of the bull-frog, which ceases only at intervals, through the long, warm summer night. you might fancy a droll sort of dialogue was being carried on among them. at first, a great fellow, the patriarch of the swamp, will put up his head, which looks very much like a small pair of bellows, with yellow leather sides; and say in a harsh, guttural tone, "go to bed, go to bed, go to bed." after a moment's pause, two or three will rise and reply, "no, i won't! no, i won't! no, i won't!" then the old fellow, with a growl, replies,--"get out, get out, get out," --and forthwith, with a rush, and a splash, and a dash, they raise a chorus of whirring, grating, growling, grunting, whistling sounds, which make you hold your ears. when all this hubbub has lasted some minutes, there is a pop, and a splash, and down go all the heads under the weeds and mud; and after another pause, up comes the old father of the frogs, and begins again with the old story--"go to bed, go to bed, go to bed," and so on. during the heat of the day, the bull-frogs are silent; but as the day declines, and the air becomes cooler, they re-commence their noisy chorus. i suppose these sounds, though not very pleasant to the ears of men, may not be so disagreeable to those of wild animals. i dare say neither nimble nor silvy were in the least annoyed by the hoarse note of the bull-frog; but gambolled as merrily among the boughs and fresh dewy leaves, as if they were listening to sweet music, or the songs of the birds. the summer passed away very happily; but towards the close of the warm season, the squirrels, nimble and silvy, resolved to make a journey to the rocky island on stony lake, to see the old squirrels, their father and mother. so they started at sunrise one fine pleasant day, and travelled along, till one cool evening, just as the moon was beginning to rise above the pine-trees, they arrived at the little rocky islet where they first saw the light; but when they eagerly ran up the trunk of the old oak-tree, expecting to have seen their old father and mother, they were surprised and terrified by seeing a wood-owl in the nest. as soon as she espied our little squirrels, she shook her feathers, and set up her ears--for she was a long-eared owl--and said, "what do you want here?--ho, ho, ho, ho! "indeed, mrs. owl," said nimble, "we come hither to see our parents, whom we left here a year ago. can you tell us where we shall find them?" the owl peered out of her ruff of silken feathers, and after wiping her sharp bill on her breast, said, "your cousin the black squirrel beat your father and mother out of their nest a long time ago, and took possession of the tree and all that was in it, and they brought up a large family of little ones, all of which i pounced upon one after another, and ate. indeed, the oaks here belong to my family; so finding these impudent intruders would not quit the premises, i made short work of the matter, and took the law into my own hands." "did you kill them?" asked silvy, in a trembling voice. "of course i did, and very nice tender meat they were," replied the horrid old owl, beginning to scramble out of the nest, and eyeing the squirrels at the same time with a wicked look. "but you did not eat our parents too?" asked the trembling squirrels. "yes, i did; they were very tough, to be sure, but i am not very particular." the grey squirrels, though full of grief and vain regret, were obliged to take care of themselves. there was, indeed, no time to fee lost, so they made a hasty retreat. they crept under the roots of an old tree, where they lay till the morning; they were not much concerned for the death of the treacherous black squirrel who had told so many stories, got possession of their old nest, and caused the death of their parents; but they said--"we will go home again to our dear old hemlock-tree, and never leave it more." so these dear little squirrels returned to their forest home, and may be living there yet. * * * * * "nurse," said lady mary, "how do you like the story?" mrs. frazer said it was a very pretty one. "perhaps my dear little pet is one of nimble or silvy's children. you know, nurse, they might have gone on their travels too when they were old enough, and then your brother may have chopped down the tree and found them in the forest." "but your squirrel, lady mary, is a flying squirrel, and these were only common grey ones, which are a different species. besides, my dear, this history is but a fable." "i suppose, nurse," said the child, looking up in her nurse's face, "squirrels do not really talk." "no, my dear, they have not the use of speech as we have, but in all ages people have written little tales called fables, in which they make birds and beasts speak as if they were men and women, it being an easy method of conveying instruction." "my book is only a fable then, nurse? i wish it had been true; but it is very pretty." chapter iv. squirrels--the chitmunks-docility of a pet one--roguery of a yankee pedlar--return of the musical chitmunk to his master's bosom--sagacity of a black squirrel. "mrs. frazer, are you very busy just now?" asked lady mary, coming up to the table where her nurse was ironing some lace. "no, my dear, not very busy, only preparing these lace edgings for your frocks. do you want me to do anything for you?" "i only want to tell you that my governess has promised to paint my dear squirrel's picture, as soon as it is tame, and will let me hold it in my lap, without flying away. i saw a picture of a flying squirrel to-day, but it was very ugly--not at all like mine; it was long and flat, and its legs looked like sticks, and it was stretched out, just like one of those muskrat skins that you pointed out to me in a fur store. mamma said it was drawn so, to show it while it was in the act of flying; but it is not pretty--it does not show its beautiful tail, nor its bright eyes, nor soft silky fur. i heard a lady tell mamma about a nest full of dear, tiny little flying squirrels; [footnote: tame flying squirrels may be purchased at the pantheon, in oxford street.] that her brother once found in a tree in the forest; he tamed them, and they lived very happily together, and would feed from his hand. they slept in the cold weather like dormice; in the day-time they lay very still, but would come out, and gambol, and frisk about at night. but somebody left the cage open, and they all ran away except one, and that he found in his bed, where it had run for shelter with its little nose under his pillow. he caught the little fellow, and it lived with him till the spring, when it grew restless, and one day got away, and went off to the woods." "these little creatures are impatient of confinement, and will gnaw through the woodwork of the cage to get free, especially in the spring of the year. doubtless, my dear, they pine for the liberty which they used to enjoy before they were captured by man." "nurse, i will not let my little pet be unhappy. as soon as the warm days come again, and my governess has taken his picture, i will let him go free. are there many squirrels in this part of canada?" "not so many as in upper canada, lady mary. they abound more in some years than in others. i have seen the beech and oak woods swarming with black squirrels. my brothers have brought in two or three dozen in one day. the indians used to tell us that want of food, or very severe weather setting in, in the north, drive these little animals from their haunts. the indians, who observe these things more than we do, can generally tell what sort of winter it will be, from the number of wild animals in the fall." "what do you mean by the fall, nurse?" "the autumn in canada, my lady, is called so from the fall of the leaves. i remember one year was remarkable for the great number of black, grey, and flying squirrels; the little striped chitmunk was also plentiful, and so were weasels and foxes. they came into the barns and granaries, and into the houses, and destroyed great quantities of grain; besides gnawing clothes that were laid out to dry; this they did to line their nests with. next year there were very few to be seen." "what became of them, nurse?" "some, no doubt, fell a prey to their enemies, the cats, foxes, and weasels, which were also very numerous that year; and the rest, perhaps, went back to their own country again." "i should like to see a great number of these pretty creatures travelling together," said lady mary. "all wild animals, my dear, are more active by night than by day, and probably make their long journeys during that season. the eyes of many animals and birds are so formed, that they see best in the dim twilight, as cats, and owls, and others. our heavenly father has fitted all his. creatures for the state in which he has placed them." "can squirrels swim like otters and beavers, nurse? if they come to a lake or river, can they cross it?" "i think they can, lady mary; for though these creatures are not formed like the otter, or beaver, or muskrat, to get their living in the water, they are able to swim when necessity requires them to do so. i heard a lady say that she was crossing a lake, between one of the islands and the shore, in a canoe, with a baby on her lap. she noticed a movement on the surface of the water. at first she thought it might be a water snake, but the servant lad who was paddling the canoe, said it was a red squirrel, and he tried to strike it with the paddle; but the little squirrel leaped out of the water to the blade of the paddle, and sprang on the head of the baby, as it lay on her lap; from whence it jumped to her shoulder, and before she had recovered from her surprise, was in the water again, swimming straight for the shore, where it was soon safe in the dark pine woods." this feat of the squirrel delighted lady mary, who expressed her joy at the bravery of the little creature. besides, she said she had heard that grey squirrels, when they wished to go to a distance in search of food, would all meet together, and collect pieces of bark to serve them for boats, and would set up their broad tails like sails, to catch the wind, and in this way cross large sheets of water. "i do not think this can be true," observed mrs. frazer; "for the squirrel, when swimming, uses his tail as an oar or rudder to help the motion, the tail lying flat on the surface of the water; nor do these creatures need a boat, for god, who made them, has _given them_ the power of swimming at their need." "nurse, you said something about a ground squirrel, and called it a chitmunk. if you please, will you tell me something about it, and why it is called by such a curious name?" "i believe it is the indian name for this sort of squirrel, my dear. the chitmunk is not so large as the black, red, or grey squirrels. it is marked along the back with black and white stripes; the rest of its fur is a yellowish tawny colour. it is a very playful, lively, cleanly animal, somewhat resembling the dormouse in its habits. it burrows under ground. its nest is made with great care, with many galleries which open at the surface, so that when attacked by an enemy, it can run from one to another for security." [footnote: the squirrel has many enemies; all the weasel tribe, cats, and even dogs attack them. cats kill great numbers of these little animals. the farmer shows them as little mercy as he does rats and mice, as they are very destructive, and carry off vast quantities of grain, which they store in hollow trees for use. not contenting themselves with one, granary, they have several in case one should fail, or perhaps become injured by accidental causes. thus do these simple little creatures teach us a lesson of providential care for future events.] "how wise of these little chitmunks to think of that!" said lady mary. "nay, my dear child, it is god's wisdom, not theirs. these creatures work according to his will; and so they always do what is fittest and best for their own comfort and safety. man is the only one of god's creatures who disobeys him." these words made lady mary look grave, till her nurse began to talk to her again about the chitmunk. "it is very easily tamed, and becomes very fond of its master. it will obey his voice, come at a call or a whistle, sit up and beg, take a nut or an acorn out of his hand, run up a stick, nestle in his bosom, and become quite familiar. my uncle had a tame chitmunk that was much attached to him; it lived in his pocket or bosom; it was his companion by day and by night. when he was out in the forest lumbering, or on the lake fishing, or in the fields at work, it was always with him. at meals it sat by the side of his plate, eating what he gave it; but he did not give it meat, as he thought that might injure its health. one day he and his pet were in the steam-boat, going to toronto. he had been showing off the little chitmunk's tricks to the ladies and gentlemen on board the boat, and several persons offered him money if he would sell it; but my uncle was fond of the little thing, and would not part with it. however, just before he left the boat, he missed his pet; for a cunning yankee pedlar on board had stolen it. my uncle knew that his little friend would not desert its old master; so he went on deck where the passengers were assembled, and whistled a popular tune familiar to the chitmunk. the little fellow, on hearing it, whisked out of the pedlar's pocket, and running swiftly along a railing against which he was standing, soon sought refuge in his master's bosom." lady mary clapped her hands with joy, and said, "i am so glad, nurse, that the chitmunk ran back to his old friend. i wish it had bitten that yankee pedlar's fingers." "when angry, these creatures will bite very sharply, set up their tails, and run to and fro, and make a chattering sound with their teeth. the red squirrel is very fearless for its size, and will sometimes turn round and face you, set up its tail, and scold. but they will, when busy eating the seeds of the sunflower or thistle, of which they are very fond, suffer you to stand and watch them without attempting to run away. when near their granaries, or the tree where their nest is, they are unwilling to leave it, running to and fro, and uttering their angry notes; but if a dog is near, they make for a tree, and as soon as they are out of his reach, turn round to chatter and scold, as long as he remains in sight. when hard pressed, the black and flying squirrels will take prodigious leaps, springing from bough to bough, and from tree to tree. in this manner they baffle the hunters, and travel a great distance over the tops of the trees. once i saw my uncle and brothers chasing a large black squirrel. he kept out of reach of the dogs, as well as out of sight of the men, by passing round and round the tree as he went up, so that they could never get a fair shot at him. at last, they got so provoked that they took their axes, and set to work to chop down the tree. it was a large pine-tree, and took them some time. just as the tree was ready to fall, and was wavering to and fro, the squirrel, who had kept on the topmost bough, sprang nimbly to the next tree, and then to another, and by the time the great pine had reached the ground, the squirrel was far away in his nest among his little ones, safe from hunters, guns, and dogs." "the black squirrel must have wondered, i think, nurse, why so many men and dogs tried to kill such a little creature as he was. do the black squirrels sleep in the winter as well as the flying squirrels and chitmunks?" "no, lady mary; i have often seen them on bright days chasing each other over logs and brush heaps, and running gaily up the pine-trees. they are easily seen from the contrast which their jetty black coats make with the sparkling white snow. these creatures feed a good deal on the kernels of the pines and hemlocks; they also eat the buds of some trees. they lay up great stores of nuts and grain for winter use. the flying squirrels sleep much, and in the cold season lie heaped upon each other, for the sake of warmth. as many as seven or eight may be found in one nest asleep. they sometimes awaken, if there come a succession of warm days, as in the january thaw; for i must tell you that in this country we generally have rain and mild weather for a few days in the beginning of january, when the snow nearly disappears from the ground. about the 12th, [footnote: this remark applies more particularly to the upper province.] the weather sets in again steadily cold; when the little animals retire once more to sleep in their winter cradles, which they rarely leave till the hard weather is over." "i suppose, nurse, when they awake, they are glad to eat some of the food they hare laid up in their granaries?" "yes, my dear, it is for this they gather their hoards in mild weather; which also supports them in the spring months, and possibly even during the summer, till grain and fruit are ripe. i was walking in the harvest field one day, where my brothers were cradling wheat. as i passed along the fence, i noticed a great many little heaps of wheat lying here and there on the rails, also upon the tops of the stumps in the field. i wondered at first who could have placed them there, but presently noticed a number of red squirrels running very swiftly along the fence, and perceived that they emptied their mouths of a quantity of the new wheat, which they had been diligently employed in collecting from the ears that lay scattered over the ground. these little gleaners did not seem to be at all alarmed at my presence, but went to and fro as busy as bees. on taking some of the grains into my hand, i noticed that the germ or eye of the kernels was bitten clean out." "what was that for, nurse? can you tell me?" "my dear young lady, i did not know at first, till, upon showing it to my father, he told me that the squirrels destroyed the germ of the grain, such as wheat or indian corn, that they stored up for winter use, that it might not sprout when buried in the ground or in a hollow tree." "this is very strange, nurse," said the little girl. "but i suppose," she added, after a moment's thought, "it was god who taught the squirrels to do so. but why would biting out the eye prevent the grain from growing?" "because the eye or bud contains the life of the plant; from it springs the green blade, and the stem that bears the ear, and the root that strikes down to the earth. the flowery part, which swells and becomes soft and jelly-like, serves to nourish the young plant till the tender fibres of the roots are able to draw moisture from the ground." lady mary asked if all seeds had an eye or germ. her nurse replied that all had, though some were so minute that they looked no bigger than dust, or a grain of sand; yet each was perfect in its kind, and contained the plant that would, when sown in the earth, bring forth roots, leaves, buds, flowers, and fruits in due season. "how glad i should have been to see the little squirrels gleaning the wheat, and laying it in the little heaps on the rail fence. why did they not carry it at once to their nests?" "they laid it out in the sun and wind to dry; for if it had been stored away while damp, it would have moulded, and have been spoiled. the squirrels were busy all that day; when i went to see them again, the grain was gone. i saw several red squirrels running up and down a large pine-tree, which had been broken by the wind at the top; and there, no doubt, they had laid up stores. these squirrels did not follow each other in a straight line, but ran round and round in a spiral direction, so that they never hindered each other, nor came in each other's way: two were always going up, while the other two were going down. they seem to work in families; for the young ones, though old enough to get their own living, usually inhabit the same nest, and help to store up the grain for winter use. they all separate again in spring. the little chitmunk does not live in trees, but burrows in the ground, or makes its nest in some large hollow log. it is very pretty to see the little chitmunks, on a warm spring day, running about and chasing each other among the moss and leaves; they are not bigger than mice, but look bright and lively. the fur of all the squirrel tribe is used in trimming, but the grey is the best and most valuable. it has often been remarked by the indians, and others, that the red and black squirrels never live in the same place; for the red, though the smallest, beat away the black ones. the flesh of the black squirrel is very good to eat; the indians also eat the red." lady mary was very glad to hear all these things, and quite forgot to play with her doll. "please, mrs. frazer," said the little lady, "tell me now about beavers and muskrats." but mrs. frazer was obliged to go out on business; she promised, however, to tell lady mary all she knew about these animals another day. chapter v. indian baskets--thread plants--maple sugar tree--indian ornamental works-racoons it was some time before lady mary's nurse could tell her any more stories. she received a letter from her sister-in-law, informing her that her brother was dangerously ill, confined to what was feared would prove his deathbed, and that he earnestly desired to see her before he died. the governor's lady, who was very kind and good to all her household, readily consented to let mrs. frazer go to her sick relation. lady mary parted from her dear nurse, whom she loved very tenderly, with much regret. mrs. frazer told her that it might be a fortnight before she could return, as her brother lived on the shores of one of the small lakes, near the head waters of the otonabee river, a great way off; but she promised to return as soon as she could, and to console her young mistress for her absence, said she would bring her some indian toys from the backwoods. the month of march passed away pleasantly, for lady mary enjoyed many delightful sleigh-drives with her papa and mamma, who took every opportunity to instruct and amuse her. on entering her nursery one day, after enjoying a long drive in the country, great was her joy to find her good nurse sitting quietly at work by the stove. she was dressed in deep mourning, and looked much thinner and paler than when she had last seen her. the kind little girl knew, when she saw her nurse's black dress, that her brother must be dead; and with the thoughtfulness of a true lady, remained very quiet, and did not annoy her with questions about trifling matters; she spoke low and gently to her, and tried to comfort her when she saw large tears falling on the work which she held in her hand, kindly said, "mrs, frazer, you had better go and lie down and rest yourself, for you must be tired after your long long journey." the next day mrs. frazer seemed to be much better; and she showed lady mary an indian basket, made of birch-bark, very richly wrought with coloured porcupine-quills, and which had two lids. lady mary admired the splendid colours, and strange patterns on the basket. "it is for you, my dear," said her nurse, "open it, and see what is in it." lady mary lifted one of the lids, and took out another small basket, of a different shape and pattern. it had a top, which was sewn down with coarse-looking thread, which her nurse told her was nothing but the sinews of the deer, dried and beaten fine, and drawn out like thread. then, taking an end of it in her hand, she made lady mary observe that these coarse threads could be separated into a great number of finer ones, sufficiently delicate to pass through the eye of a fine needle, or to string tiny beads. "the indians, my lady, sew with the sinews of the wild animals they kill. these sinews are much stronger and tougher than thread, and therefore are well adapted to sew together such things as moccasins, leggings, and garments made of the skins of wild animals. the finer threads are used for sewing the beads and quill ornaments on moccasins, sheaths, and pouches, besides other things that i cannot now think of. "they sew some things with the roots of the tamarack, of larch; such as coarse birch-baskets, bark canoes, and the covering of their wigwams. they call this 'wah-tap,' [footnote: asclepia paviflora.] (wood-thread,) and they prepare it by pulling off the outer rind and steeping it in water. it is the larger fibres which have the appearance of small cordage when coiled up and fit for use. this 'wah-tap' is very valuable to these poor indians. there is also another plant, called indian hemp, which is a small shrubby kind of milk-weed, that grows on gravelly islands. it bears white flowers, and the branches are long and slender; under the bark there is a fine silky thread covering the wood; this is tough, and can be twisted and spun into cloth. it is very white and fine, and does not easily break. there are other plants of the same family, with pods full of fine shining silk; but these are too brittle to spin into thread. this last kind, lady mary, which is called milk-weed flytrap, i will show you in summer." [footnote: asclepia syriaca.] but while mrs. frazer was talking about these plants, the little lady was examining the contents of the small birch-box. "if you please, nurse, will you tell me what these dark shining seeds are?" "these seeds, my dear, are indian rice; an old squaw, mrs. peter noggan, gave me this as a present for 'governor's daughter,'" and mrs. frazer imitated the soft, whining tone of the indian, which made lady mary laugh. "the box is called a 'mowkowk.' there is another just like it, only there is a white bird,--a snow-bird, i suppose it is intended for--worked on the lid." the lid of this box was fastened down with a narrow slip of deer-skin; lady mary cut the fastening, and raised the lid,--"nurse, it is only yellow sand; how droll, to send me a box of sand!" "it is not sand; taste it, lady mary." "it is sweet--it is sugar! ah! now i know what it is that this kind old squaw has sent me; it is maple-sugar; and is very nice. i will go and show it to mamma." "wait a little, lady mary, let us see what there is in the basket besides the rice and the maple-sugar." "what a lovely thing this is! dear nurse, what can it be?" "it is a sheath for your scissors, my dear; it is made of doe-skin, embroidered with white beads, and coloured quills split fine, and sewn with deer-sinew thread. look at these curious bracelets." lady mary examined the bracelets, and said she thought they were wrought with beads; but mrs. frazer told her that what she took for beads were porcupine quills, cut out very finely, and strung in a pattern. they were not only neatly but tastefully made; the pattern, though a grecian scroll, having been carefully imitated by some indian squaw. "this embroidered knife-sheath is large enough for a hunting-knife," said lady mary, "a '_couteau de chasse_,'--is it not?" "this sheath was worked by the wife of isaac iron, an educated chief of the mud lake indians; she gave it to me because i had been kind to her in sickness." "i will give it to my dear papa," said lady mary, "for i never go out hunting, and do not wish to carry a large knife by my side;" and she laid the sheath away, after having admired its gay colours, and particularly the figure of a little animal worked in black and white quills, which was intended to represent a racoon. "this is a present for your doll; it is a doll's mat, woven by a little girl, aged seven years, rachel muskrat; and here is a little canoe of red cedar, made by a little indian boy." "what a darling little boat, and there is a fish carved on the paddles." this device greatly pleased lady mary, who said she would send rachel a wax doll, and little moses a knife, or some other useful article, when mrs. frazer went again to the lakes; but when her nurse took out of the other end of the basket a birch-bark cradle, made for her doll, worked very richly, she clapped her hands for joy, saying, "ah, nurse, you should not have brought me so many pretty things at once, for i am too happy!" the remaining contents of the basket consisted of seeds and berries, and a small cake of maple-sugar, which mrs. frazer had made for the young lady. this was very different in appearance from the indian sugar; it was bright and sparkling, like sugar-candy, and tasted sweeter. the other sugar was dry, and slightly bitter: mrs. frazer told lady mary that this peculiar taste was caused by the birch-bark vessels, which the indians used for catching the sap as it flowed from the maple-trees. "i wonder who taught the indians how to make maple-sugar?" asked the child. "i do not know;" replied the nurse. "i have heard that they knew how to make this sugar when the discoverers of the country found them. [footnote: however this may be, the french settlers claim the merit of converting the sap into sugar.] it may be that they found it out by accident. the sugar-maple when wounded in march, and april, yields a great deal of sweet liquor. some indians may have supplied themselves with this juice, when pressed for want of water; for it flows so freely in warm days in spring, that several pints can be obtained from one tree in the course of the day. by boiling this juice, it becomes very sweet; and at last, when all the thin watery part has gone off in steam, it becomes thick, like honey; by boiling it still-longer, it turns to sugar, when cold. so you see, my dear, that the indians may have found it out by boiling some sap, instead of water, and letting it remain on the fire till it grew thick." "are there many kinds of maple-trees, that sugar can be made from, nurse?" asked the little girl. "yes, [footnote: all the maple tribe are of a saccharine nature. sugar has been made in england from the sap of the sycamore.] my lady; but i believe the sugar-maple yields the best sap for the purpose; that of the birch-tree, i have heard, can be made into sugar; but it would require a larger quantity; weak wine, or vinegar, is made by the settlers of birch-sap, which is very pleasant tasted. the people who live in the backwoods, and make maple-sugar, always make a keg of vinegar at the sugaring off." "that must be very useful; but if the sap is sweet, how can it be made into such sour stuff as vinegar?" then nurse tried to make lady mary understand that the heat of the sun, or of a warm room, would make the liquor ferment, unless it had been boiled a long time, so as to become very sweet, and somewhat thick. the first fermentation, she told her, would give only a winy taste; but if it continued to ferment a great deal, it turned sour, and became vinegar. "how very useful the maple-tree is, nurse! i wish there were maples in the garden, and i would make sugar, molasses, wine, and vinegar; and what else would i do with my maple-tree?" mrs. frazer laughed, and said,--"the wood makes excellent fuel; but is also used in making bedsteads, chests of drawers, and many other things. there is a very pretty wood for furniture, called 'bird's-eye maple;' the drawers in my bedroom that you think so pretty are made of it; but it is a disease in the tree that causes it to have these little marks all through the wood. in autumn, this tree improves the forest landscape, for the bright scarlet leaves of the maple give a beautiful look to the woods in the fall. the soft maple, another species, is very bright when the leaves are changing, but it gives no sugar." "then i will not let it grow in my garden, nurse!" "it is good for other purposes, my dear. the settlers use the bark for dyeing wool; and a jet black ink can be made from it, by boiling down the bark with a bit of copperas, in an iron vessel; so you see it is useful. the bright red flowers of this tree look very pretty in the spring; it grows best by the water-side, and some call it 'the swamp maple.'" this was all mrs. frazer could tell lady mary about the maple-trees. many little girls, as young as the governor's daughter, would have thought it very dull to listen to what her nurse had to say about plants and trees; but lady mary would put aside her dolls and toys, to stand beside her to ask questions, and listen to her answers; the more she heard, the more she desired to hear, about these things. "the hearing ear, and the seeing eye, are two things that are never satisfied," saith the wise king solomon. lady mary was delighted with the contents of her indian basket, and spent the rest of her play-hours in looking at the various articles it contained, and asking her nurse questions about the materials of which they were made. some of the bark boxes were lined with paper, but the doll's cradle was not, and lady mary perceived that the inside of it was very rough, caused by the hard ends of the quills with which it was ornamented. at first, she could not think how the squaws worked with the quills, as they could not possibly thread them through the eye of a needle; but her nurse told her that when they want to work any pattern in birch-bark, they trace it with some sharp-pointed instrument, such as a nail, or bodkin, or even a sharp thorn; with which they pierce holes close together round the edge of the leaf, or blade, or bird they have drawn out on the birch-bark; into these holes they insert one end of the quill, the other end is then drawn through the opposite hole, pulled tight, bent a little, and cut off on the inside. this any one of my young readers may see, if they examine the indian baskets or toys, made of birch-bark. "i have seen the squaws in their wigwams at work on these things, sitting cross-legged on their mats,--some had the quills in a little bark dish on their laps, while others held them in their mouths--not a very safe nor delicate way; but indians are not very nice in some of their habits," said mrs. frazer. "nurse, if you please, will you tell me what this little animal is designed to represent," said lady mary, pointing to the figure of the racoon worked in quills on the sheath of the hunting-knife. "it is intended for a racoon, my lady," replied her nurse. "is the racoon a pretty creature like my squirrel?" "it is much larger than your squirrel; its fur is not nearly so soft or so fine; the colour being black and grey, or dun; the tail barred across, and bushy,--you have seen many sleigh-robes made of racoon-skins, with the tails looking like tassels at the back of the sleighs." "oh, yes, and a funny cunning-looking face peeping out too!" "the face of this little animal is sharp, and the eyes black and keen, like a fox; the feet bare, like the soles of our feet, only black and leathery; their claws are very sharp; they can climb trees very fast. during the winter the racoons sleep in hollow trees, and cling together for the sake of keeping each other warm. the choppers find as many as seven or eight in one nest, fast asleep. most probably the young family remain with the old ones until spring, when, they separate. the racoon in its habits is said to resemble the bear; like the bear, it lives chiefly on vegetables, especially indian corn, but i do not think that it lays by any store for winter. they sometimes awake if there come a few warm days, but soon retire again to their warm cosy nests." "racoons will eat eggs; and fowls are often taken by them,--perhaps this is in the winter, when they wake up and are pressed by hunger." her nurse said that one of her friends had a racoon which he kept in a wooden cage, but he was obliged to have a chain and collar to keep him from getting away, as he used to gnaw the bars asunder; and had slily stolen away and killed some ducks, and was almost as mischievous as a fox, but was very lively and amusing in his way. lady mary now left her good nurse, and took her basket, with all its indian treasures, to show to her mamma,--with whom we leave her for the present. chapter vi. canadian birds--snow sparrow--robin red-breast--canadian flowers-american porcupine. "spring is coming, nurse! spring is coming at last!" exclaimed the governor's little daughter, joyfully. "the snow is going away at last. i am tired of the white snow, it makes my eyes ache. i want to see the brown earth, and the grass, and the green moss, and the pretty flowers again." "it will be some days before this deep covering of snow is gone. the streets are still slippery with ice, which it will take some time, my lady, to soften." "but, nurse, the sun shines, and there are little streams of water running along the streets in every direction; see, the snow is gone from under the bushes and trees in the garden. i saw some dear little birds flying about, and i watched them perching on the dry stalks of the tall rough weeds, and they appeared to be picking seeds out of the husks. can you tell me what birds they were?" "i saw the flock of birds you mean, lady mary; they are the common snow-sparrows; [footnote: fringilla nivalis.] almost our earliest visitants; for they may be seen in april, mingled with the brown song-sparrow, [footnote: fringilla melodia.] flitting about the garden fences, or picking the stalks of the tall mullein and amaranths, to find the seeds that have not been shaken out by the autumn winds; and possibly they also find insects cradled in the husks of the old seed-vessels. these snow-sparrows are very hardy, and though some migrate to the states in the beginning of winter, a few stay in the upper province, and others come back to us before the snow is all gone." "they are very pretty, neat-looking birds, nurse; dark slate colour, with white breasts." "when i was a little girl, i used to call them my quaker-birds, they looked so neat and prim. in the summer you may find their nests in the brush-heaps near the edge of the forest; they sing a soft, low song." "nurse, i heard a bird singing yesterday, when i was in the garden; a little plain brown bird, nurse." "it was a song-sparrow, lady mary. this cheerful little bird comes with the snow-birds, often before the robin." "oh, nurse, the robin! i wish you would show me a darling robin redbreast. i did not know they lived in canada." "the bird that we call the robin in this country, my dear, is not like the little redbreast you have seen at home; our robin is twice as large; though in shape resembling the european robin; i believe it is really a kind of thrush. it migrates in the fall, and returns to us early in the spring." "what is migrating, nurse; is it the same as emigrating?" "yes, lady mary, for when a person leaves his native country, and goes to live in another country, he is said to emigrate. this is the reason why the english, scotch, and irish families who come to live in canada are called emigrants." "what colour are the canadian robins, nurse?" "the head is blackish, the back lead colour, and the breast is pale orange; not so bright a red, however, as the real robin." "have you ever seen their nests, nurse?" "yes, my dear, many of them. it is not a pretty nest; it is large, and coarsely put together, of old dried grass, roots, and dead leaves, plastered inside with clay, mixed with bits of straw, so as to form a sort of mortar. you know, lady mary, that the blackbird and thrush build nests, and plaster them in this way." the little lady nodded her head in assent. "nurse, i once saw a robin's nest when i was in england; it was in the side of a mossy ditch, with primroses growing close beside it; it was made of green moss, and lined with white wool and hair; it was a pretty nest, with nice eggs in it, much better than your canadian robin's nest." "our robins build in upturned roots, in the corners of rail fences, and in the young pear-trees and apple-trees in the orchard. the eggs are a greenish blue. the robin sings a full, clear song; indeed he is our best songster. we have so few singing-birds, that we prize those that do sing very much." "does the canadian robin come into the house in winter, and pick up the crumbs, as the dear little redbreasts do at home?" "no, lady mary, they are able to find plenty of food abroad, when they return to us; but they hop about the houses and gardens pretty freely. in the fall, before they go away, they may be seen in great numbers, running about the old pastures, picking up worms and seeds." "do people see the birds flying away together, nurse?" "not often, my dear, for most birds congregate together in small flocks and depart unnoticed; many go away at night, when we are sleeping; and some fly very high on cloudy days, so that they are not distinctly seen against the dull grey sky. the water birds, such as geese, swans, and ducks, take their flight in large bodies. they are heard making a continual noise in the air, and may be seen grouped in long lines, or in the form of the letter v lying on its side, (<), the point generally directed southward or westward, the strongest and oldest birds acting as leaders: when tired, these aquatic generals fall backward into the main body, and are replaced by others." lady mary was much surprised at the order and sagacity displayed by wild fowl in their flight; and mrs. frazer told her that some other time she would tell her some more facts respecting their migration to other countries. "nurse, will you tell me something about birds' nests, and what they make them of?" "birds that live chiefly in the depths of the forest, or in solitary places, far away from the haunts of men, build their nests of ruder materials, and with less care in the manner of putting them together; dried grass, roots, and a little moss, seem to be the materials they make use of. it has been noticed by many persons, my dear, that those birds that live near towns and villages and cleared farms, soon learn to make better sorts of nests, and to weave into them soft and comfortable things, such as silk, wool, cotton, and hair." "that is very strange, nurse." "it is so, lady mary; but the same thing may also be seen among human beings. the savage nations are contented with rude dwellings made of sticks and cane, covered with skins of beasts, bark, or reeds; but when they once unite together in a more social state, and live in villages and towns, a desire for improvement takes place; the tent of skins, or the rude shanty, is exchanged for a hut of better shape; and this in time gives place to houses and furniture of more useful and ornamental kinds." "nurse, i heard mamma say, that the britons who lived in england were once savages, and lived in caves, huts, and thick woods; that they dressed in skins, and painted their bodies like the indians." "when you read the history of england, you will see that such was the case," said mrs. frazer. "nurse, perhaps the little birds like to see the flowers, and the sunshine, and the blue sky, and men's houses. i will make my garden very pretty this spring, and plant some nice flowers to please the dear little birds." many persons would have thought such remarks very foolish in our little lady, but mrs. frazer, who was a good and wise woman, did not laugh at the little girl; for she thought it was a lovely thing to see her wish to give happiness to the least of god's creatures, for it was imitating his own goodness and mercy, which delight in the enjoyment of the things which he has called into existence. "please, mrs. frazer, will you tell me which flowers will be first in bloom?" "the very first is a plant that comes up without leaves." "nurse, that is the christmas-rose; [footnote: winter aconite.] i have seen it in the old country." "no, lady mary, it is the colt's-foot; [footnote: tussilago farfara.] it is a common looking, coarse, yellow-blossomed flower; it is the first that blooms after the snow; then comes the pretty snow-flower or hepatica. its pretty tufts of white, pink, or blue starry flowers, may be seen on the open clearing, or beneath the shade of the half-cleared woods, or upturned roots and sunny banks. like the english daisy, it grows everywhere, and the sight of its bright starry blossoms delights every eye." "the next flower that comes in is the dog's-tooth-violet." [footnote: erythronium.] "what a droll name!" exclaimed lady mary, laughing. "i suppose it is called so from the sharpness of the flower-leaves (petals), my lady, but it is a beautiful yellow lily; the leaves are also pretty; they are veined or clouded with milky white or dusky purple. the plant has a bulbous root, and in the month of april sends up its single, nodding, yellow-spotted flowers; they grow in large beds, where the ground is black, moist and rich, near creeks on the edge of the forest." "do you know any other pretty flowers, nurse?" "yes, my lady, there are a great many that bloom in april and may; white violets, and blue, and yellow, of many kinds; and then there is the spring beauty, [footnote: claytonia.] a delicate little flower with pink striped bells, and the everlasting flower, [footnote: graphalium.] and saxifrage, and the white and dark red lily, that the yankees call 'white and red death.' [footnote: trillium, or wake robin.] these have three green leaves about the middle of the stalk, and the flower is composed of three pure white or deep red leaves--petals my father used to call them; for my father, lady mary, was a botanist, and knew the names of all the flowers, and i learned them from him. "the most curious is the mocassin flower. the early one is bright golden yellow, and has a bag or sack which is curiously spotted with ruby red, and its petals are twisted like horns. there is a hard thick piece that lies down just above the sack or mocassin part; and if you lift this up, you see a pair of round dark spots like eyes, and the indians say it is like the face of a hound, with the nose and black eyes plain to be seen; two of the shorter curled brown petals look like flapped ears, one on each side of the face. "there is a more beautiful sort, purple and white, which blooms in august; the plant is taller, and bears large lovely flowers." "and has it a funny face and ears too, nurse?" "yes, my dear, but the face is more like an ape's; it is even more distinct than in the yellow mocassin. when my brother and i were children, we used to fold back the petals and call them baby flowers; the sack, we thought, looked like a baby's white frock." lady mary was much amused at this notion. "there are a great number of very beautiful and also very curious flowers growing in the forest," said mrs. frazer; "some of them are used in medicine, and some by the indians for dyes, with which they stain the baskets and porcupine quills. one of our earliest flowers is called the blood-root; [footnote: sanguivaria.] it comes up a delicate white folded bud, within a vine-shaped leaf, which is veined on the under side with orange yellow. if the stem or the root of this plant be broken, a scarlet juice drops out very fast--it is with this the squaws dye red and orange colours." "i am glad to hear this, nurse; now i can tell my dear mamma what the baskets and quills are dyed with." "the flower is very pretty, like a white crocus, only not so large. you saw some crocuses in the conservatory the other day, i think, my dear lady." "oh, yes, yellow ones, and purple too, in a funny china thing with holes in its back, and the flowers came up through the holes. the gardener said it was a porcupine." "please, nurse, tell me of what colours real porcupine quills are?" "they are white and greyish-brown." then lady mary brought a print and showed it to her nurse, saying, "nurse, is the porcupine like this picture?" "the american porcupine, my dear, is not so large as this species; its spines are smaller and weaker. it resembles the common hedgehog more nearly. it is an innocent animal, feeding mostly on roots [footnote: there is a plant of the lily tribe, upon the roots of which the porcupine feeds, as well as on wild bulbs and berries, and the bark of the black spruce and larch. it will also eat apples and indian corn.] and small fruits; it burrows in dry stony hillocks, and passes the cold weather in sleep. it goes abroad chiefly during the night. the spines of the canadian porcupine are much weaker than those of the african species. the indians trap these creatures and eat their flesh. they bake them in their skins in native ovens,--holes made in the earth, lined with stones, which they make very hot, covering them over with embers." mrs. frazer had told lady mary all she knew about the porcupine, when campbell, the footman, came to say that her papa wanted to see her. chapter vii. indian bag--indian embroidery--beaver's tail--beaver architecture--habits of the beaver--beaver tools--beaver meadows. when lady mary went down to her father, he presented her with a beautiful indian bag, which he had brought from lake huron, in the upper province. it was of fine doeskin, very nicely wrought with dyed moose-hair, and the pattern was very pretty; the border was of scarlet feathers on one side, and blue on the other, which formed a rich silken fringe at each edge. this was a present from the wife of a chief on manitoulin island. lady mary was much delighted with her present, and admired this new-fashioned work in moose-hair very much. the feathers, mrs. frazer told her, were from the summer red bird or war bird, and the blue bird, both of which, lady mary said, she had seen. the indians use these feathers as ornaments for their heads and shoulders on grand occasions. lady mary recollected hearing her mamma speak of indians who wore mantles and dresses of gay feathers. they were chiefs of the sandwich islands, she believed, who had these superb habits. "dear nurse, will you tell me anything more about birds and flowers to-day?" asked lady mary, after she had put away her pretty bag. "i promised to tell you about the beavers, my lady," replied mrs. frazer. "oh, yes, about the beavers that make the dams and the nice houses, and cut down whole trees. i am glad you can tell me something about those curious creatures; for mamma bought me a pretty picture, which i will show you, if you please," said the little girl. "but what is this odd-looking, black thing here? is it a dried fish? it must be a black bass? yes, nurse, i am sure it is." the nurse smiled, and said, "it is not a fish at all, my dear; it is a dried beaver's tail. i brought it from the back lakes when i was at home, that you might see it. see, my lady, how curiously the beaver's tail is covered with scales; it looks like some sort of black leather, stamped in a diaper pattern. before it is dried, it is very heavy, weighing three or four pounds. i have heard my brothers and some of the indian trappers say, that the animal makes use of its tail to beat the sides of the dams and smoothe the mud and clay, as a plasterer uses a trowel. some people think otherwise, but it seems well suited from its shape and weight for the purpose, and, indeed, as the walls they raise seem to have been smoothed by some implement, i see no reason to disbelieve the story." "and what do the beavers make dams with, nurse?" "with small trees cut into pieces, and drawn in close to each other; and then the beavers fill the spaces between with sods, and stones, and clay, and all sorts of things that they gather together and work up into a solid wall. the walls are made broad at the bottom, and are several feet in thickness, to make them strong enough to keep the water from washing through them. the beavers assemble together in the fall, about the months of october and november, to build their houses and repair their dams. they prefer running water, as it is less likely to freeze. they work in large parties, sometimes fifty or a hundred together, and do a great deal in a short time. they work during the night." "of what use is the dam, nurse?" "the dam is for the purpose of securing a constant supply of water, without which they could not live. when they have enclosed the beaver-pond, they separate into family parties of eleven [transcriber's note: lengthy footnote moved to end of chapter] or twelve, perhaps more, sometimes less, and construct dwellings, which are raised against the inner walls of the dam. these little huts have two chambers, one in which they sleep, which is warm and soft and dry, lined with roots and sedges and dry grass, and any odds and ends that serve their purpose. the feeding place is below; in this is stored the wood or the bark on which they feed. the entrance to this is under water, and hidden from sight; but it is there that the cunning hunter sets his trap to catch the unsuspecting beavers." "nurse, do not beavers, and otters, and muskrats feel cold while living in the water; and do they not get wet?" "no, my dear; they do not feel cold, and cannot get wet, for the thick coating of hair and down keeps them warm; and these animals, like ducks and geese and all kinds of water-fowls, are supplied with a bag of oil, with which they dress their coats, and that throws off the moisture; for you know, lady mary, that oil and water will not mix. all creatures that live in the water are provided with oily fur, or smooth scales that no water can penetrate; and water birds, such as ducks and geese, have a little bag of oil, with which they dress their feathers." "are there any beavers in england, nurse?" asked lady mary. "no, my lady, not now; but i remember my father told me that this animal once existed in numbers in different countries of europe; he said they were still to be found in norway, sweden, russia, germany, and even in france. [footnote: the remains of bearer dams in wales prove that this interesting animal was once a native of great britain.] the beaver abounds mostly in north america, and in its cold portions; in solitudes that no foot of man but the wild indian has ever penetrated; in lonely streams and inland lakes,--these harmless creatures are found fulfilling god's purpose, and doing injury to none. "i think if there had been any beavers in the land of israel, in solomon's time, that the wise king, who spake of ants, spiders, grasshoppers, and conies, [footnote: the rock rabbits of judaea.] would have named the beavers also, as patterns of gentleness, cleanliness, and industry. they work together in bands, and live in families and never fight or disagree. they have no chief or leader; they seem to have neither king nor ruler; yet they work in perfect love and harmony. how pleasant it would be, lady mary, if all christian people would love each other as these poor beavers seem to do!" "nurse how can beavers cut down trees; they have neither axes nor saws?" "here, lady mary, are the axes and saws with which god has provided these little creatures;" and mrs. frazer showed lady mary two long curved tusks, of a reddish-brown colour, which she told her were the tools used by the beavers to cut and gnaw the trees; she said she had seen trees as thick as a man's leg, that had been felled by these simple tools. lady mary was much surprised that such small animals could cut through any thing so thick. "in nature," replied her nurse, "we often see great things done by very small means. patience and perseverance work well. the poplar, birch, and some other trees, on which beavers feed, and which they also use in making their dams, are softer and more easily cut than oak, elm or birch would be: these trees are found growing near the water, and in such places as the beavers build in. the settler owes to the industrious habits of this animal those large open tracts of land called beaver meadows, covered with long, thick, rank grass, which he cuts down and uses as hay. these beaver meadows have the appearance of dried-up lakes. the soil is black and spongy; for you may put a stick down to the depth of many feet; it is only in the months of july, august, and september, that they are dry. bushes of black alder, with a few poplars and twining shrubs, are scattered over the beaver meadows; some of which have high stony banks; and little islands of trees. on these are many pretty wild flowers; among others, i found growing on the dry banks some real hare-bells, both blue and white." "ah, dear nurse, hare-bells! did you find real hare-bells, such as grow on the bonny highland hills among the heather? i wish papa would let me go to the upper province, to see the beaver meadows, and gather the dear blue-bells." "my father, lady mary, wept when i brought him a handful of these flowers, for he said it reminded him of his highland home. i have found these pretty bells growing on the wild hills about rice lake, near the water, as well as near the beaver meadows." "do the beavers sleep in the winter time, nurse?" "they do not lie torpid, as racoons do, though they may sleep a good deal; but as they lay up a great store of provisions for the winter, of course they must awake sometimes to eat it." lady mary thought so too. "in the spring, when the long warm days return, they quit their winter retreat, and separate in pairs, living in holes in the banks of lakes and rivers, and do not unite again till the approach of the cold calls them together to prepare for winter, as i told you." "who calls them all to build their winter houses?" asked the child. "the providence of god; usually called instinct, that guides these wild animals; doubtless it is the law of nature given to them by god. "there is a great resemblance in the habits of the musk-rat and the beaver. they all live in the water; all separate in the spring, and meet again in the fall to build and work together; and, having helped each other in these things, they retire to a private dwelling, each family by itself. the otter does not make a dam, like the beaver, and i am not sure that it works in companies, as the beaver; it lives on fish and roots; the musk-rats on shell-fish and roots, and the beaver on vegetable food mostly. musk-rats and beavers are used for food, but the flesh of the otter is too fishy to be eaten." "nurse, can people eat musk-rats?" asked lady mary, with surprise. "yes, my lady, in the spring months the hunters and indians reckon them good food; i have eaten them myself, but i did not like them, they were too fat. musk-rats build a little house of rushes, and plaster it; they have two chambers, and do not lie torpid; they build in shallow, rushy places in lakes, but in spring they quit their winter houses and are often found in holes among the roots of trees; they live on mussels and shell-fish. the fur is used in making caps, and hats, and fur gloves." "nurse, did you ever see a tame beaver?" "yes, my dear; i knew a squaw who had a tame beaver, which she used to take out in her canoe with her, and it sat in her lap, or on her shoulder, and was very playful." just then the dinner-bell rang, and as dinner at government-house waits for no one, lady mary was obliged to defer hearing more about beavers until another time. [relocated footnote: i copy for the reader an account of the beavers, written by an indian chief, who was born at rice lake, in canada, and becoming a christian, learned to read and write, and went on a mission to teach the poor indians, who did not know christ, to worship god in spirit and in truth. during some months while he was journeying towards a settlement belonging to the hudson bay company, he wrote a journal of the things he saw in that wild country; and, among other matters, he made the following note about the habits of those curious animals the beavers, which i think is most likely to be correct, as indians are very observant of the habits of wild animals. he says,--"the country here is marshy, covered with low evergreens. here begins an extensive beaver settlement; it continues up the river for sixty miles. when travelling with a row-boat, the noise frightens the timid beavers, and they dive under water; but as we had a light birch-bark canoe, we saw them at evening and at day-break going to and fro from their work to the shore. they sleep, during the day, and chop and gnaw during the night. they cut the wood that they use, from slender wands up to poles four inches through, and from one to two fathoms long (a fathom is a measure of six feet). a large beaver will carry in his mouth a stick i should not like to carry on my shoulder, for two or three hundred yards to the water, and then float it off to where he wants to take it. the kinds of trees used by the beavers are willow and poplar--the round-leaved poplar they prefer. the canada beavers, where the poplars are large, lumber (_i.e._ cut down) on a larger scale; they cut trees a foot through, but in that case only make use of the limbs, which are gnawed off the trunk in suitable lengths. the beaver is not a climbing animal. about two cords of wood serve mister beaver and his family for the winter. a beaver's house is large enough to allow two men a comfortable sleeping-room, and it is kept very clean. it is built of sticks, stones, and mud, and is well plastered outside and in. the trowel the beaver uses in plastering is his tail; this is considered a great delicacy at the table. their beds are made of chips, split as fine as the brush of an indian broom; these are disposed in one corner, and kept dry and sweet and clean. it is the bark of the green wood that is used by the beavers for food; after the stick is peeled, they float it out at a distance from the house. many good housewives might learn a lesson of neatness and order from the humble beaver. "in large lakes and rivers, the beavers make no dams; they have water enough without putting themselves to that trouble; but in small creeks they dam up, and make a better stop-water than is done by the millers. the spot where they build their dams is the most labour-saving place in the valley, and where the work will stand best. when the dam is finished, not a drop of water escapes; their work is always well done. "this part of the country abounds in beavers. an indian will kill upwards of three hundred in a season. the skin of the beaver is not worth as much as it used to be, but their flesh is an excellent article of food." --_journal of the_ rev. peter jacobs, _indian missionary_.] chapter viii. indian boy and his pets--tame beaver at home--kitten, wildfire--pet racoon and the spaniel puppies--canadian flora. "nurse, you have told me a great many nice stories; now i can tell you one, if you would like to hear it," and the governor's little daughter fixed her bright eyes, teaming with intelligence, on the face of her nurse, who smiled, and said she should like very much to hear the story. "you must guess what it is to be about, nurse." "i am afraid i shall not guess right. is it 'little red riding hood,' or 'old mother hubbard,' or 'jack the giant killer?'" "oh, nurse, to guess such silly stories!" said the little girl, stopping her ears. "those are too silly for me even to tell baby. my story is nice story about a darling tame beaver. major pickford took me on his knee and told me the story last night." mrs. frazer begged lady mary's pardon for making such foolish guesses, and declared she should like very much to hear major pickford's story of the tame beaver. "well, nurse, you must know there was once a gentleman who lived in the bush, on the banks of a small lake, somewhere in canada, a long, long way from montreal. he lived all alone in a little log-house, and spent his time in fishing, and trapping, and hunting; and he was very dull, for he had no wife and no child like me to talk to. the only people whom he used to see were some french lumberers, and now and then the indians would come in their canoes and fish on his lake, and make their wigwams on the lake shore, and hunt deer in the wood. the gentleman was very fond of the indians, and used to pass a great deal of his time with them, and talk to them in their own language. "well, nurse, one day he found a poor little indian boy who had been lost in the woods and was half starved, sick and weak, and the kind gentleman took him home to his house, and fed and nursed him till he got quite strong again. was not that good, nurse?" "it was quite right, my lady. people should always be kind to the sick and weak, and especially a poor indian stranger. i like the story very much, and shall be glad to hear more about the indian boy." "nurse, there is not a great deal more about the indian boy; for when the indian party to which he belonged returned from hunting, he went away to his own home; but i forgot to tell you that the gentleman had often said how much he should like to have a young beaver to make a pet of. he was very fond of pets; he had a dear little squirrel, just like mine, nurse, a flying squirrel, which he had made so tame that it slept in his bosom and lived in his pocket, where he kept nuts and acorns and apples for it to eat, and he had a racoon too, nurse,--only think! a real racoon; and major pickford told me something so droll about the racoon, only i want first to go on with the story about the beaver. "one day, as the gentleman was sitting by the fire reading, he heard a slight noise, and when he looked up was quite surprised to see an indian boy in a blanket coat,--with his dark eyes fixed upon his face, while his long black hair hung down on his shoulders. he looked quite wild, and did not say a word, but only opened his blanket coat, and showed a brown furred animal asleep on his breast. what do you think it was, nurse?" "a young beaver, my lady." "yes, nurse, it was a little beaver. the good indian boy had caught it, and tamed it on purpose to bring it to his white friend, who had been so good to him. "i cannot tell you all the amusing things the indian boy said about the beaver, though the major told them to me; but i cannot talk like an indian, you know, mrs. frazer. after the boy went away, the gentleman set to work and made a little log-house for his beaver to live in, and set it in a corner of the shanty; and he hollowed a large sugar-trough for his water, that he might have water to wash in, and cut down some young willows and poplars and birch-trees for him to eat, and the little beaver grew-very fond of his new master; it would fondle him just like a little squirrel, put its soft head on his knee, and climb upon his lap; he taught it to eat bread, sweet cake, and biscuit, and even roast and boiled meat, and it would drink milk too. "well, nurse, the little beaver lived very happily with this kind gentleman till the next fall, and then it began to get very restless and active, as if it were tired of doing nothing. one day his master heard of the arrival of a friend some miles off, so he left mister beaver to take care of himself, and went away; but he did not forget to give him some green wood, and plenty of water to drink and play in; he stayed several days, for he was very glad to meet with a friend in that lonely place; but when he came, he could not open his door, and was obliged to get in at the window. what do you think the beaver had done? it had built a dam against the side of the trough, and a wall across the door, and it had dug up the hearth and the floor, and carried the earth and the stones to help to make his dam, and puddled it with water, and made such work! the house was in perfect confusion, with mud, chips, bark, and stone; and, oh nurse, worse than all that, it had gnawed through the legs of the tables and chairs, and they were lying on the floor in such a state, and it cost the poor gentleman so much trouble to put things to rights again, and make more chairs and another table! and when i laughed at the pranks of that wicked beaver, for i could not help laughing, the major pinched my ear, and called me a mischievous puss." mrs. frazer was very much entertained with the story, and she told lady mary that she had heard of tame beavers doing such things before; for in the season of the year when beavers congregate together to repair their works and build their winter houses, those that are in confinement become restless and unquiet, and show the instinct that moves these animals to provide their winter retreats, and lay up their stores of food. "nurse," said lady mary, "i did not think that beavers and racoons could be taught to eat sweet cake, and bread and meat." "many animals learn to eat very different food to what they are accustomed to live upon in a wild state. the wild cat lives on raw flesh; while the domestic cat, you know, my dear, will eat cooked meat, and even salt meat, with bread and milk and many other things. i knew a person who had a black kitten called 'wildfire,' who would sip whiskey-toddy out of his glass, and seemed to like it as well as milk or water, only it made him too wild and frisky." "nurse, the racoon that the gentleman had, would drink sweet whiskey-punch; but my governess said it was not right to give it to him; and major pickford laughed, and declared the racoon must have looked very funny when it was tipsy. was not the major naughty to say so?" mrs. frazer said it was not quite proper. "but, nurse, i have not told you about the racoon,--he was a funny fellow; he was very fond of a little spaniel and her puppies, and took a great deal of care of them; he brought them meat and anything nice that had been given him to eat; but one day he thought he would give them a fine treat, so he contrived to catch a poor cat by the tail, and drag her into his den, where he and the puppies lived together. his pets of course would not eat the cat, so the wicked creature ate up poor pussy himself; and the gentleman was so angry with the naughty thing that he killed him and made a cap of his skin, for he was afraid the cunning racoon would kill his beaver and eat up his tame squirrel." "the racoon, lady mary, in its natural state, has all the wildness and cunning of the fox and weasel; he will eat flesh, poultry, and sucking pigs, and is, also very destructive to indian corn. these creatures abound in the western states, and are killed in great numbers for their skins. the indian hunters eat the flesh, and say it is very tender and good; but it is not used for food in canada. the racoon belongs to the same class of animals as the bear, which it resembles in some points, though, being small, it is not so dangerous either to man or the larger animals. "and now, my dear, let me show you some pretty wild flowers a little girl brought me this morning for you, as she heard that you loved flowers. there are yellow mocassins, or ladies'-slippers, the same that i told you of a little while ago; and white lilies, crane-bills, and these pretty lilac geraniums; here are scarlet-cups, and blue lupines, they are all in bloom now, and many others. if we were on the rice lake plains, my lady, we could gather all these and many, many more. in the months of june i and july those plains are like a garden, and their roses scent the air." "nurse, i will ask my dear papa to take me to the rice lake plains," said the little girl, as she gazed with delight on the lovely canadian flowers. chapter ix. nurse tells lady mary about a little boy who was eaten by a bear in the province op new brunswick--of a baby that was carried away, but taken alive--a walk in the garden--humming-birds--canadian balsams. "nurse," said lady mary, "did you ever hear of any one having been eaten by a wolf or bear?" "i have heard of such things happening, my dear, in this country; but only in lonely, unsettled parts of the country, near swamps and deep woods." "did you ever hear of any little boy or girl having been carried off by a wolf or bear?" asked the child. "no, my lady, not in canada, though similar accidents may have happened there; but when i was a young girl i heard of such tragedies at new brunswick; one of the british provinces lying to the east of this, and a cold and rather barren country, but containing many minerals, such as coal, limestone, and marble, besides vast forests of pine, and small lakes and rivers. it resembles lower canada in many respects; but it is not so pleasant as the province of upper canada, neither is it so productive. "thirty years ago it was not so well cleared or cultivated as it is now, and the woods were full of wild beasts that dwelt among the swamps and wild rocky valleys. bears, wolves, and catamounts abounded, with foxes of several kinds, and many of the fine furred and smaller species of animals, which were much sought for, on account of their skins. well, my dear, near the little village where my aunt and uncle were, living, there were great tracts of unbroken swamps and forests, which of course sheltered many wild animals. a sad accident happened a few days before we arrived, which caused much sorrow, and no little fright, in the place. "an old man went out into the woods one morning with his little grandson, to look for the oxen, which had strayed from the clearing. they had not gone many yards from the enclosure when they heard a crackling and rustling among the underwood and dry timbers that strewed the ground. the old man, thinking it was caused by the cattle they were looking for, bade the little boy go forward and drive them, on the track; but in a few minutes he heard a fearful cry from the child, and hurrying forward through the tangled brushwood, saw the poor little boy in the deadly grasp of a huge black bear, who was making off at a fast trot with his prey. "the old man was unarmed, and too feeble to pursue the dreadful beast. he could only wring his hands and rend his grey hairs in grief and terror; but his lamentations would not restore the child to life. a band of hunters and lumberers, armed with rifles and knives, turned out to beat the woods, and were not long in tracking the savage animal to his retreat in a neighbouring cedar swamp. a few fragments of the child's dress were all that remained of him; but the villagers had the satisfaction of killing the great she-bear with her two half-grown cubs. the magistrates of the district gave them a large sum for shooting these creatures, and the skins were sold, and the money given to the parents of the little boy; but no money could console them for the loss of their beloved child. "the flesh of the bear is eaten both by indians and hunters; it is like coarse beef. the hams are cured a led, the woods disappear. the axe and the fire destroy the haunts that sheltered these wild beasts, and they retreat further back, where the deer and other creatures on which they principally feed abound." "nurse, that was a very sad story about the poor little boy," said lady mary. "i also heard of a little child," continued nurse, "not more than two years old, who was with her mother in the harvest field; who had spread a shawl on the ground near a tall tree, and laid the child upon it to sleep or play, when a bear came out of the wood and carried her off, leaping the fence with her in its arms; but the mother ran screaming after the beast, and the reapers pursued so closely with their pitchforks and reaping-hooks, that bruin, who was only a half-grown bear, being hard pressed, made for a tree; and as it was not easy to climb with a babe in his arms, he quietly laid the little one down at the foot of the tree, and soon was among the thick branches out of the reach of the enemy. i dare say baby must have wondered what rough nurse had taken her up; but she was unhurt, and is alive now." "i am so glad, nurse, the dear baby was not hugged to death by that horrid black bear; and i hope he was killed." "i dare say, my lady, he was shot by some of the men; for they seldom worked near the forest without having a gun with them, in case of seeing deer, or pigeons, or partridges." "i should not like to live in that country, mrs. frazer; for a bear, a wolf, or a catamount might eat me." "i never heard of a governor's daughter being eaten by a bear," said mrs. frazer, laughing, as she noticed the earnest expression on the face of her little charge. she then continued her account of the ursine family. "the bear retires in cold weather, and sleeps till warmer seasons awaken him; he does not lay up any store of winter provisions, because he seldom rouses himself during the time of his long sleep, and in the spring he finds food, both vegetable and animal, for he can eat anything when hungry, like the hog. he often robs the wild bees of their honey, and his hide being so very thick, seems insensible to the stings of the angry bees. bruin will sometimes find odd places for his winter bed, for a farmer, who was taking a stack of wheat into his barn to be threshed in the winter time, once found a large black bear comfortably asleep in the middle of the sheaves." "how could the bear have got into the stack of wheat, nurse?" "the claws of this animal are so strong, and he makes so much use of his paws, which are almost like hands, that he must have pulled the sheaves out, and so made an entrance for himself. his skin and flesh amply repaid the farmer for any injury the grain had received. i remember seeing the bear brought home in triumph on the top of the load of wheat. bears often do great mischief by eating the indian corn when it is ripening; for besides what they devour, they spoil a vast deal by trampling the plants down with their clumsy feet. they will, when hard pressed by hunger, come close to the farmer's house and rob the pig-sty of its tenants. many years ago, before the forest was cleared away in the neighbourhood of what is now a large town, but in those days consisted of only a few poor log-houses, a settler was much annoyed by the frequent visits of a bear to his hog-pen. at last he resolved to get a neighbour who was a very expert hunter to come with his rifle and watch with him. the pen where the fatling hogs were was close to the log-house; it had a long low shingled roof, and was carefully fastened up, so that no bear could find entrance. well, the farmer's son and the hunter had watched for two nights, and no bear came; on the third they were both tired, and lay down to sleep upon the floor of the kitchen, when the farmer's son was awakened by a sound as of some one tearing and stripping the shingles from the pen. he looked out; it was moonlight, and there he saw the dark shadow of some tall figure on the ground, and spied the great black bear standing on its hinder legs, and pulling the shingles off as fast as it could lay its big black paws upon them. the hogs were in a great fright, screaming and grunting with terror. the young man stepped back into the house, roused up the hunter, who took aim from the doorway, and shot the bear dead. the head of the huge beast was nailed up as a trophy, and the meat was dried or salted for winter use, and great were the rejoicings of the settlers who had suffered so much from bruin's thefts of corn and pork." "i am glad the hunter killed him, nurse, for he might have eaten up some of the little children, when they were playing about in the fields." "sometimes," continued mrs. frazer, "the bears used to visit the sugar-bush, when the settlers were making maple sugar, and overturn the sap-troughs, and drink the sweet liquid. i dare say they would have been glad of a taste of the sugar too, if they could have got at it. the bear is not so often met with now as it used to be many years ago. the fur of the bear used to be worn as muffs and tippets, but, is now little used for that purpose, being thought to be too coarse and heavy, but it is still made into caps for soldiers, and worn as sleigh-robes." this was all mrs. frazer chose to recollect about bears, for she was unwilling to dwell long on any gloomy subject, which she knew was not good for young minds, so she took her charge into the garden to look at the flowerbeds, and watch the birds and butterflies; and soon the child was gaily running from flower to flower, watching with childish interest the insects flitting to and fro. at last she stopped, and holding up her finger to warn mrs. frazer not to come too near, stood gazing in wonder and admiration on a fluttering object that was hovering over the full-blown honeysuckles on a trellis near the greenhouse. mrs. frazer approached her with due caution. "nurse," whispered the child, "look at that curious moth with a long bill like a bird; see its beautiful shining colours. it has a red necklace, like mamma's rubies. oh, what a curious creature! it must be a moth or a butterfly. what is it?" "it is neither a moth nor a butterfly, my dear. it is a humming-bird." "oh, nurse, a humming-bird--a real humming-bird--pretty creature! but it is gone. oh, nurse, it darts through the air as swift as an arrow. what was it doing? looking at the honeysuckles,--i dare say it thought them very pretty; or was it smelling them? they are very sweet." "my dear child, it might be doing so; i don't know. perhaps the good god has given to these creatures the same senses for enjoying sweet scents and bright colours, as we have; yet it was not for the perfume, but the honey, that this little bird came to visit the open flowers. the long slender bill which the humming-bird inserts into the tubes of the flowers, is his instrument for extracting the honey. look at the pretty creature's ruby throat, and green and gold feathers." "how does it make that whirring noise, nurse, just like the humming of a top?" asked the child. "the little bird produces the sound from which he derives his name, by beating the air with his wings. this rapid motion is necessary to sustain its position in the air while sucking the flowers. "i remember, lady mary, first seeing humming-birds when i was about your age, while walking in the garden. it was a bright september morning, and the rail-fences and every dry twig of the brushwood were filled with the webs of the field-spider. some, like thick white muslin, lay upon the grass; while others were suspended from trees like forest lace-work, on the threads of which the dewdrops hung like strings of shining pearls; and hovering round the flowers were several ruby-throated humming-birds, the whirring of whose wings as they beat the air sounded like the humming of a spinning-wheel; and i thought as i gazed upon them, and the beautiful lace webs that hung among the bushes, that they must have been the work of these curious creatures, who had made them to catch flies, and had strung the bright dewdrops thereon to entice them, so little did i know of the nature of these birds; but my father told me a great deal about them, and read me some very pretty things about humming-birds; and one day, lady mary, i will show you a stuffed one a friend gave me, with its tiny nest and eggs not bigger than peas." lady mary was much delighted at the idea of seeing the little nest and eggs, and mrs. frazer said, "there is a wild flower [footnote: _noli me tangere_, canadian balsam.] that is known to the canadians by the name of the humming-flower, on account of the fondness which those birds evince for it. this plant grows on the moist banks of creeks. it is very beautiful, of a bright orange-scarlet colour. the stalks and stem of the plant are almost transparent; some call it speckled jewels, for the bright blossoms are spotted with dark purple, and some, touch-me-not." "that is a droll name, nurse," said lady mary. "does it prick one's finger like a thistle?" "no, my lady; but when the seed-pods are nearly ripe, if you touch them, they spring open and curl into little rings, and the seed drops out." "nurse, when you see any of these curious flowers, will you show them to me?" mrs. frazer said they would soon be in bloom, and promised lady mary to bring her some, and to show her the singular manner in which the pods burst. "but, my lady," said she, "the gardener will show you the same thing in the greenhouse. as soon as the seed-pods of the balsams in the pots begin to harden they will spring and curl, if touched, and drop the seeds like the wild plant, for they belong to the same family. but it is time for your ladyship to go in." when lady mary returned to the schoolroom, her governess read to her some interesting accounts of the habits of the humming-bird. "'this lively little feathered gem--for in its hues it unites the brightness of the emerald, the richness of the ruby, and the lustre of the topaz--includes in its wide range more than one hundred species. it is the smallest, and at the same time the most brilliant, of all the american birds. its head-quarters may be said to be among the glowing flowers and luxurious fruits of the torrid zone and the tropics. but one species, the ruby-throated, is widely diffused, and is a summer visitor all over north america, even within the arctic circle, where, for a brief space of time, it revels in the ardent heat of the short-lived summer of the north. like the cuckoo, she follows the summer wherever she flies. "'the ruby-throated humming-bird [footnote: _trochilus rubus_.] is the only species that is known in canada. with us it builds and breeds, and then returns to summer skies and warmer airs. the length of the humming-bird is only three inches and a half, and four and a quarter in extent, from one tip of the wing to the other. when on the wing, the bird has the form of a cross, the wings forming no curve, though the tail is depressed during the time that it is poised in the act of sucking the honey of the flower. the tongue is long and slender; the bill long and straight; the legs are very short, so that the feet are hardly visible when on the wing. they are seldom seen walking, but rest on the slender sprigs when tired. the flight is so rapid that it seems without effort. the humming sound is produced by the wing, in the act of keeping itself balanced while feeding in this position. they resemble the hawk-moth, which also keeps up a constant vibratory motion with its wings. this little creature is of a temper as fierce and fiery as its plumes, often attacking birds of treble its size; but it seems very little disturbed by the near approach of the truman species, often entering open windows, and hovering around the flowers in the flower-stand; it has even been known to approach the vase on the table, and insert its bill among the flowers, quite fearless of those persons who sat in the room. sometimes these beautiful creatures have suffered themselves to be captured by the hand. "'the nest of the ruby-throated hummingbird is usually built on a mossy branch. at first sight, it looks like a tuft of grey lichens; but when closely examined, shows both care and skill in its construction, the outer wall being of fine bluish lichens cemented together, and the interior lined with the silken threads of the milk-weed, the velvety down of the tall mullein, or the brown hair-like filaments of the fern. these, or similar soft materials, form the bed of the tiny young ones. the eggs are white, two in number, and about the size of a pea, but oblong in shape. the parents hatch their eggs in about ten days, and in a week the little ones are able to fly, though the old birds continue to supply them with honey for some time longer. the mexican indians give the name of sunbeam to the humming-bird, either in reference to its bright plumage or its love of sunshine. "'the young of the humming-bird does not attain its gay plumage till the second year. the male displays the finest colours--the ruby necklace being confined to the old male bird. the green and coppery lustre of the feathers is also finer in the male bird.'" lady mary was much pleased with what she had heard about the humming-bird, and she liked the name of sunbeam for this lovely creature. chapter x. aurora borealis, or northern lights, most frequently seen in northern climates--called merry dancers--rose tints--tint-like appearance--lady mary frightened. one evening, just as mrs. frazer was preparing to undress lady mary, miss campbell, her governess, came into the nursery, and taking the little girl by the hand, led her to an open balcony, and bade her look out on the sky towards the north, where a low dark arch, surmounted by an irregular border, like a silver fringe, was visible. for some moments lady mary stood silently regarding this singular appearance; at length she said, "it is a rainbow, miss campbell; but where is the sun that you told me shone into the drops of rain to make the pretty colours?" "it is not a rainbow, my dear; the sun has been long set." "can the moon make rainbows at night?" asked the little girl. make what is called a _lunar_ rainbow. luna was the ancient "the moon does sometimes, but very rarely, name for the moon; but the arch you now see is caused neither by the light of the sun nor of the moon, but is known by the name of aurora borealis, or northern lights. the word aurora means morning, or dawn; and borealis, northern. you know, my dear, what is meant by the word dawn; it is the light that is seen in the sky before the sun rises." lady mary replied, "yes, miss campbell, i have often seen the sun rise, and once very early too, when i was ill, and could not sleep; for nurse lifted me in her arms out of bed, and took me to the window. the sky was all over of a bright golden colour, with streaks of rosy red; and nurse said, 'it is dawn; the sun will soon be up.' and i saw the beautiful sun rise from behind the trees and hills. he came up so gloriously, larger than when we see him in the middle of the sky, and i could look at him without hurting my eyes." "sunrise is indeed a glorious sight, my dear; but he who made the sun is more glorious still. do you remember what we read yesterday in the psalms?- "verse 1. the heavens declare the glory of god: and the firmament sheweth his handywork. 2. one day telleth another, and one night certifieth another. 3. there is neither speech nor language where their voice is not heard. 5. in them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which cometh forth as a bridegroom from his chamber, and rejoiceth as a giant to run his course." "the northern lights, lady mary, are frequently visible in canada, but are most brilliant in the colder regions near the north pole, where they serve to give light during the dark season, to those dismal countries from which the sun is so many months absent. the light of the aurora borealis is so soft and beautiful, that any object can be distinctly seen; though in those cold countries there are few human beings to be benefited by this beautiful provision of nature." "the wild beasts and birds must be glad of the pretty lights," said the child thoughtfully; for lady mary's young heart always rejoiced when she thought that god's gifts could be shared by the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air, as well as by mankind. "look now, my dear," said miss campbell, directing the attention of her pupil to the horizon; "what a change has taken place whilst we have been speaking. see, the arch is sending up long shafts of light; now they divide, and shift from side to side, gliding along among the darker portions of vapour, like moving pillars." "ah! there, there they go!" cried the little girl, clapping her hands her hands with delight. "see, nurse, how the pretty lights' chase each other, and dance about! up they go! higher and higher! how pretty they look! but now they are gone. they are fading away; i am so sorry," said the child despondingly, for a sudden cessation had taken place in the motions of the heavens. "we will go in for a little time, my dear," said her governess; "and then look out again. great changes take place sometimes in these aerial phenomena in a few minutes." "i suppose," said lady mary, "these lights are the same that the peasants of northern england and ireland call the merry dancers." "yes, they are the same; and they fancy that they are seen when war and troubles are about to break out. but this idea is a very ignorant one; for were, that the case, some of the cold countries of the world, where the sky is illumined night after night by the aurora borealis, would be one continual scene of misery. i have seen in this country a succession of these lights for four or five successive nights. this phenomenon owes its origin to _electricity_, which is a very wonderful agent in nature, and exists in various bodies, perhaps in all created things. it is this that shoots across the sky in the form of lightning, and causes the thunder to be heard; circulates in the air we breathe; occasions whirlwinds, waterspouts, earthquakes, and volcanoes; and makes one substance attract another. "look at this piece of amber; if i rub it on the table, it will become warm to the touch. now i will take a bit of thread, and hold near it. see, the thread moves towards the amber, and clings to it. sealing-wax, and many other substances, when heated, have this property. some bodies give out flashes and sparks by being rubbed. if you stroke a black cat briskly in the dark, you will see faint flashes of light come from her fur; and on very cold nights in the winter season, flannels that are worn next the skin crackle, and give sparks when taken off and shaken." these things astonished lady mary. she tried the experiment with the amber and thread, and was much amused by seeing the thread attracted, and wanted to see the sparks from the cat's back, only there happened, unfortunately, to be no black cat or kitten in government house. mrs. frazer, however, promised to procure a beautiful black kitten for her, that she might enjoy the singular sight of the electric sparks from its coat; and lady mary wished winter were come, that she might see the sparks from her flannel petticoat, and hear the sounds. "let us now go and look out again at the sky," said miss campbell; and lady mary skipped joyfully through the french window to the balcony, but ran back, and flinging her arms about her nurse, cried out in accents of alarm, "nurse, nurse, the sky is all closing together! oh, miss campbell, what shall we do?" "there is no cause for fear, my dear child; do not be frightened. there is nothing to harm us." indeed, during the short time they had been absent, a great and remarkable change had taken place in the appearance of the sky. the electric fluid had diffused itself over the face of the whole heavens; the pale colour of the streamers had changed to bright rose, pale violet, and greenish yellow. at the zenith, or that part more immediately over head, a vast ring of deep indigo was presented to the eye; from this swept down, as it were, a flowing curtain of rosy light, which wavered and moved incessantly as if agitated by a gentle breeze, though a perfect stillness reigned through the air. the child's young heart was awed by this sublime spectacle; it seemed to her as if it were indeed the throne of the great creator of the world that she was gazing upon; and she veiled her face in her nurse's arms, and trembled exceedingly, even as the children of israel when the fire of mount sinai was revealed, and they feared to behold the glory of the most high god. after a while, lady mary, encouraged by the cheerful voices of her governess and nurse, ventured to look up to watch the silver stars shining dimly as from beneath a veil, and she whispered to herself the words that her governess had before repeated to her, "the heavens declare the glory of god, and the firmament sheweth his handywork." after a little while, mrs. frazer thought it better to put lady mary to bed, as she had been up much longer than usual, and miss campbell was afraid lest the excitement should make her ill; but the child did not soon fall asleep, for her thoughts were full of the strange and glorious things she had seen that night. [footnote: singularly splendid exhibitions of aurora borealis were visible in the month, of august, 1839; in august, 1851; and again on the 21st february, 1852. the colours were rosy red, varied with other prismatic colours. but the most singular feature was the ring-like circle from which the broad streams of light seemed to flow down in a curtain that appeared to reach from heaven to earth. in looking upwards, the sky had the appearance of a tent narrowed to a small circle at the top, which seemed to be the centre of illimitable space. though we listened with great attention, none of the crackling sounds that some northern travellers have declared to accompany the aurora borealis could be heard; neither did any one experience any of the disagreeable bodily sensations that are often felt during thunder-storms. the atmosphere was unusually calm, and in two of the three instances warm and agreeable.] chapter xi. strawberries--canadian wild fruits--wild raspberries--the hunter and the lost child--cranberries-cranberry marshes--nuts. one day lady mary's nurse brought her a small indian basket, filled with ripe red strawberries. "nurse, where did you get these nice strawberries?" said the little girl, peeping beneath the fresh leaves with which they were covered. "i bought them from a little indian squaw, in the street; she had brought them from a wooded meadow, some miles off, my lady. they are very fine; see, they are as large as those that the gardener sent in yesterday from the forcing-house, and these wild ones have grown without any pains having been bestowed upon them." "i did not think, nurse, that wild strawberries could have been so fine as these; may i taste them?" mrs. frazer said she might. "these are not so large, so red, or so sweet as some that i have gathered when i lived at home with my father," said the nurse. "i have seen acres and acres of strawberries, as large as the early scarlet that are sold so high in the market, on the rice lake plains. when the farmers have ploughed a fallow on the rice lake plains, the following summer it will be covered with a crop of the finest strawberries. i have gathered pailsful day after day; these, however, have been partly cultivated by the plough breaking up the sod; but they seem as if sown by the hand of nature. these fruits, and many sorts of flowers, appear on the new soil that were never seen there before. after a fallow has been chopped, logged, and burnt, if it be left for a few years, trees, shrubs and plants will cover it, unlike those that grew there before." "that is curious," said the child. "does god sow the seeds in the new ground?" "my lady, no doubt they come from him; for he openeth his hand, and filleth all things living with plenteousness. my father, who thought a great deal on these subjects, said that the seeds of many plants may fall upon the earth, and yet none of them take root till the soil be favourable for their growth. it may be that these seeds had lain for years, preserved in the earth, till the forest was cleared away, and the sun, air, and rain caused them to spring up. or the earth may still bring forth the herb of the field, after its kind, as in the day of the creation; but whether it be so or not, we must bless the lord for his goodness and for the blessings that he giveth us at all times." "are there many sorts of wild fruits fit to eat, nurse, in this country? please, will you tell me all that you know about them?" "there are so many, lady mary, that i am afraid i shall weary you before i have told you half of them." "nurse, i shall not be tired, for i like to hear about fruits and flowers very much; and my dear mamma likes you to tell me all you know about the plants, trees, birds and beasts of canada." "besides many sorts of strawberries, there are wild currants, both black and red, and many kinds of wild gooseberries," said mrs. frazer: "some grow on wastes by the roadside, in dry soil, others in swamps; but most gooseberries are covered with thorns, which grow not only on the wood, but on the berries themselves." "i would not eat those disagreeable, thorny gooseberries; they would prick my tongue," said the little girl. "they cannot be eaten without first being scalded. the settlers' wives contrive to make good pies and preserves with them by first scalding the fruit and then rubbing it between coarse linen cloths; i have heard these tarts called thornberry pies, which, i think, was a good name for them. when emigrants first come to canada, and clear the backwoods, they have little time to make nice fruit-gardens for themselves, and they are glad to gather the wild berries that grow in the woods and swamps to make tarts and preserves, so that they do not even despise the thorny gooseberries or the wild black currants. some swamp-gooseberries, however, are quite smooth, of a dark red colour, but small, and they are very nice when ripe. the blossoms of the wild currants are very beautiful, of a pale yellowish green, and hang down in long, graceful branches; the fruit is harsh, but makes wholesome preserves: but there are thorny currants as well as thorny gooseberries; these have long, weak, trailing branches; the berries are small, covered with stiff bristles, and of a pale red colour. they are not wholesome; i have seen people made very ill by eating them; i have heard even of their dying in consequence of having done so." "i am sure, nurse, i will not eat those wild currants," said lady mary; "i am glad you have told me about their being poisonous." "this sort is not often met with, my dear; and these berries, though they are not good for man, doubtless give nourishment to some of the wild creatures that seek their food from god, and we have enough dainties, and to spare, without them. "the red raspberry is one of the most common and the most useful to us of the wild fruits. it grows in abundance all over the country, by the roadside, in the half-opened woods, on upturned roots, or in old neglected clearings; there is no place so wild but it will grow, wherever its roots can find a crevice. with maple sugar, the farmers' wives never need lack a tart, nor a dish of fruit and cream. the poor irish emigrants' children go out and gather pailsful, which they carry to the towns and villages to sell. the birds, too, live upon the fruit, and, flying away with it to distant places, help to sow the seed. a great many small animals eat the ripe raspberry, for even the racoon and great black bear come in for their share." "the black bears! oh, nurse, oh, mrs. frazer!" exclaimed lady mary, in great astonishment. "what! do bears eat raspberries?" "yes, indeed, my lady, they do. bears are fond of all ripe fruits. the bear resembles the hog in all its tastes very closely; both in their wild state will eat flesh, grain, fruit, and roots. there is a small red berry in the woods that is known by the name of the bear-berry, [transcriber's note: lengthy footnote moved to end of chapter.] of which they say the young bears are particularly fond." "i should be afraid of going to gather raspberries, nurse, for fear of the bears coming to eat them too." "the hunters know that the bears are partial to this fruit, and often seek them in large thickets, where they grow. a young gentleman, lady mary, once went out shooting game, in the province of new brunswick, in the month of july, when the weather was warm, and there were plenty of wild berries ripe. he had been out for many hours, and at last found himself on the banks of a creek. but the bridge he had been use to cross was gone, having been swept away by heavy rains in the spring. passing on a little higher up, he saw an old clearing full of bushes; and knowing that wild animals were often to be met in such spots, he determined to cross over and try his luck for a bear, a racoon, or a young fawn. not far from the spot, he saw a large fallen swamp elm-tree, which made a capital bridge. just as he was preparing to cross, he heard the sound of footsteps on the dry crackling sticks, and saw a movement among the raspberry bushes; his finger was on the lock of his rifle in an instant, for he thought it must be a bear or a deer; but just as he was about to fire, he saw a small, thin, brown hand, all red and stained from the juice of the ripe berries, reaching down a branch of the fruit; his very heart leaped within him with fright, for in another moment he would have shot the poor little child that, with wan, wasted face, was looking at him from between the raspberry bushes. it was a little girl, about as old as you are, lady mary. she was without hat or shoes, and her clothes were all in tatters; her hands and neck were quite brown and sun-burnt. she seemed frightened at first, and would have hid herself, had not the stranger called out gently to her to stay, and not to be afraid; and then he hurried over the log bridge, and asked her who she was, and where she lived. and she said 'she did not live anywhere, for she was lost.' she could not tell how many days, but she thought she had been seven nights out in the woods. she had been sent to take some dinner to her father, who was at work in the forest; but had missed the path, and gone on a cattle track, and did not find her mistake until it was too late; when she became frightened, and tried to get back, but only lost herself deeper in the woods. the first night she wrapped her frock about her head, and lay down beneath the shelter of a great upturned root. she had eaten but little of the food she had in the basket that day, for it lasted her nearly two; after it was gone, she chewed some leaves, till she came to the raspberry clearing, and got berries of several kinds, and plenty of water to drink from the creek. one night, she said, she was awakened by a heavy tramping near her, and looking up in the moonlight, saw two great black beasts, which she thought were her father's oxen, and so she sat up and called, 'buck,' 'bright,'-for these were their names,--but they had no bells, and looked like two great shaggy black dogs; they stood on their hind legs upright, and looked at her, but went away. these animals were bears, but the child did not know that, and she said she felt no fear--for she said her prayers every night before she lay down to sleep, and she knew that god would take care of her, both sleeping and waking." [footnote: the facts of this story i met with, many years ago, in a provincial paper. they afterwards appeared in a canadian sketch, in chambers' journal, contributed by me in 1838.] "and did the hunter take her home?" asked lady mary, who was much interested in the story. "yes, my dear, he did. finding that the poor little girl was very weak, the young man took her on his back,--fortunately he happened to have a little wine in a flask, and a bit of dry biscuit in his knapsack, and this greatly revived the little creature; sometimes she ran by his side, while holding by his coat, talking to her new friend, seemingly quite happy and cheerful, bidding him not to be afraid even if they had to pass another night in the wood; but just as the sun was setting, they came out of the dark forest into an open clearing. "it was not the child's home, but a farm belonging to a miller who knew her father, and had been in search of her for several days; and he and his wife were very glad when they saw the lost child, and gladly showed her preserver the way; and they rejoiced much when the poor little girl was restored safe and well to her sorrowing parents." "nurse," said lady mary, "i am so glad the good hunter found the little girl. i must tell my own dear mamma that nice story. how sorry my mamma and papa would be to lose me in the woods." the nurse smiled, and said, "my dear lady, there is no fear of such an accident happening to you. you are not exposed to the same trials and dangers as the children of poor emigrants; therefore, you must be very grateful to god, and do all you can to serve and please him; and when you are able, be kind and good to those who are not as well off as you are." "are there any other wild fruits, nurse, besides raspberries and strawberries, and currants and gooseberries?" "yes, my dear lady, a great many more. we will begin with wild plums: these we often preserve; and when the trees are planted in gardens, and taken care of, the fruit is very good to eat. the wild cherries are not very nice; but the bark of the black cherry is good for agues and low fevers. the choke-cherry is very beautiful to look at, but hurts the throat, closing it up if many are eaten, and making it quite sore. the huckleberry is a sweet, dark blue berry, that grows on a very delicate low shrub, the blossoms are very pretty, pale pink or greenish white bells, the fruit is very wholesome; it grows on light dry ground, on those parts of the country that are called plains in canada. the settlers' children go out in parties, and gather great quantities, either to eat or dry for winter use. these berries are a great blessing to every one, besides forming abundant food for the broods of young quails and partridges; squirrels, too, of every kind eat them. there are blackberries also, lady mary; and some people call them thimbleberries." "nurse, i have heard mamma talk about blackberries." "the canadian blackberries are not so sweet, i am told, my lady, as those at home, though they are very rich and nice tasted; neither do they grow so high. then there are high bush cranberries, and low bush cranberries. the first grow on a tall bush, and the fruit has a fine appearance, hanging in large bunches of light scarlet, among the dark green leaves; but they are very, very sour, and take a great deal of sugar to sweeten them. the low bush cranberries grow on a slender trailing plant; the blossom is very pretty, and the fruit about the size of a common gooseberry, of a dark purplish red, very smooth and shining; the seeds are minute, and lie in the white pulp within the skin; this berry is not nice till it is cooked with sugar. there is a large cranberry marsh somewhere at the back of kingston, where vast quantities grow. i heard a young gentleman say that he passed over this tract when he was hunting, while the snow was on the ground, and that the red juice of the dropped berries dyed the snow crimson beneath his feet. the indians go every year to a small lake called buckhorn lake, many miles up the river otonabee, in the upper province, to gather cranberries, which they sell to the settlers in the towns and villages, or trade away for pork, flour, and clothes. the cranberries, when spread out on a dry floor, will keep fresh and good for a long time. great quantities of cranberries are brought to england from russia, norway, and lapland, in barrels, or large earthern jars, filled with brine; but the fruit thus roughly preserved must be drained, and washed many times, and stirred with sugar, before it can be put into tarts, or it would be salt and bitter. i will boil some cranberries with sugar, that you may taste them; for they are very wholesome." lady mary said she should like to have some in her own garden. "the cranberry requires a particular kind of soil, not usually found in gardens, my dear lady; for as the cranberry marshes are often covered with water in the spring, i suppose they need a damp, cool soil, near lakes or rivers; perhaps sand, too, may be good for them. but we can plant some berries, and water them well; in a light soil they may grow, and bear fruit, but i am not sure that they will do so. besides these fruits, there are many others, that are little used by men, but are of great service as food to the birds and small animals. there are many kinds of nuts, too-filberts, with rough prickly husks, walnuts, butternuts, and hickory-nuts; these last are large trees, the nuts of which are very nice to eat, and the wood very fine for cabinet-work, and for firewood; the bark is used for dyeing. now, my dear, i think you must be quite tired with hearing so much about canadian fruits." lady mary said she was glad to learn that there were so many good things in canada, for she heard a lady say to her mamma, that it was an ugly country, with nothing good or pretty in it. "there is something good and pretty to be found everywhere, my dear child, if people will but open their eyes to see it, and their hearts to enjoy the good things that god has so mercifully spread abroad for us and all his creatures to enjoy. but canada is really a fine country, and is fast becoming a great one." [relocated footnote: arbutus ursursi--"kinnikinnick," indian name. there is a story about a bear and an indian hunter, which will show how bears eat berries. it is from the journal of peter jacobs, the indian missionary:-"at sunrise, next morning," he says, "we tried to land, but the water was so full of shoals, we could not without wading a great distance. "the beach before us was of bright sand, and the sun was about, [footnote: we find some curious expressions in this journal, for peter jacobs is an indian, writing not his own, but a foreign language.] when i saw an object moving on the shore; it appeared to be a man, and seemed to be making signals of distress. we were all weary and hungry, but thinking it was a fellow-creature in distress, we pulled towards him. judge of our surprise when the stranger proved to be an enormous bear. "he was seated on his hams, and what we thought his signals were his raising himself on his hind legs to pull down the berries from a high bush, and, with his paws full sitting down again to eat them at his leisure. "thus he continued daintily enjoying his ripe fruit in the posture some lapdogs are taught to assume while eating. on we pulled, and forgot our hunger and weariness; the bear still continued breakfasting. "we got as close on shore as the shoals would permit, and john, (one of the indians,) taking my double-barrelled gun, leaped into the water, gun in hand, and gained the beach. some dead brushwood hid the bear from john's sight, but from the canoe we could see both john and the bear. "the bear now discovered us, and advanced towards us; and john, not seeing him for the bush, ran along the beach towards him. the weariness from pulling all night, and having eaten no food, made me lose my presence of mind, for i now remembered that the gun was only loaded with duck-shot, and you might as well meet a bear with a gun loaded with peas. "john was in danger, and we strained at our paddles to get to his assistance; but as the bear was a very large one, and as we had no other firearms, we should have been but poor helps to john in the hug of a wounded bear. the bear was at the other side of the brush-heap: john heard the dry branches cracking, and he dodged into a hollow under a bush. the bear passed, and was coursing along the sand, but as he passed by where john lay, bang went the gun.--the bear was struck. "we saw him leap through the smoke to the very spot where we had last seen john. we held our breath; but instead of the cry of agony we expected to hear from john, bang went the gun again--john is not yet caught. our canoe rushed through the water.--we might yet be in time; but my paddle fell from my hand with joy as i saw john pop his head above the bush, and with a shout point to the side of the log on which he stood, 'there he lies, dead enough.' we were thankful indeed to our great preserver."--_peter jacob's journal._ though fruit and vegetables seem to be the natural food of the bear, they also devour flesh, and even fish,--a fact of which the good indian missionary assures us; and that being new to my young readers, i shall give them in his own words:-"a few evenings after we left the 'rock,' while the men were before me 'tracking,' (towing the canoe,) by pulling her along by a rope from the shore, i observed behind a rock in the river, what i took to be a black fox. i stole upon it as quietly as possible, hoping to get a shot, but the animal saw me, and waded to the shore. it turned out to be a young bear fishing. the bear is a great fisherman. his mode of fishing is very curious. he wades into a current, and seating himself upright on his hams, lets the water come about up to his shoulders; he patiently waits until the little fishes come along and rub themselves against his sides, he seizes them instantly, gives them a nip, and with his left paw tosses them over his shoulder to the shore. his left paw is always the one used for tossing ashore the produce of his fishing. feeling is the sense of which bruin makes use here, not sight. "the indians of that part say that the bear catches sturgeon when spawning in the shoal-water; but the only fish that i know of their catching, is the sucker: of these, in the months of april and may, the bear makes his daily breakfast and supper, devouring about thirty or forty at a meal. as soon as he has caught a sufficient number, he wades ashore, and regales himself on the best morsels, which are the thick of the neck, behind the gills. the indians often shoot him when thus engaged."--peter jacob's journal, p. 46_] chapter xii. garter-snakes--rattlesnakes--anecdote of a little boy--fisherman and snake--snake charmers--spiders--land-tortoise. "nurse, i have been so terrified. i was walking in the meadow, and a great snake--so big, i am sure"--and lady mary held out her arms as wide as she could--"came out of a tuft of grass. his tongue was like a scarlet thread, and had two sharp points; and, do you know, he raised his wicked head, and hissed at me; i was so frightened that i ran away. i think, mrs. frazer, it must have been a rattlesnake. only feel now how my heart beats" --and the little girl took her nurse's hand, and laid it on her heart. "what colour was the snake, my dear?" asked her nurse. "it was green and black, chequered all over; and it was very large, and opened its mouth very wide, and showed its red tongue. it would have killed me if it had bitten me, would it not, nurse?" "it would not have harmed you, my lady or even if it had bitten you, it would not have killed you. the chequered green snake of canada is not poisonous. it was more afraid of you than you were of it, i make no doubt." "do you think it was a rattlesnake, nurse?" "no, my dear; there are no snakes of that kind in lower canada, and very few below toronto. the winters are too cold for them, but there are plenty in the western part of the province, where the summers are warmer, and the winters milder. the rattlesnake is a dangerous reptile, and its bite causes death, unless the wound be burnt or cut out. the indians apply different sorts of herbs to the wound. they have several plants, known by the names of rattlesnake root, rattlesnake weed, and snake root. it is a good thing that the rattlesnake gives warning of its approach before it strikes the traveller with its deadly fangs. some people think that the rattle is a sign of fear, and that it would not wound people, if it were not afraid they were coming near to hurt it. i will tell you a story, lady mary, about a brave little boy. he went out nutting one day with another boy about his own age; and while they were in the grove gathering nuts, a large black snake, that was in a low tree, dropped down and suddenly coiled itself round the throat of his companion. the child's screams were dreadful; his eyes were starting from his head with pain and terror. the other, regardless of the danger, opened a clasp-knife that he had in his pocket, and seizing the snake near the head, cut it apart, and so saved his friend's life, who was well-nigh strangled by the tight folds of the reptile, which was one of a very venomous species, the bite of which generally proves fatal." "what a brave little fellow!" said lady mary. "you do not think it was cruel, nurse, to kill the snake?" she added, looking up in mrs. frazer's face. "no, lady mary, for he did it to save a fellow-creature from a painful death; and we are taught by god's word that the soul of man is precious in the sight of his creator. we should be cruel were we wantonly to inflict pain upon the least of god's creatures; but to kill them in self-defence, or for necessary food, is not cruel; for when god made adam, he gave him dominion, or power, over the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air, and every creeping thing. it was an act of great courage and humanity in the little boy, who perilled his own life to save that of his helpless comrade, especially as he was not naturally a child of much courage, and was very much afraid of snakes; but love for his friend overcame all thought of his own personal danger. [footnote: a fact related to me by an old gentleman from the state of vermont, as an instance of impulsive feeling overcoming natural timidity.] "the large garter-snake, that which you saw, my dear lady, is comparatively harmless. it lives on toads and frogs, and robs the nests of young birds, and the eggs also. its long forked tongue enables it to catch insects of different kinds; it will even eat fish, and for that purpose frequents the water as well as the black snake. "i heard a gentleman once relate a circumstance to my father that surprised me a good deal. he was fishing one day in a river near his own house, but, being tired, seated himself on a log or fallen tree, where his basket of fish also stood; when a large garter-snake came up the log, and took a small fish out of his basket, which it speedily swallowed. the gentleman, seeing the snake so bold as not to mind his presence, took a small rock-bass by the tail, and half in joke held it towards him, when, to his great surprise, the snake glided towards him, took the fish out of his hand, and sliding away with its prize to a hole beneath the log, began by slow degrees to swallow it, stretching its mouth and the skin of its neck to a great extent; till, after a long while, it was fairly gorged, and then slid down its hole, leaving its neck and head only to be seen." "i should have been so frightened, nurse, if i had been the gentleman, when the snake came to take the fish," said lady mary. "the gentleman was well aware of the nature of the reptile, and knew that it would not bite him. i have read of snakes of the most poisonous kinds being tamed and taught all manner of tricks. there are in india and egypt people that are called snake-charmers, who will contrive to extract the fangs containing the venom from the cobra capella, or hooded snake; which then become quite harmless. these snakes are very fond of music, and will come out of the leather bag or basket that their master carries them in, and will dance or run up his arms, twining about his neck, and even entering his mouth. they do not tell people that the poison-teeth have been extracted, so that it is thought to be the music that keeps the snake from biting. the snake has a power of charming birds and small animals by fixing its eye steadily upon them, when the little creatures become paralysed with fear, either standing quite still, or coming nearer and nearer to their cruel enemy, till they are within his reach. the cat has the same power, and can by this art draw birds from the tops of trees within her reach. these little creatures seem unable to resist the temptation of approaching her, and, even when driven away, will return from a distance to the same spot, seeking, instead of shunning, the danger which is certain to prove fatal to them in the end. some writers assert that all wild animals have this power in the eye, especially those of the cat tribe, as the lion and tiger, leopard and panther. before they spring upon their prey, the eye is always steadily fixed, the back lowered, the neck stretched out, and the tail waved from side to side; if the eye is averted, they lose the animal, and do not make the spring." "are there any other kinds of snakes in canada, nurse," asked lady mary, "besides the garter-snake?" "yes, my lady, several; the black snake, which is the most deadly next to the rattlesnake, is sometimes called the puff-adder, as it inflates the skin of the head and neck when angry. the copper-bellied snake is also poisonous. there is a small snake of a deep grass green colour sometimes seen in the fields and open copse-woods. i do not think it is dangerous; i never heard of its biting any one. the stare-worm is also harmless. i am not sure whether the black snakes that live in the water are the same as the puff or black adder. it is a great blessing, my dear, that these deadly snakes are so rare, and do so little harm to man. indeed, i believe they would never harm him, were they let alone; but if trodden upon, they cannot tell that it was by accident, and so put forth the weapons that god has armed them with in self-defence. the indians in the north-west, i have been told, eat snakes, after cutting off their heads. the cat also eats snakes, leaving the head; she will also catch and eat frogs, a thing i have witnessed myself, and know to be true. [footnote: i saw a half grown kitten eat a live green frog, which she first caught and brought into the parlour, playing with it like a mouse.] one day a snake fixed itself on a little girl's arm and wound itself around it; the mother of the child was too much terrified to tear the deadly creature off, but filled the air with cries. just then a cat came out of the house, and quick as lightning sprang upon the snake, and fastened on its neck, which caused the reptile to uncoil its folds, and it fell to the earth in the grasp of the cat; thus the child's life was saved, and the snake killed. thus you see, my dear, that god provided a preserver for this little one when no help was nigh; perhaps the child cried to him for aid, and he heard her and saved her by means of the cat." lady mary was much interested in all that mrs. frazer had told her; she remembered having heard some one say that the snake would swallow her own young ones, and she asked her nurse if it was true, and if they laid eggs. "the snake will swallow her young ones," said mrs. frazer. "i have seen the garter-snake open her mouth and let the little ones run into it when danger was nigh; the snake also lays eggs: i have seen and handled them often; they are not covered with a hard, brittle shell, like that of a hen, but with a sort of whitish skin, like leather; they are about the size of a blackbird's egg, long in shape, some are rounder and larger. they are laid in some warm place, where the heat of the sun and earth hatches them; but though the mother does not brood over them, as a hen does over her eggs, she seems to take great care of them, and defends them from their many enemies by hiding them out of sight in the singular manner i have just told you. this love of offspring, my dear child, has been wisely given to all mothers, from the human mother down to the very lowest of the insect tribe. the fiercest beast of prey loves its young, and provides food and shelter for them; forgetting its savage nature to play with and caress them. even the spider, which is a disagreeable insect, fierce and unloving to its fellows, displays the tenderest care for its brood, providing a safe retreat for them in the fine silken cradle she spins to envelope the eggs, which she leaves in some warm spot, where she secures them from danger; some glue a leaf down, and overlap it, to ensure it from being agitated by the winds, or discovered by birds. there is a curious spider, commonly known as the nursing spider, who carries her sack of eggs with her, wherever she goes; and when the young ones come out, they cluster on her back, and so travel with her; when a little older, they attach themselves to the old one by threads, and run after her in a train." lady mary laughed, and said she should like to see the funny little spiders all tied to their mother, trotting along behind her. "if you go into the meadow, my dear," said mrs. frazer, "you will see on the larger stones some pretty shining little cases, quite round, looking like grey satin." "nurse, i know what they are," said lady mary; "last year i was playing in the green meadow, and i found a piece of granite with several of these satin cases. i called them silk pies, for they looked like tiny mince-pies. i tried to pick one off, but it stuck so hard that i could not; so i asked the gardener to lend me his knife, and when i raised the crust, it had a little rim under the top, and i slipped the knife in, and what do you think i saw? the pie was full of tiny black shining spiders, and they ran out, such a number of them,--more than i could count, they ran so fast. i was sorry i opened the crust, for it was a cold, cold day, and the little spiders must have been frozen out of their warm air-tight house." "they are able to bear a great deal of cold, lady mary--all insects can; and even when frozen hard, so that they will break if any one tries to bend them, yet when spring comes again to warm them, they revive, and are as full of life as ever. caterpillars thus frozen will become butterflies in due time. spiders, and many other creatures, lie torpid during the winter, and then revive in the same way as dormice, bears, and marmots do." "nurse, please will you tell me something about tortoises and porcupines?" said lady mary. "i cannot tell you a great deal about the tortoise, my dear," replied her nurse. "i have seen them sometimes on the shores of the lakes, and once or twice i have met with the small land-tortoise, in the woods on the banks of the otonabee river. the shell that covers these reptiles is black and yellow, divided into squares--those which i saw were about the size of my two hands. they are very harmless creatures, living chiefly on roots and bitter herbs: perhaps they eat insects as well. they lie buried in the sand during the long winters, in a torpid state: they lay a number of eggs, about the size of a blackbird's, the shell of which is tough and soft, like a snake's egg. the old tortoise buries these in the loose sand near the water's edge, and leaves them to be hatched by the heat of the sun. the little tortoise, when it comes out of the shell, is about as big as a large spider--it is a funny-looking thing. i have heard some of the indians say that they dive into the water, and swim, as soon as they are hatched; but this i am not sure of. i saw one about the size of a crown-piece that was caught in a hole in the sand; it was very lively, and ran along the table, making a rattling noise with its hard shell as it moved. an old one that one of my brothers brought in he put under a large heavy box, meaning to feed and keep it; but in the morning it was gone: it had lifted the edge of the box and was away, nor could he find out how it had contrived to make its escape from the room. this is all that i know about the canadian land-tortoise." chapter xiii. ellen and her pet fawns--docility of fan--jack's droll tricks-affectionate wolf--fall flowers--departure of lady mary--the end. one day lady mary came to seek her nurse in great haste, to describe to her a fine deer that had been sent as a present to her father by one of his canadian friends. she said the great antlers were to be put up over the library-door. "papa called me down to see the poor dead deer, nurse, and i was very sorry it had been killed; it was such a fine creature. major pickford laughed when i said so, but he promised to get me a live fawn. nurse, what is a fawn?" "it is a young deer, my lady." "nurse, please can you tell me anything about fawns? are they pretty creatures, and can they be tamed; or are they fierce, wild little things?" "they are very gentle animals; and if taken young, can be brought up by sucking the finger like a young calf or a pet lamb. they are playful and lively, and will follow the person who feeds them like a dog. they are very pretty, of a pale dun or red colour, with small white spots on the back like large hailstones; the eyes are large and soft, and black, with a very meek expression in them; the hoofs are black and sharp: they are clean and delicate in their habits, and easy and graceful in their movements." "did you ever see a tame fawn?" asked lady mary. "i have seen several, my dear. i will tell you about a fawn that belonged to a little girl whom i knew many years ago. a hunter had shot a poor doe, which was very wrong, and contrary to the indian hunting law; for the native hunter will not, unless pressed for hunger, kill the deer in the spring of the year, when the fawns are young. the indian wanted to find the little one after he had shot the dam, so he sounded a decoy whistle, to imitate the call of the doe, and the harmless thing answered it with a bleat, thinking no doubt it was its mother calling to it. this betrayed its hiding-place, and it was taken unhurt by the hunter, who took it home, and gave it to my little friend ellen to feed and take care of." "please, mrs. frazer, will you tell me what sort of trees hemlocks are? hemlocks in england are poisonous weeds." "these are not weeds, but large forest trees--a species of pine. i will show you some the next time we go out for a drive--they are very handsome trees." "and what are creeks, nurse." "creeks are small streams, such as in scotland would be termed 'burns,' and in england rivulets." "now, nurse, you may go on about the dear little fawn; i want you to tell me all you know about it." "little ellen took the poor timid thing, and laid it in an old indian basket near the hearth, and put some wool in it, and covered it with an old cloak to keep it warm; and she tended it very carefully, letting it suck her fingers dipped in warm milk, as she had seen the dairy-maid do in weaning young calves. in a few days it began to grow strong and lively, and would jump out of its basket, and run bleating after its foster-mother: if it missed her from the room, it would wait at the door watching for her return. "when it was older, it used to run on the grass plot in the garden; but if it heard its little mistress's step or voice in the parlour, it would bound through the open window to her side; and her call of 'fan, fan, fan!' would bring it home from the fields near the edge of the forest; but poor fan got killed by a careless boy throwing some fire-wood down upon it, as it lay asleep in the wood-shed. ellen's grief was very great, but all she could do was to bury it in the garden near the river-side, and plant lilac bushes round its little green-sodded grave." "i am so sorry, nurse, that this good little girl lost her pretty pet." "some time after the death of 'fan,' ellen had another fawn given to her. she called this one jack,--it was older, larger, and stronger, but was more mischievous and frolicsome than her first pet. it would lie in front of the fire on the hearth, like a dog, and rub its soft velvet nose against the hand that patted it very affectionately, but gave a good deal of trouble in the house: it would eat the carrots, potatoes, and cabbages, while the cook was preparing them for dinner; and when the housemaid had laid the cloth for dinner, jack would go round the table and eat up the bread she had laid to each plate, to the great delight of the children, who thought it good fun to see him do so. "ellen put a red leather collar about jack's neck, and some months after this he swam across the rapid river, and went off to the wild woods, and was shot by some hunters, a great many miles away from his old home, being known by his fine red collar. after the sad end of her two favourites, ellen would have no more fawns brought in for her to tame." lady mary was much interested in the account of the little girl and her pets. "is this all you know about fawns, nurse?" "i once went to call on a clergyman's wife who lived in a small log-house near a new village. the youngest child, a fat baby of two years old, was lying on the rug before a large log-fire, fast asleep; its little head was pillowed on the back of a tame half-grown fawn that lay stretched on its side, enjoying the warmth of the fire, as tame and familiar as a spaniel dog. this fawn had been brought up with the children, and they were very fond of it, and would share their bread and milk with it at meal times; but it got into disgrace by gnawing the bark of the young orchard-trees, and cropping the bushes in the garden; besides, it had a trick of opening the cupboard, and eating the bread, and drinking any milk it could find; so the master of the house gave it away to a baker who lived in the village; but it did not forget its old friends, and used to watch for the children going to school, and as soon as it caught sight of them, it would trot after them, poking its nose into the basket to get a share of their dinner, and very often managed to get it all." "and what became of this nice fellow, nurse?" "unfortunately, my lady, it was chased by some dogs, and ran away to the woods near the town, and never came back again. dogs will always hunt tame fawns when they can get near them, so it seems a pity to domesticate them only to be killed in so cruel a way. the forest is the best home for these pretty creatures, though even there they have many enemies beside the hunter. the bear, the wolf, and the wolverine kill them. their only means of defence lies in their fleetness of foot. the stag will defend himself with his strong horns; but the doe and her little fawn have no such weapons to guard them when attacked by beasts of prey. the wolf is one of the greatest enemies they have." "i hate wolves," said lady mary; "wolves can never be tamed, nurse." "i have heard and read of wolves being tamed and becoming very fond of their masters. a gentleman in canada once brought up a wolf puppy, which became so fond of him that when he left it to go home to england, it refused to eat, and died of grief at his absence. kindness will tame even fierce beasts, who soon learn to love the hand that feeds them. bears and foxes have often been kept tame in this country, and eagles and owls; but i think they cannot be so happy shut up, away from their natural companions and habits, as if they were free to go and come at their own will." "i should not like to be shut up, nurse, far away from my own dear home," said the little girl, thoughtfully. "i think, sometimes, i ought not to keep my dear squirrel in a cage--shall i let him go?" "my dear, he has now been so used to the cage, and to have all his daily wants supplied, that i am sure he would suffer from cold and hunger at this season of the year if he were left to provide for himself, and if he remained here the cats and weasels might kill him." "i will keep him safe from harm, then, till the warm weather comes again; and then, nurse, we will take him to the mountain, and let him go, if he likes to be free, among the trees and bushes." it was now the middle of october; the rainy season that usually comes in the end of september and beginning of october in canada was over. the soft hazy season, called indian summer, was come again; the few forest leaves that yet lingered were ready to fall--bright and beautiful they still looked, but lady mary missed the flowers. "i do not love the fall--i see no flowers now, except those in the greenhouse. the cold, cold winter will soon be here again," she added sadly. "last year, dear lady, you said you loved the white snow, and the sleighing, and the merry bells, and wished that winter would last all the year round." "ah! yes, nurse; but i did not know how many pretty birds and flowers i should see in the spring and the summer; and now they are all gone, and i shall see them no more for a long time." "there are still a few flowers, lady mary, to be found; look at these." "ah, dear nurse, where did you get them? how lovely they are!" "your little french maid picked them for you, on the side of the mountain. rosette loves the wild flowers of her native land." "nurse, do you know the names of these pretty starry flowers on this little branch, that look so light and pretty?" "these are asters; a word, your governess told me the other day, meaning starlike; some people call these flowers michaelmas daisies. these lovely lilac asters grow in light dry ground; they are among the prettiest of our fall flowers. these with the small white starry flowers crowded upon the stalks, with the crimson and gold in the middle, are dwarf asters." "i like these white ones, nurse; the little branches look so nicely loaded with blossoms; see, they are quite bowed down with the weight of all these flowers." "these small shrubby asters grow on dry gravelly banks of lakes and rivers." "but here are some large dark purple ones." "these are also asters; they are to be found on dry wastes, in stony barren fields, by the corners of rail-fences; they form large spreading bushes, and look very lovely, covered with their large dark purple flowers. there is no waste so wild, my lady, but the hand of the most high can plant it with some blossom, and make the waste and desert place flourish like a garden. here are others, still brighter and larger, with yellow disks, and sky-blue flowers; these grow by still waters, near milldams and swampy places. though they are larger and gayer, i do not think they will please you so well as the small ones that i first showed you; they do not fade so fast, and that is one good quality they have." "they are more like the china asters in the garden, nurse, only more upright and stiff; but here is another sweet blue flower--can you tell me its name?" "no, my dear, you must ask your governess." lady mary carried the nosegay to miss campbell, who told her the blue flower was called the fringed gentian, and that the gentians and asters bloomed the latest of all the autumn flowers in canada. among these wild flowers, she also showed her the large dark blue bell flowered gentian, which was indeed the last flower of the year." "are there no more flowers in bloom now, nurse?" asked the child, as she watched mrs. frazer arranging them for her in a flower-glass. "i do not know of any now in bloom but the golden rods and the latest of the ever-listings. rosette shall go out, and try to get some of them for you. the french children make little mats and garlands of them to ornament their houses, and to hang on the little crosses above the graves of their friends, because they do not fade away like other flowers." next day, rosette, the little nursery-maid, brought lady mary an indian basket full of sweet-scented everlastings. this flower had a fragrant smell; the leaves were less downy than some of the earlier sorts, but were covered with a resinous gum, that caused it to stick to the fingers; it looked quite silky, from the thistledown, which, falling upon the leaves, were gummed down to the surface. "the country folks," said mrs. frazer, "call this plant neglected everlasting, because it grows on dry wastes by road-sides, among thistles and fireweed; but i love it for its sweetness; it is like a true friend-it never changes. see, my dear, how shining its straw-coloured blossoms and buds are, just like satin flowers." "nurse, it shall be my own flower," said the little girl, "and i will make a pretty garland of it, to hang over my own dear mamma's picture. rosette says she will show me how to tie the flowers together; she has made me a pretty wreath for my doll's straw hat, and she means to make her a mat and a carpet too." the little maid promised to bring her young lady some wreaths of the festoon pine; a low-creeping plant, with dry, green chaffy leaves, that grows in the barren pine woods, of which the canadians make christmas garlands, and also some of the winter berries, and spice berries, which look so gay in the fall and early spring, with berries of brightest scarlet, and shining dark green leaves, that trail over the ground on the gravelly hills and plains. nurse frazer brought lady mary some sweetmeats, flavored with an extract of the spicy winter green, from the confectioner's shop; the canadians being very fond of the flavor of this plant. the indians chew the leaves, and eat the ripe mealy berries, which have something of the taste of the bay-laurel leaves. the indian men smoke the leaves as tobacco. one day, while mrs. frazer was at work in the nursery, her little charge came to her in a great state of agitation--her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were dancing with joy; she threw herself into her arms, and said, "oh! dear nurse, i am going home to dear old england and scotland. papa and mamma are going away from government house, and i am to return to the old country with them; i am so glad, are not you?" but the tears gathered in mrs. frazer's eyes and fell fast upon the work she held in her hand. lady mary looked surprised, when she saw how her kind nurse was weeping. "nurse, you are to go too; mamma says so; now you need not cry, for you are not going to leave me." "i cannot go with you, my dearest child," whispered her weeping attendant, "much as i love you; for i have a dear son of my own. i have but him, and it would break my heart to part from him;" and she softly put aside the bright curls from lady mary's fair forehead, and tenderly kissed her. "this child is all i have in the world to love me, and when his father, my own kind husband, died, he vowed to take care of me, and cherish me in my old age, and i promised that i would never leave him; so i cannot go away from canada with you, my lady, though i dearly love you." "then, mrs. frazer, i shall be sorry to leave canada; for when i go home, i shall have no one to talk to me about beavers, and squirrels, and indians, and flowers, and birds." "indeed, my lady, you will not want for amusement there, for england and scotland are finer places than canada. your good governess and your new nurse will be able to tell you many things that will delight you; and you will not quite forget your poor old nurse, i am sure, when you think about the time you have spent in this country." "ah, dear good old nurse, i will not forget you," said lady mary, springing into her nurse's lap, and fondly caressing her, while big bright tears fell from her eyes. there was so much to do, and so much to think about before the governor's departure, that lady mary had no time to hear any more stories, nor to ask any more questions about the natural history of canada; though, doubtless, there were many other curious things that mrs. frazer could have related; for she was a person of good education, who had seen and noticed as well as read a great deal. she had not always been a poor woman, but had once been a respectable farmer's wife, though her husband's death had reduced her to a state of servitude; and she had earned money enough while in the governor's service to educate her son, and this was how she came to be lady mary's nurse. lady mary did not forget to have all her indian curiosities packed up with some dried plants and flower seeds, collected by her governess; but she left the cage, with her flying squirrel, to mrs. frazer, to take care of till the following spring, when she told her to take it to the mountain, or st. helen's island, and let it go free, that it might be a happy squirrel once more, and bound away among the green trees in the canadian woods. when mrs. frazer was called in to take leave of the governor and his lady, after receiving a handsome salary for her care and attendance on their little daughter, the governor gave her a sealed parchment, which, when she opened, was found to contain a government deed for a fine lot of land, in a fertile township in upper canada. it was with many tears and blessings that mrs. frazer took leave of the good governor's family; and, above all, of her beloved charge, lady mary. the end. file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions. editorial note: this book is essentially identical to lady mary and her nurse, by mrs. traill, project gutenberg ebook #6479, but the two come from different sources. in the forest or, pictures of life and scenery in the woods of canada a tale by mrs. traill with 19 illustrations 1881 [illustration: a narrow escape] chapter i the flying squirrel--its food--story of a wolf--indian village--wild rice chapter ii sleighing--sleigh robes--fur caps--otter skins--old snow-storm--otter hunting--otter slides--indian names--remarks on wild animals and their habits chapter iii part i--lady mary reads to mrs. frazer the first part of the history of the squirrel family part ii--which tells how the gray squirrels fared while they remained on pine island--how they behaved to their poor relations, the chipmunks--and what happens to them in the forest part iii--how the squirrels got to the mill at the rapids--and what happened to the velvet-paw chapter iv squirrels--the chipmunks--docility of a pet one--roguery of a yankee pedlar--return of the musical chipmunk to his master's bosom--sagacity of a black squirrel chapter v indian baskets--thread plants--maple sugar tree--indian ornamental works--racoons chapter vi. canadian birds--snow sparrow--robin redbreast--canadian flowers--american porcupine chapter vii. indian bag--indian embroidery--beaver's tail--beaver architecture--habits of the beaver--beaver tools--beaver meadows chapter viii. indian boy and his pets--tame beaver at home--kitten, wildfire--pet racoon and the spaniel puppies--canadian flora chapter ix. nurse tells lady mary about a little boy who was eaten by a bear in the province of new brunswick--of a baby who was carried away but taken alive--a walk in the garden--humming birds--canadian balsams chapter x. aurora borealis, or northern lights, most frequently seen in northern climates--called merry dancers--rose tints--tintlike appearance--lady mary frightened chapter xi. strawberries--canadian wild fruits--wild raspberries--the hunter and the lost child--cranberries--cranberry marshes--nuts chapter xii. garter snakes--rattle-snakes--anecdote of a little boy--fisherman and snake--snake charmers--spiders--land tortoise chapter xiii. ellen and her pet fawns--docility of fan--jack's droll tricks-affectionate wolf--fall flowers--departure of lady mary--the end. list of illustrations. lady mary and the nosegay a narrow escape the flying squirrel adventure with a wolf indian wigwams the otters dolly's sleigh ride lady mary reading her picture book the gray squirrel and the chipmunks the pet squirrel nimble recovering his sister watching the birds the present from father beavers making a dam "caught at last" the aurora borealis the lost child and the bears a boy hero the indian hunter in the forest. chapter i. the flying squirrel--its food--story of a wolf--indian village--wild rice. "nurse, what is the name of that pretty creature you have in your hand? what bright eyes it has! what a soft tail--just like a gray feather! is it a little beaver?" asked the governor's little daughter, as her nurse came into the room where her young charge, whom we shall call lady mary, was playing with her doll. carefully sheltered against her breast, its velvet nose just peeping from beneath her muslin neckerchief, the nurse held a small gray-furred animal, of the most delicate form and colour. "no, my lady," she replied, "this is not a young beaver; a beaver is a much larger animal. a beaver's tail is not covered with fur; it is scaly, broad, and flat; it looks something like black leather, not very unlike that of my seal-skin slippers. the indians eat beavers' tails at their great feasts, and think they make an excellent dish." "if they are black, and look like leather shoes, i am very sure i should not like to eat them; so, if you please, mrs. frazer, do not let me have any beavers' tails cooked for my dinner," said the little lady, in a very decided tone. "indeed, my lady," replied her nurse, smiling, "it would not be an easy thing to obtain, if you wished to taste one, for beavers are not brought to our market. it is only the indians and hunters who know how to trap them, and beavers are not so plentiful as they used to be." mrs. frazer would have told lady mary a great deal about the way in which the trappers take the beavers, but the little girl interrupted her by saying, "please, nurse, will you tell me the name of your pretty pet? ah, sweet thing, what bright eyes you have!" she added, caressing the soft little head which was just seen from beneath the folds of the muslin handkerchief to which it timidly nestled, casting furtive glances at the admiring child, while the panting of its breast told the mortal terror that shook its frame whenever the little girl's hand was advanced to coax its soft back. [illustration: the flying squirrel] "it is a flying squirrel, lady mary," replied her nurse; "one of my brothers caught it a month ago, when he was chopping in the forest. he thought it might amuse your ladyship, and so he tamed it and sent it to me in a basket filled with moss, with some acorns, and hickory-nuts, and beech-mast for him to eat on his journey, for the little fellow has travelled a long way: he came from the beech-woods near the town of coburg, in the upper province." "and where is coburg, nurse? is it a large city like montreal or quebec?" "no, my lady; it is a large town on the shores of the great lake ontario." "and are there many woods near it?" "yes; but not so many as there used to be many years ago. the forest is almost all cleared, and there are fields of wheat and indian corn, and nice farms and pretty houses, where a few years back the lofty forest grew dark and thick." "nurse, you said there were acorns, and hickory-nuts, and beech-mast in the basket. i have seen acorns at home in dear england and scotland, and i have eaten the hickory-nuts here; but what is beech-mast? is it in granaries for winter stores; and wild ducks and wild pigeons come from the far north at the season when the beech-mast fall, to eat them; for god teaches these, his creatures, to know the times and the seasons when his bounteous hand is open to give them food from his boundless store. a great many other birds and beasts also feed upon the beech-mast." "it was very good of your brother to send me this pretty creature, nurse," said the little lady; "i will ask papa to give him some money." "there is no need of that, lady mary. my brother is not in want; he has a farm in the upper province, and is very well off." "i am glad he is well off," said lady mary; "indeed, i do not see so many beggars here as in england." "people need not beg in canada, if they are well and strong and can work; a poor man can soon earn enough money to keep himself and his little ones." "nurse, will you be so kind as to ask campbell to get a pretty cage for my squirrel? i will let him live close to my dormice, who will be pleasant company for him, and i will feed him every day myself with nuts and sugar, and sweet cake and white bread. now do not tremble and look so frightened, as though i were going to hurt you; and pray, mr squirrel, do not bite. oh! nurse, nurse, the wicked, spiteful creature has bitten my finger! see, see, it has made it bleed! naughty thing! i will not love you if you bite. pray, nurse, bind up my finger, or it will soil my frock." great was the pity bestowed upon the wound by lady mary's kind attendant, till the little girl, tired of hearing so much said about the bitten finger, gravely desired her maid to go in search of the cage and catch the truant, which had effected its escape, and was clinging to the curtains of the bed. the cage was procured--a large wooden cage, with an outer and an inner chamber, a bar for the little fellow to swing himself on, a drawer for his food, and a little dish for his water. the sleeping-room was furnished by the nurse with soft wool, and a fine store of nuts was put in the drawer; all his wants were well supplied, and lady mary watched the catching of the little animal with much interest. great was the activity displayed by the runaway squirrel, and still greater the astonishment evinced by the governor's little daughter at the flying leaps made by the squirrel in its attempts to elude the grasp of its pursuers. "it flies! i am sure it must have wings. look, look, nurse! it is here, now it is on the wall, now on the curtains! it must have wings; but it has no feathers!" "it has, no wings, dear lady, but it has a fine ridge of fur that covers a strong sinew or muscle between the fore and hinder legs; and it is by the help of this muscle that it is able to spring so far and so fast; and its claws are so sharp, that it can cling to a wall or any flat surface. the black and red squirrels, and the common gray, can jump very far and run up the bark of the trees very fast, but not so fast as the flying squirrel." at last lady mary's maid, with the help of one of the housemaids, succeeded in catching the squirrel and securing him within his cage. but though lady mary tried all her words of endearment to coax the little creature to eat some of the good things that had been provided so liberally for his entertainment, he remained sullen and motionless at the bottom of the cage. a captive is no less a captive in a cage with gilded bars and with dainties to eat, than if rusted iron shut him in, and kept him from enjoying his freedom. it is for dear liberty that he pines and is sad, even in the midst of plenty! "dear nurse, why does my little squirrel tremble and look so unhappy? tell me if he wants anything to eat that we have not given him. why does he not lie down and sleep on the nice soft bed you have made for him in his little chamber? see, he has not tasted the nice sweet cake and sugar that i gave him." "he is not used to such dainties, lady mary. in the forest he feeds upon hickory-nuts, and butternuts, and acorns, and beech-mast, and the buds of the spruce, fir and pine kernels, and many other seeds and nuts and berries that we could not get for him; he loves grain too, and indian corn. he sleeps on green moss and leaves, and fine fibres of grass and roots, and drinks heaven's blessed dew, as it lies bright and pure upon the herbs of the field." "dear little squirrel! pretty creature! i know now what makes you sad. you long to be abroad among your own green woods, and sleeping on the soft green moss, which is far prettier than this ugly cotton wool. but you shall stay with me, my sweet one, till the cold winter is past and gone, and the spring flowers have come again; and then, my pretty squirrel, i will take you out of your dull cage, and we will go to st. helen's green island, and i will let you go free; but i will put a scarlet collar about your neck before i let you go, that if any one finds you, they may know that you are my squirrel. were you ever in the green forest, nurse? i hear papa talk about the 'bush' and the 'backwoods;' it must be very pleasant in the summer to live among the green trees. were you ever there?" "yes, dear lady; i did live in the woods when i was a child. i was born in a little log-shanty, far, far away up the country, near a beautiful lake called rice lake, among woods, and valleys, and hills covered with flowers, and groves of pine, and white and black oaks." "stop, nurse, and tell me why they are called black and white; are the flowers black and white?" "no, my lady; it is because the wood of the one is darker than the other, and the leaves of the black oak are dark and shining, while those of the white oak are brighter and lighter. the black oak is a beautiful tree. when i was a young girl, i used to like to climb the sides of the steep valleys, and look down upon the tops of the oaks that grew beneath, and to watch the wind lifting the boughs all glittering in the moonlight; they looked like a sea of ruffled green water. it is very solemn, lady mary, to be in the woods by night, and to hear no sound but the cry of the great wood-owl, or the voice of the whip-poor-will, calling to his fellow from the tamarack swamp, or, may be, the timid bleating of a fawn that has lost its mother, or the howl of a wolf." "nurse, i should be so afraid; i am sure i should cry if i heard the wicked wolves howling in the dark woods by night. did you ever know any one who was eaten by a wolf?" "no, my lady; the canadian wolf is a great coward. i have heard the hunters say that they never attack any one unless there is a great flock together and the man is alone and unarmed. my uncle used to go out a great deal hunting, sometimes by torchlight, and sometimes on the lake, in a canoe with the indians; and he shot and trapped a great many wolves and foxes and racoons. he has a great many heads of wild animals nailed up on the stoup in front of his log-house." "please tell me what a stoup is, nurse?" "a verandah, my lady, is the same thing, only the old dutch settlers gave it the name of a stoup, and the stoup is heavier and broader, and not quite so nicely made as a verandah. one day my uncle was crossing the lake on the ice; it was a cold winter afternoon, he was in a hurry to take some food to his brothers, who were drawing pine-logs in the bush. he had, besides a bag of meal and flour, a new axe on his shoulder. he heard steps as of a dog trotting after him; he turned his head, and there he saw, close at his heels, a big, hungry-looking gray wolf; he stopped and faced about, and the big beast stopped and showed his white sharp teeth. my uncle did not feel afraid, but looked steadily at the wolf, as much as to say, 'follow me if you dare,' and walked on. when my uncle stopped, the wolf stopped; when he went on, the beast also went on." "i would have run away," said lady mary. "if my uncle had let the wolf see that he was afraid of him, he would have grown bolder, and have run after him and seized him. all animals are afraid of brave men, but not of cowards. when the beast came too near, my uncle faced him and showed the bright axe, and the wolf then shrank back a few paces. when my uncle got near the shore, he heard a long wild cry, as if from twenty wolves at once. it might have been the echoes from the islands that increased the sound; but it was very frightful and made his blood chill, for he knew that without his rifle he should stand a poor chance against a large pack of hungry wolves. just then a gun went off; he heard the wolf give a terrible yell, he felt the whizzing of a bullet pass him, and turning about, saw the wolf lying dead on the ice. a loud shout from the cedars in front told him from whom the shot came; it was my father, who had been on the look-out on the lake shore, and he had fired at and hit the wolf when he saw that he could do so without hurting his brother." "nurse, it would have been a sad thing if the gun had shot your uncle." "it would; but my father was one of the best shots in the district, and could hit a white spot on the bark of a tree with a precision that was perfectly wonderful. it was an old indian from buckhorn lake who taught him to shoot deer by torchlight and to trap beavers." "well, i am glad that horrid wolf was killed, for wolves eat sheep and lambs; and i daresay they would devour my little squirrel if they could get him. nurse, please to tell me again the name of the lake near which you were born." "it is called rice lake, my lady. it is a fine piece of water, more than twenty miles long, and from three to five miles broad. it has pretty wooded islands, and several rivers or streams empty themselves into it. the otonabee river is a fine broad stream, which flows through the forest a long way. many years ago, there were no clearings on the banks, and no houses, only indian tents or wigwams; but now there are a great many houses and farms." "what are wigwams?" "a sort of light tent, made with poles stuck into the ground in a circle, fastened together at the top, and covered on the outside with skins of wild animals, or with birch bark. the indians light a fire of sticks and logs on the ground, in the middle of the wigwam, and lie or sit all round it; the smoke goes up to the top and escapes. or sometimes, in the warm summer weather, they kindle their fire without, and their squaws, or wives, attend to it; while they go hunting in the forest, or, mounted on swift horses, pursue the trail of their enemies. in the winter, they bank up the wigwam with snow, and make it very warm." [illustration: indian wigwams] "i think it must be a very ugly sort of house, and i am glad i do not live in an indian wigwam," said the little lady. "the indians are a very simple folk, my lady, and do not need fine houses like this in which your papa lives. they do not know the names or uses of half the fine things that are in the houses of the white people. they are happy and contented without them. it is not the richest that are happiest, lady mary, and the lord careth for the poor and the lowly. there is a village on the shores of rice lake where the indians live. it is not very pretty. the houses are all built of logs, and some of them have gardens and orchards. they have a neat church, and they have a good minister, who takes great pains to teach them the gospel of the lord jesus christ. the poor indians were pagans until within the last few years." "what are pagans, nurse?" "people, lady mary, who do not believe in god and the lord jesus christ, our blessed saviour." "nurse, is there real rice growing in the rice lake? i heard my governess say that rice grew only in warm countries. now, your lake must be very cold if your uncle walked across the ice." "this rice, my lady, is not real rice. i heard a gentleman tell my father that it was, properly speaking, a species of oats [footnote: zizania, or water oats]--water oats, he called it; but the common name for it is wild rice. this wild rice grows in vast beds in the lake in patches of many acres. it will grow in water from eight to ten or twelve feet deep; the grassy leaves float upon the water like long narrow green ribbons. in the month of august, the stem that is to bear the flower and the grain rises straight up above the surface, and light delicate blossoms come out of a pale straw colour and lilac. they are very pretty, and wave in the wind with a rustling noise. in the month of october, when the rice is ripe, the leaves torn yellow, and the rice-heads grow heavy and droop; then the squaws--as the indian women are called--go out in their birch-bark canoes, holding in one hand a stick, in the other a short curved paddle with a sharp edge. with this they bend down the rice across the stick and strike off the heads, which fall into the canoe, as they push it along through the rice-beds. in this way they collect a great many bushels in the course of the day. the wild rice is not the least like the rice which your ladyship has eaten; it is thin, and covered with a light chaffy husk. the colour of the grain itself is a brownish-green, or olive, smooth, shining, and brittle. after separating the outward chaff, the squaws put by a large portion of the clean rice in its natural state for sale; for this they get from a dollar and a half to two dollars a bushel. some they parch, either in large pots, or on mats made of the inner bark of cedar or bass wood, beneath which they light a slow fire, and plant around it a temporary hedge of green boughs closely set, to prevent the heat from escaping; they also drive stakes into the ground, over which they stretch the matting at a certain height above the fire. on this they spread the green rice, stirring it about with wooden paddles till it is properly parched; this is known by its bursting and showing the white grain of the flour. when quite cool it is stowed away in troughs, scooped out of butter-nut wood, or else sewed up in sheets of birch bark or bass-mats, or in coarsely-made birch-bark baskets." "and is the rice good to eat, nurse?" "some people like it as well as the white rice of carolina; but it does not look so well. it is a great blessing to the poor indians, who boil it in their soups, or eat it with maple molasses. and they eat it when parched without any other cooking, when they are on a long journey in the woods, or on the lakes. i have often eaten nice puddings made of it with milk. the deer feed upon the green rice. they swim into the water and eat the green leaves and tops. the indians go out at night to shoot the deer on the water; they listen for them, and shoot them in the dark. the wild ducks and water-fowls come down in great flocks to fatten on the ripe rice in the fall of the year; also large flocks of rice buntings and red wings, which make their roosts among the low willows, flags, and lilies, close to the shallows of the lake." "it seems very useful to birds as well as to men and beasts," said little lady mary. "yes, my lady, and to fishes also, i make no doubt; for the good god has cast it so abundantly abroad on the waters, that i daresay they also have their share. when the rice is fully ripe, the sun shining on it gives it a golden hue, just like a field of ripened grain. surrounded by the deep-blue waters, it looks very pretty." "i am very much obliged to you nurse, for telling me so much about the indian rice, and i will ask mamma to let me have some one day for my dinner, that i may know how it tastes." just then lady mary's governess came to bid her nurse dress her for a sleigh-ride, and so for the present we shall leave her; but we will tell our little readers something more in another chapter about lady mary and her flying squirrel. chapter ii. sleighing--sleigh robes--fur caps--otter skins--old snow-storm--otter hunting--otter slides--indian names--remarks on wild animals and their habits nurse, we have had a very nice sleigh-drive. i like sleighing very much over the white snow. the trees look so pretty, as if they were covered with white flowers, and the ground sparkled just like mamma's diamonds." "it is pleasant, lady mary, to ride through the woods on a bright sunshiny day, after a fresh fall of snow. the young evergreens, hemlocks, balsams, and spruce-trees, are loaded with great masses of the new-fallen snow; while the slender saplings of the beech, birch, and basswood (the lime or linden) are bent down to the very ground, making bowers so bright and beautiful, you would be delighted to see them. sometimes, as you drive along, great masses of the snow come showering down upon you; but it is so light and dry, that it shakes off without wetting you. it is pleasant to be wrapped up in warm blankets, or buffalo robes, at the bottom of a lumber-sleigh, and to travel through the forest by moonlight; the merry bells echoing through the silent woods, and the stars just peeping down through the frosted trees, which sparkle like diamonds in the moonbeams." "nurse, i should like to take a drive through the forest in winter. it is so nice to hear the sleigh-bells. we used sometimes to go out in the snow in scotland, but we were in the carriage, and had no bells." "no, lady mary; the snow seldom lies long enough in the old country to make it worth while to have sleighs there; but in russia and sweden, and other cold northern countries, they use sleighs with bells." lady mary ran to the little bookcase where she had a collection of children's books, and very soon found a picture of laplanders and russians wrapped in furs. "how long will the winter last, nurse?" said the child, after she had tired herself with looking at the prints, "a long, long time--a great many weeks?--a great many months?" "yes, my lady; five or six months." "oh, that is nice--nearly half a year of white snow, and sleigh-drives every day, and bells ringing all the time! i tried to make out a tune, but they only seemed to say, 'up-hill, up-hill! down-hill, down-hill!' all the way. nurse, please tell me what are sleigh-robes made of?" "some sleigh-robes, lady mary, are made of bear-skins, lined with red or blue flannel; some are of wolf-skins, lined with bright scarlet cloth; and some of racoon, the commonest are buffalo-skins; i have seen some of deer-skins, but these last are not so good, as the hair comes off, and they are not so warm as the skins of the furred or woolly-coated animals" "i sometimes see long tails hanging down over the backs of the sleigh and cutters--they look very pretty, like the end of mamma's boa." "the wolf and racoon skin robes are generally made up with the tails, and sometimes the heads of the animals are also left. i noticed the head of a wolf, with its sharp ears, and long white teeth, looking very fierce, at the back of a cutter, the other day." "nurse, that must have looked very droll. do you know i saw a gentleman the other day, walking with papa, who had a fox-skin cap on his head, and the fox's nose was just peeping over his shoulder, and the tail hung down his back, and i saw its bright black eyes looking so cunning i thought it must be alive, and that it had curled itself round his head; but the gentleman took it off, and showed me that the eyes were glass." "some hunters, lady mary, make caps of otter, mink, or badger skins, and ornament them with the tails, heads, and claws." "i have seen a picture of the otter, nurse; it is a pretty, soft-looking thing, with a round head and black eyes. where do otters live?" "the canadian otters, lady mary, live in holes in the banks of sedgy, shallow lakes, mill-ponds, and sheltered creeks. the indian hunters find their haunts by tracking their steps in the snow; for an indian or canadian hunter knows the track made by any bird or beast, from the deep broad print of the bear, to the tiny one of the little shrewmouse, which is the smallest four-footed beast in this or any other country. "indians catch the otter, and many other wild animals, in a sort of trap, which they call a 'deadfall.' wolves are often so trapped, and then shot. the indians catch the otter for the sake of its dark shining fur, which is used by the hatters and furriers old jacob snow-storm, an old indian who lived on the banks of the rice lake, used to catch otters; and i have often listened to him, and laughed at his stories." "do, please, nurse, tell me what old jacob snow-storm told you about the otters; i like to hear stories about wild beasts. but what a droll surname snow-storm is!" "yes, lady mary; indians have very odd names; they are called after all sorts of strange things. they do not name the children, as we do, soon after they are born, but wait for some remarkable circumstance, some dream or accident. some call them after the first strange animal or bird that appears to the new-born. old snow-storm most likely owed his name to a heavy fall of snow when he was a baby. i knew a chief named musk-rat, and a pretty indian girl who was named 'badau'-bun'--_light of the morning._" "and what is the indian name for old snow-storm?" "'be-che-go-ke-poor,' my lady." lady mary said it was a funny sounding name, and not at all like snow-storm, which she liked a great deal better; and she was much amused while her nurse repeated to her some names of squaws and papooses (indian women and children); such as long thrush, little fox, running stream, snowbird, red cloud, young eagle, big bush, and many others. "now, nurse, will you tell me some more about jacob snow-storm and the otters?" "well, lady mary, the old man had a cap of otter-skin, of which he was very proud, and only wore on great days. one day as he was playing with it, he said:--'otter funny fellow; he like play too, sometimes. indian go hunting up ottawa, that great big river, you know. go one moonlight night; lie down under bushes in snow; see lot of little fellow and big fellow at play. run up and down bank; bank all ice. sit down top of bank; good slide there. down he go splash into water; out again. funny fellow those!' and then the old hunter threw hack his head, and laughed, till you could have seen all his white teeth, he opened his mouth so wide." [illustration: the otters] lady mary was very much amused at the comical way in which the old indian talked. "can otters swim, nurse?" "yes, lady mary, the good god who has created all things well, has given to this animal webbed feet, which enable it to swim, and it can also dive down in the deep water, where it finds fish and mussels, and perhaps the roots of some water-plants to eat. it makes very little motion or disturbance in the water when it goes down in search of its prey. its coat is thick, and formed of two kinds of hair; the outer hair is long, silky, and shining; the under part is short, fine, and warm. the water cannot penetrate to wet them,--the oily nature of the fur throws off the moisture. they dig large holes with their claws, which are short, but very strong. they line their nests with dry grass, and rushes, and roots gnawed fine, and do not pass the winter in sleep, as the dormice, flying squirrels, racoons, and bears do. they are very innocent and playful, both when young, and even after they grow old. the lumberers often tame them, and they become so docile that they will come at a call or whistle. like all wild animals, they are most lively at night, when they come out to feed and play." "dear little things! i should like to have a tame otter to play with, and run after me; but do you think he would eat my squirrel? you know cats will eat squirrels--so mamma says." "cats belong to a very different class of animals; they are beasts of prey, formed to spring and bound, and tear with their teeth and claws. the otter is also a beast of prey, but its prey is found in the still waters, and not on the land; it can neither climb nor leap. so i do not think he would hurt your squirrel, if you had one." "see, nurse, my dear little squirrel is still where i left him, clinging to the wires of the cage, his bright eyes looking like two black beads." "as soon as it grows dark he will begin to be more lively, and perhaps he will eat something, but not while we look at him--he is too shy for that." "nurse, how can they see to eat in the dark?" "the good god, lady mary, has so formed their eyes that they can see best by night. i will read you, lady mary, a few verses from psalm civ.:-"'verse 19. he appointed the moon for seasons: the sun knoweth his going down. "'20. thou makest darkness, and it is night: wherein all the beast of the forest do creep forth. "'21. the young lions roar after their prey, and seek their meat from god. "'22. the sun ariseth, they gather themselves together, and lay them down in their dens. "'23. man goeth forth unto his work and to his labour, until the evening. "'24. o lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches.' "thus you see, my dear lady, that our heavenly father taketh care of all his creatures, and provideth for them both by day and by night." "i remember, nurse, that my dormice used to lie quite still, nestled among the moss and wool in their little dark chamber in the cage, all day long; but when it was night they used to come out and frisk about, and run along the wires, and play all sorts of tricks, chasing one another round and round, and they were not afraid of me, but would let me look at them while they ate a nut, or a hit of sugar; and the dear little things would drink out of their little white saucer, and wash their faces and tails--it was so pretty to see them!" "did you notice, lady mary, how the dormice held their food?" "yes; they sat up, and held it in their fore-paws, which looked just like tiny hands." "there are many animals whose fore-feet resemble hands, and these, generally, convey their food to their mouths--among these are the squirrel and dormice. they are good climbers and diggers. you see, my dear young lady, how the merciful creator has given to all his creatures, however lowly, the best means of supplying their wants, whether of food or shelter." "indeed, nurse. i have learned a great deal about squirrels, canadian rice, otters, and indians; but, if you please, i must now have a little play with my doll. good-bye, mrs. frazer; pray take care of my dear little squirrel, and mind that he does not fly away." and lady mary was soon busily engaged in drawing her wax doll about the nursery in a little sleigh lined with red squirrel fur robes, and talking to her as all children like to talk to their dolls, whether they be rich or poor--the children of peasants, or governors' daughters. [illustration: dolly's sleigh-ride] chapter iii. lady mary reads to mrs. frazer the first part of the history of the squirrel family. one day lady mary came to her nurse, and putting her arms about her neck, whispered to her,--"mrs. frazer, my dear good governess has given me something--it is in my hand," and she slily held her hand behind her--"will you guess what it is?" "is it a book, my lady?" "yes, yes, it is a book, a pretty book; and see, here are pictures of squirrels in it. mrs. frazer, if you like, i will sit down on this cushion by you and read some of my new book. it does not seem very hard." then mrs. frazer took out her work-basket and sat down to sew, and lady mary began to read the little story, which, i hope, may entertain my little readers as much as it did the governor's daughter. * * * * * part i the history of a squirrel family. [illustration: lady mary reading her picture-book.] it must be a pleasant thing to be a squirrel, and live a life of freedom in the boundless forests; to leap and bound among the branches of the tall trees, to gambol in the deep shade of the cool glossy leaves, through the long warm summer day; to gather the fresh nuts and berries; to drink the pure dews of heaven, all bright and sparkling from the opening flowers; to sleep on soft beds of moss and thistle-down in some hollow branch rocked by the wind as in a cradle. yet, though this was the happy life led by a family of pretty gray squirrels that had their dwelling in the hoary branch of an old oak-tree that grew on one of the rocky islands in a beautiful lake in upper canada, called _stony lake_ (because it was full of rocky islands), these little creatures were far from being contented, and were always wishing for a change. indeed, they had been very happy, till one day when a great black squirrel swam to the island and paid them a visit. he was a very fine handsome fellow, nearly twice as large as any of the gray squirrels; he had a tail that flourished over his back, when he set it up, like a great black feather; his claws were sharp and strong, and his eyes very round and bright; he had upright ears, and long, sharp teeth, of which he made good use. the old gray squirrels called him cousin, and invited him to dinner. they very civilly set before him some acorns and beechnuts; but he proved a hungry visitor, and ate as much as would have fed the whole family for a week. after the gray squirrels had cleared away the shells and scraps, they asked their greedy guest where he came from, when blackie told them he was a great traveller, and had seen many wonderful things; that he had once lived on a forked pine at the head of the waterfall, but being tired of a dull life, he had gone out on his travels to see the world; that he had been down the lake, and along the river shore, where there were great places cut out in the thick forest, called clearings, where some very tall creatures lived, who were called men and women, with young ones called children; that though they were not so pretty as squirrels--for they had no fur on them, and were obliged to make clothes to cover them and keep them warm--they were very useful, and sowed corn and planted fruit-trees and roots for squirrels to eat, and even built large grain stores to keep it safe and dry for them. this seemed very strange, and the simple little gray squirrels were very much pleased, and said they should like very much to go down the lakes too, and see these wonderful things. the black squirrel then told them that there were many things to be seen in these clearings; that there were large beasts, called oxen, and cows, and sheep, and pigs; and these creatures had houses built for them to live in; and all the men and women seemed to employ themselves about, was feeding and taking care of them. now this cunning fellow never told his simple cousins that the oxen had to bear a heavy wooden yoke and chain, and were made to work very hard; nor that the cows were fed that they might give milk to the children; nor that the pigs were fatted to make pork; nor that the sheep had their warm fleeces cut off every year that the settlers might have the wool to spin and weave. blackie did not say that the men carried guns, and the dogs were fierce, and would hunt poor squirrels from tree to tree, frightening them almost to death with their loud, angry barking; that cats haunted the barns and houses; and, in short, that there were dangers as well as pleasures to be met with in these clearings; and that the barns were built to shelter the grain for men, and not for the benefit of squirrels. the black squirrel proved rather a troublesome guest, for he stayed several days, and ate so heartily, that the old gray squirrels were obliged to hint that he had better go back to the clearings, where there was so much food, for that their store was nearly done. when blackie found that all the nice nuts were eaten, and that even pine-kernels and beech-nuts were becoming scarce, he went away, saying that he should soon come again. the old gray squirrels were glad when they saw the tip of blackie's tail disappear, as he whisked down the trunk of the old oak; but their young ones were very sorry that he was gone, for they liked very much to listen to all his wonderful stories, which they thought were true; and they told their father and mother how they wished they would leave the dull island and the old tree, and go down the lakes, and see the wonderful things that their black cousin had described. but the old ones shook their heads, and said they feared there was more fiction than truth in the tales they had heard, and that if they were wise they would stay where they were. "what do you want more, my dear children," said their mother, "than you enjoy here? have you not this grand old oak for a palace to live in; its leaves and branches spreading like a canopy over your heads, to shelter you from the hot sun by day and the dews by night? are there not moss, dried grass, and roots beneath, to make a soft bed for you to lie upon? and do not the boughs drop down a plentiful store of brown ripe acorns? that silver lake, studded with islands of all shapes and sizes, produces cool clear water for you to drink and bathe yourselves in. look at those flowers that droop their blossoms down to its glassy surface, and the white lilies that rest upon its bosom,--will you see anything fairer or better if you leave this place? stay at home and be contented." "if i hear any more grumbling," said their father, "i shall pinch your ears and tails." so the little squirrels said no more, but i am sorry to say they did not pay much heed to their wise old mother's counsels; for whenever they were alone, all their talk was how to run away, and go abroad to see the world, as their black cousin had called the new settlement down the lakes. it never came into the heads of the silly creatures that those wonderful stories they had been told originated in an artful scheme of the greedy black squirrel, to induce them to leave their warm pleasant house in the oak, that he and his children might come and live in it, and get the hoards of grain, and nuts, and acorns, that their father and mother had been laying up for winter stores. moreover, the wily black squirrel had privately told them that their father and mother intended to turn them out of the nest very soon, and make provision for a new family. this indeed was really the case; for as soon as young animals can provide for themselves, their parents turn them off, and care no more for them. very different, indeed, is this from our parents; for they love and cherish us as long as they live, and afford us a home and shelter as long as we need it. every hour these little gray squirrels grew more and more impatient to leave the lonely little rocky island, though it was a pretty spot, and the place of their birth; but they were now eager to go abroad and seek their fortunes. "let us keep our own counsel," said nimble-foot to his sisters velvet-paw and silver-nose, "or we may chance to get our tails pulled; but be all ready for a start by early dawn to-morrow." velvet-paw and silver-nose said they would be up before sunrise, as they should have a long voyage down the lake, and agreed to rest on pine island near the opening of clear lake. "and then take to the shore and travel through the woods, where, no doubt, we shall have a pleasant time," said nimble-foot, who was the most hopeful of the party. the sun was scarcely yet risen over the fringe of dark pines that skirted the shores of the lake, and a soft creamy mist hung on the surface of the still waters, which were unruffled by the slightest breeze. the little gray squirrels awoke, and looked sleepily out from the leafy screen that shaded their mossy nest. the early notes of the wood-thrush and song-sparrow, with the tender warbling of the tiny wren, sounded sweetly in the still, dewy morning air; while from a cedar swamp was heard the trill of the green frogs, which the squirrels thought very pretty music. as the sun rose above the tops of the trees, the mist rolled off in light fleecy clouds, and soon was lost in the blue sky, or lay in large bright drops on the cool grass and shining leaves. then all the birds awoke, and the insects shook their gauzy wings which had been folded all the night in the flower-cups, and the flowers began to lift their heads, and the leaves to expand to catch the golden light. there was a murmur on the water as it played among the sedges, and lifted the broad floating leaves of the white water-lilies, with their carved ivory cups; and the great green, brown, and blue dragon-flies rose with a whirring sound, and darted to and fro among the water-flowers. it is a glorious sight to see the sun rise at any time, for then we can look upon him without having our eyes dazzled with the brightness of his beams; and though there were no men and women and little children, in the lonely waters and woods, to lift up their hands and voices in prayer and praise to god, who makes the sun to rise each day, yet no doubt the great creator is pleased to see his creatures rejoice in the blessings of light and heat. lightly running down the rugged bark of the old oak-tree, the little squirrels bade farewell to their island home--to the rocks, mosses, ferns, and flowers that had sheltered them, among which they had so often chased each other in merry gambols. they thought little of all this, when they launched themselves on the silver bosom of the cool lake. "how easy it is to swim in this clear water!" said silver-nose to her sister velvet-paw. "we shall not be long in reaching yonder island, and there, no doubt, we shall get a good breakfast." so the little swimmers proceeded on their voyage, furrowing the calm waters as they glided noiselessly along; their soft gray heads and ears and round black eyes only being seen, and the bright streaks caused by the motion of their tails, which lay flat on the surface, looking like silver threads gently floating on the stream. not being much used to the fatigue of swimming, the little squirrels were soon tired, and if it had not been for a friendly bit of stick that happened to float near her, poor velvet-paw would have been drowned; however, she got up on the stick, and, setting up her fine broad tail, went merrily on, and soon passed nimble-foot and silver-nose. the current drew the stick towards the pine island that lay at the entrance of clear lake, and velvet-paw leaped ashore, and sat down on a mossy stone to dry her fur, and watch for her brother and sister: they, too, found a large piece of birch-bark which the winds had blown into the water, and as a little breeze had sprung up to waft them along, they were not very long before they landed on the island. they were all very glad when they met again, after the perils and fatigues of the voyage. the first thing to be done was to look for something to eat, for their early rising had made them very hungry. they found abundance of pine-cones strewn on the ground, but, alas for our little squirrels! very few kernels in them; for the crossbills and chiccadees had been at work for many weeks on the trees; and also many families of their poor relations, the chitmunks or ground squirrels, had not been idle, as our little voyagers could easily guess by the chips and empty cones round their holes. so, weary as they were, they were obliged to run up the tall pine and hemlock trees, to search among the cones that grew on their very top branches. while our squirrels were busy with the few kernels they chanced to find, they were started from their repast by the screams of a large slate-coloured hawk, and velvet-paw very narrowly escaped being pounced upon and carried off in its sharp-hooked talons. silver-nose at the same time was nearly frightened to death by the keen round eyes of a cunning racoon, which had come within a few feet of the mossy branch of an old cedar, where she sat picking the seeds out of a dry head of a blue flag-flower she had found on the shore. silvy, at this sight, gave a spring that left her many yards beyond her sharp-sighted enemy. a lively note of joy was uttered by nimble-foot, for, perched at his ease on a top branch of the hemlock-tree, he had seen the bound made by silver-nose. "well jumped, silvy," said he; "mister coon must be a smart fellow to equal that. but look sharp, or you will get your neck wrung yet; i see we must keep a good look-out in this strange country." "i begin to wish we were safe back again in our old one," whined silvy, who was much frightened by the danger she had just escaped. "pooh, pooh, child; don't be a coward," said nimble, laughing. "cousin blackie never told us there were hawks and coons on this island," said vehret-paw. "my dear, he thought we were too brave to be afraid of hawks and coons," said nimble. "for my part, i think it is a fine thing to go out a little into the world. we should never see anything better than the sky, and the water, and the old oak-tree on that little island." "ay, but i think it is safer to see than to be seen," said silvy, "for hawks and eagles have strong beaks, and racoons sharp claws and hungry-looking teeth; and it is not very pleasant, nimble, to be obliged to look out for such wicked creatures." "oh, true indeed," said nimble; "if it had not been for that famous jump you made, silvy, and, velvet, your two admirers, the hawk and racoon, would soon have hid all your beauties from the world, and put a stop to your travels." "it is very well for brother nimble to make light of our dangers," whispered velvet-paw, "but let us see how he will jump if a big eagle were to pounce down to carry him off." "yes, yes," said silvy; "it is easy to brag before one is in danger." the squirrels thought they would now go and look for some partridge-berries, of which they were very fond, for the pine-kernels were but dry husky food after all. there were plenty of the pretty white star-shaped blossoms, growing all over the ground under the pine-trees, but the bright scarlet twin-berries were not yet ripe. in winter the partridges eat this fruit from under the snow; and it furnishes food for many little animals as well as birds. the leaves are small, of a dark green, and the white flowers have a very fine fragrant scent. though the runaways found none of these berries fit to eat, they saw some ripe strawberries among the bushes; and, having satisfied their hunger, began to grow very merry, and whisked here and there and everywhere, peeping into this hole and under that stone. sometimes they had a good game of play, chasing one another up and down the trees, chattering and squeaking as gray squirrels only can chatter and squeak, when they are gambolling about in the wild woods of canada. indeed, they made such a noise, that the great ugly black snakes lifted up their heads, and stared at them with their wicked spiteful-looking eyes, and the little ducklings swimming among the water-lilies gathered round their mother, and a red-winged blackbird perched on a dead tree gave alarm to the rest of the flock by calling out, _geck_, _geck_, _geck_, as loudly as he could. in the midst of their frolics, nimble skipped into a hollow log--but was glad to run out again; for a porcupine covered with sharp spines was there, and was so angry at being disturbed, that he stuck one of his spines into poor nimble-foot's soft velvet nose, and there it could have remained if silvy had not seized it with her teeth and pulled it out. nimble-foot squeaked sadly, and would not play any longer, but rolled himself up and went to sleep in a red-headed woodpecker's old nest; while silvy and velvet-paw frisked about in the moonlight, and when tired of play got up into an old oak which had a large hollow place in the crown of it, and fell asleep, fancying, no doubt, that they were on the rocky island in stony lake; and so we will bid them good night, and wish them pleasant dreams. * * * * * lady mary had read a long while, and was now tired; so she kissed her nurse, and said, "now, mrs. frazer, i will play with my doll, and feed my squirrel and my dormice." the dormice were two soft, brown creatures, almost as pretty and as innocent as the squirrel, and a great deal tamer; and they were called jeannette and jeannot, and would come when they were called by their names, and take a bit of cake or a lump of sugar out of the fingers of their little mistress. lady mary had two canaries, dick and pet; and she loved her dormice and birds, and her new pet, the flying squirrel, very much, and never let them want for food, or water, or any nice thing she could get for them. she liked the history of the gray squirrels very much, and was quite eager to get her book the next afternoon, to read the second part of the adventures and wanderings of the family. * * * * * part ii. which tells how the gray squirrels get on while they remained on pike island--how they behaved to their poor relations, the chitmunks--and what happened to them in the forest. it was noon when the little squirrels awoke, and, of course, they were quite ready for their breakfast; but there was no good, kind old mother to provide for their wants, and to bring nuts, acorns, roots, or fruit for them; they must now get up, go forth, and seek food for themselves. when velvet-paw and silver-nose went to call nimble-foot, they were surprised to find his nest empty; but after searching a long while, they found him sitting on the root of an up-turned tree, looking at a family of little chitmunks busily picking over the pine-cones on the ground; but as soon as one of the poor little fellows, with great labour, had dug out a kernel, and was preparing to eat it, down leaped nimble-foot and carried off the prize; and if one of the little chitmunks ventured to say a word, he very uncivilly gave him a scratch, or bit his ears, calling him a mean, shabby fellow. now the chitmunks were really very pretty. they were, to be sure, not more than half the size of the gray squirrels, and their fur was short, without the soft, thick glossy look upon it of the gray squirrels'. they were of a lively, tawny yellow-brown colour, with long black and white stripes down their backs; their tails were not so long nor so thickly furred; and instead of living in the trees, they made their nests in logs and windfalls, and had their granaries and winter houses too underground, where they made warm nests of dried moss and grass and thistledown; to these they had several entrances, so that they had always a chance of refuge if danger were nigh. like the dormice, flying squirrels, and ground hogs, they slept soundly during the cold weather, only awakening when the warm spring sun had melted the snow. [footnote: it is not quite certain that the chitmunk is a true squirrel, and he is sometimes called a striped rat. this pretty animal seems, indeed, to form a link between the rat and squirrel.] the vain little gray squirrels thought themselves much better than these little chitmunks, whom they treated with very little politeness, laughing at them for living in holes in the ground, instead of upon lofty trees, as they did; they even called them low-bred fellows, and wondered why they did not imitate their high-breeding and behaviour. the chitmunks took very little notice of their rudeness, but merely said that, if being high-bred made people rude, they would rather remain humble as they were. "as we are the head of all the squirrel families," said silver-nose, "we shall do you the honour of breakfasting with you to-day." "we breakfasted hours ago, while you lazy fellows were fast asleep," replied an old chitmunk, poking his little nose out of a hole in the ground. "then we shall dine with you; so make haste and get something good for us," said nimble-foot. "i have no doubt you have plenty of butter and hickory-nuts laid up in your holes." the old chitmunk told him he might come and get them, if he could. at this the gray squirrels skipped down from the branches, and began to run hither and thither, and to scratch among the moss and leaves, to find the entrance to the chitmunks' grain stores. they peeped under the old twisted roots of the pines and cedars, into every chink and cranny, but no sign of a granary was to be seen. [illustration: the gray squirrel and the chitmunks.] then the chitmunks said, "my dear friends, this is a bad season to visit us; we are very poor just now, finding it difficult to get a few dry pine-kernels and berries; but if you will come and see us after harvest, we shall have a store of nuts and acorns." "pretty fellows you are!" replied nimble, "to put us off with promises, when we are so hungry; we might starve between this and harvest." "if you leave this island, and go down the lake, you will come to a mill, where the red squirrels live, and where you will have fine times," said one of the chitmunks. "which is the nearest way to the mill?" asked velvet-paw. "swim to the shore, and keep the indian path, and you will soon see it." but while the gray squirrels were looking out for the path, the cunning chitmunks whisked away into their holes, and left the inquirers in the lurch, who could not tell what had become of them; for though they did find a round hole that they thought might be one of their burrows, it was so narrow that they could only poke in their noses, but could get no further--the gray squirrels being much fatter and bigger than the slim little chitmunks. "after all," said silvy, who was the best of the three, "perhaps, if we had been civil, the chitmunks would have treated us better." "well," said nimble, "if they had been good fellows, they would have invited us, as our mother did cousin blackie, and have set before us the best they had. i could find it in my heart to dig them out of their holes and give them a good bite." this was all brag on nimble's part, who was not near so brave as he wished silvy and velvet-paw to suppose he was. after spending some time in hunting for acorns they made up their minds to leave the island, and as it was not very far to the mainland, they decided on swimming thither. "indeed," said silver-nose, "i am tired of this dull place; we are not better off here than we were in the little island in stony lake, where our good old mother took care we should have plenty to eat, and we had a nice warm nest to shelter us." "ah, well, it is of no use grumbling now; if we were to go back, we should only get a scolding, and perhaps be chased off the island," said nimble. "now let us have a race, and see which of us will get to shore first;" and he leaped over velvet-paw's head, and was soon swimming merrily for the shore. he was soon followed by his companions, and in half an hour they were all safely landed. instead of going into the thick forest, they agreed to take the path by the margin of the lake, for there they had a better chance of getting nuts and fruit; but though it was the merry month of june, and there were plenty of pretty flowers in bloom, the berries were hardly ripe, and our little vagrants fared but badly. besides being hungry, they were sadly afraid of the eagles and fish-hawks that kept hovering over the water; and when they went further into the forest to avoid them, they saw a great white wood-owl, noiselessly flying out from among the close cedar swamps, that seemed just ready to pounce down upon them. the gray squirrels did not like the look of the owl's great round shining eyes, as they peered at them, under the tufts of silky white feathers, which almost hid his hooked bill, and their hearts sunk within them when they heard his hollow cry, _"ho, ho, ho, ho!" "waugh, ho!"_ dismally sounding in their ears. it was well that velvet-paw was as swift afoot as she was soft, for one of these great owls had very nearly caught her, while she was eating a filbert that she had found in a cleft branch, where a nuthatch had fixed it, while she pecked a hole in the shell. some bird of prey had scared away the poor nuthatch, and velvet-paw no doubt thought she was in luck when she found the prize; but it would have been a dear nut to her, if nimble, who was a sharp-sighted fellow, had not seen the owl, and cried, _"chit, chit, chit, chit!"_ to warn her of her danger. _"chit, chit, chit, chit!"_ cried velvet-paw, and away she flew to the very top of a tall pine-tree, springing from one tree-top to another, till she was soon out of the old owl's reach. "what shall we do for supper to-night?" said silver-nose, looking very pitifully at nimble-foot, whom they looked upon as the head of the family. "we shall not want for a good supper and breakfast too, or i am very much mistaken. do you see that red squirrel yonder, climbing the hemlock-tree? well, my dears, he has a fine store of good things in that beech-tree. i watched him run down with a nut in his teeth. let us wait patiently, and we shall see him come again for another; and as soon as he has done his meal, we will go and take ours." the red squirrel ran to and fro several times, each time carrying off a nut to his nest in the hemlock; after a while, he came no more. as soon as he was out of sight, nimble led the way and found the hoard. the beech was quite hollow in the heart; and they went down through a hole in the branch, and found a store of hazel-nuts, with acorns, hickory-nuts, butter-nuts, and beech-mast, all packed quite close and dry. they soon made a great hole in the red squirrel's store of provisions, and were just choosing some nuts to carry off with them, when they were disturbed by a scratching against the bark of the tree. nimble, who was always the first to take care of himself, gave the alarm, and he and velvet-paw, being nearest to the hole, got off safely; but poor silvy had the ill luck to sneeze, and before she had time to hide herself, the angry red squirrel sprang upon her, and gave her such a terrible cuffing and scratching, that silvy cried out for mercy. as to nimble-foot and velvet-paw, they paid no heed to her cries for help; they ran away, and left her to bear the blame of all their misdeeds as well as her own. thieves are always cowards, and are sure to forsake one another when danger is nigh. the angry red squirrel pushed poor silvy out of her granary, and she was glad to crawl away and hide herself in a hole at the root of a neighbouring tree, where she lay in great pain and terror, licking her wounds and crying to think how cruel it was of her brother and sister to leave her to the mercy of the red squirrel. it was surely very cowardly of nimble-foot and velvet-paw to forsake her in such a time of need; nor was this the only danger that befell poor silvy. one morning, when she put her nose out of the hole to look about her before venturing out, she saw seated on a branch, close beside the tree she was under, a racoon, staring full at her with his sharp cunning black eyes. she was very much afraid of him, for she thought he looked very hungry; but as she knew that racoons are very fond of nuts and fruit, she said to herself, "perhaps if i show him where the red squirrel's granary in the beech-tree is, he will not kill me." then she said very softly to him, "good mister coon, if you want a very nice breakfast, and will promise to do me no hurt, i will tell you where to find plenty of nuts." the coon eyed her with a sly grin, and said, "if i can get anything more to my taste than a pretty gray squirrel, i will take it, my dear, and not lay a paw upon your soft back." "ah, but you must promise not to touch me, if i come out and show you where to find the nuts," said silvy. "upon the word and honour of a coon!" replied the racoon, laying one black paw upon his breast; "but if you do not come out of your hole, i shall soon come and dig you out, so you had best be quick; and if you trust me, you shall come to no hurt." then silvy thought it wisest to seem to trust the racoon's word, and she came out of her hole, and went a few paces to point out the tree where her enemy the red squirrel's store of nuts was; but as soon as she saw mister coon disappear in the hollow of the tree, she bade him good-bye, and whisked up a tall tree, where she knew the racoon could not reach her; and having now quite recovered her strength, she was able to leap from branch to branch, and even from one tree to another, whenever they grew close and the boughs touched, as they often do in the grand old woods in canada, and so she was soon far, far away from the artful coon, who waited a long time, hoping to carry off poor silvy for his dinner. silvy contrived to pick up a living by digging for roots and eating such fruits as she could find; but one day she came to a grassy cleared spot, where she saw a strange-looking tent, made with poles stuck into the ground and meeting at the top, from which came a bluish cloud that spread among the trees; and as silvy was very curious, she came nearer, and at last, hearing no sound, ran up one of the poles and peeped in, to see what was within side, thinking it might be one of the fine stores of grain that people built for the squirrels, as her cousin blackie had made her believe. the poles were covered with sheets of birch-bark and skins of deer and wolves, and there was a fire of sticks burning in the middle, round which some large creatures were sitting on a bear's skin, eating something that smelt very nice. they had long black hair and black eyes and very white teeth. silvy felt alarmed at first; but thinking they must be the people who were kind to squirrels, she ventured to slip through a slit in the bark, and ran down into the wigwam, hoping to get something to eat; but in a minute the indians jumped up, and before she had time to make her escape, she was seized by a young squaw, and popped into a birch box, and the lid shut down upon her; so poor silvy was caught in a trap, and all for believing the artful black squirrel's tales. silver-nose remembered her mother's warning now when it was too late; she tried to get out of her prison, but in vain; the sides of the box were too strong, and there was not so much as a single crack for a peep-hole. after she had been shut up some time, the lid was raised a little, and a dark hand put in some bright, shining hard grains for her to eat. this was indian corn, and it was excellent food; but silvy was a long, long time before she would eat any of this sweet corn, she was so vexed at being caught and shut up in prison; besides, she was very much afraid that the indians were going to eat her. after some days, she began to get used to her captive state; the little squaw used to feed her, and one day took her out of the box and put her into a nice light cage, where there was soft green moss to be on, a little bark dish with clear water, and abundance of food. the cage was hung up on the bough of a tree near the wigwam, to swing to and fro as the wind waved the tree. here silvy could see the birds flying to and fro, and listen to their cheerful songs. the indian women and children had always a kind look or a word to say to her; and her little mistress was so kind to her, that silvy could not help loving her. she was very grateful for her care; for when she was sick and sulky, the little squaw gave her bits of maple-sugar and parched rice out of her hand. at last silvy grew tame, and would suffer herself to be taken out of her house to sit on her mistress's shoulder or in her lap; and though she sometimes ran away and hid herself, out of fun, she would not have gone far from the tent of the good indians on any account. sometimes she saw the red squirrels running about in the forest, but they never came very near her; but she used to watch all day long for her brother nimble-foot, or sister velvet-paw, but they were now far away from her, and no doubt thought that she had been killed by the red squirrel, or eaten up by a fox or racoon. [illustration: the pet squirrel] * * * * * "nurse, i am so glad pretty silvy was not killed, and that the good indians took care of her." "it is time now, my dear, for you to put down your book," said mrs. frazer, "and to-morrow we will read some more." * * * * * part iii. how the squirrels got to the mill at the rapids--and what happened to velvet-paw. nimble-foot and velvet-paw were so frightened by the sight of the red squirrel, that they ran down the tree without once looking back to see what had become of poor silver-nose; indeed, the cowards, instead of waiting for their poor sister, fled through the forest as if an army of red squirrels were behind them. at last they reached the banks of the lake, and jumping into the water, swam down the current till they came to a place called the "narrow," where the wide lake poured its waters through a deep rocky channel, not more than a hundred yards wide; here the waters became so rough and rapid, that our little swimmers thought it wisest to go on shore. they scrambled up the steep rocky bank, and found themselves on a wide open space, quite free from trees, which they knew must be one of the great clearings the traveller squirrel had spoken of. there was a very high building on the water's edge that they thought must be the mill that the chitmunks had told them they would come to; and they were in good spirits, as they now expected to find plenty of good things laid up for them to eat, so they went in by the door of the mill. "dear me, what a dust there is!" said nimble, looking about him; "i think it must be snowing." "snow does not fall in hot weather," said velvet; "besides, this white powder is very sweet and nice;" and she began to lick some of the flour that lay in the cracks of the floor. "i have found some nice seeds here," said nimble, running to the top of a sack that stood with the mouth untied; "these are better than pine-kernels, and not so hard. we must have come to one of the great grain-stores that our cousin told us of. well, i am sure the people are very kind to have laid up so many good things for us squirrels." when they had eaten as much as they liked, they began to ran about to see what was in the mill. presently, a man came in, and they saw him take one of the sacks of wheat, and pour it into a large upright box, and in a few minutes there was a great noise--a sort of buzzing, whirring, rumbling, dashing, and splashing--and away ran velvet-paw in a terrible fright, and scrambled up some beams and rafters to the top of the wall, where she sat watching what was going on, trembling all over; but finding that no harm happened to her, took courage, and after a time ceased to be afraid. she saw nimble perched on a cross-beam looking down very intently at something; so she came out of her corner and ran to him, and asked what he was looking at. "there is a great black thing here," said he, "i cannot tell what to make of him at all; it turns round and round, and dashes the water about, making a fine splash." (this was the water-wheel.) "it looks very ugly indeed," said velvet-paw, "and makes my head giddy to look at it; let us go away. i want to find out what these two big stones are doing," said she; "they keep rubbing against one another, and making a great noise." "there is nothing so wonderful in two big stones, my dear," said nimble; "i have seen plenty bigger than these in stony lake." "but they did not move about as these do; and only look here at the white stuff that is running down all the time into this great box. well, we shall not want for food for the rest of our lives; i wish poor silvy were with us to share in our good luck." they saw a great many other strange things in the mill, and they thought that the miller was a very funny-looking creature; but as they fancied that he was grinding the wheat into flour for them, they were not much afraid of him; they were more troubled at the sight of a black dog, which spied them, out as they sat on the beams of the mill, and ran about in a great rage, harking at them in a frightful way, and never left off till the miller went out of the mill, when he went away with his master, and did not return till the next day; but whenever he saw the gray squirrels, this little dog, whose name was "pinch," was sure to set up his ears and tail, and snap and bark, showing all his sharp white teeth in a very savage manner. not far from the mill was another building: this was the house the miller lived in; and close by the house was a barn, a stable, a cow-shed, and a sheep-pen, and there was a garden full of fruit and flowers, and an orchard of apple-trees close by. one day velvet-paw ran up one of the apple-trees and began to eat an apple; it looked very good, for it had a bright red cheek, but it was hard and sour, not being ripe. "i do not like these big, sour berries," said she, making wry faces as she tried to get the bad taste out of her mouth by wiping her tongue on her fore-paw. nimble had found some ripe currants; so he only laughed at poor velvet for the trouble she was in. these little gray squirrels now led a merry life; they found plenty to eat and drink, and would not have had a care in the world, if it had not been for the noisy little dog pinch, who let them have no quiet, barking and baying at them whenever he saw them; and also for the watchful eyes of a great tomcat, who was always prowling about the mill, or creeping round the orchard and outhouses; so that with all their good food they were not quite free from causes of fear, and no doubt sometimes wished themselves safe back on the little rocky island, in their nest in the old oak-tree. time passed away--the wheat and the oats were now ripe and fit for the scythe, for in canada the settlers mow wheat with an instrument called a "cradle scythe." the beautiful indian corn was in bloom, and its long pale green silken threads were waving in the summer breeze. the blue jays were busy in the fields of wheat; so were the red-winged blackbirds, and the sparrows, and many other birds, great and small; field-mice in dozens were cutting the straw with their sharp teeth, and carrying off the grain to their nests; and as to the squirrels and chitmunks, there were scores of them--black, red, and gray--filling their cheeks with the grain, and laying it out on the rail fences and on the top of the stumps to dry, before they carried it away to their storehouses. and many a battle the red and the black squirrels had, and sometimes the gray joined with the red, to beat the black ones off the ground. nimble-foot and his sister kept out of these quarrels as much as they could; but once they got a severe beating from the red squirrels for not helping them to drive off the saucy black ones, which would carry away the little heaps of wheat, as soon as they were dry. "we do not mean to trouble ourselves with laying up winter stores," said nimble one day to his red cousins; "don't you see peter, the miller's man, has got a great waggon and horses, and is carting wheat into the barn for us?" the red squirrel opened his round eyes very wide at this speech. "why, cousin nimble," he said, "you are not so foolish as to think the miller is harvesting that grain for your use. no, no, my friend; if you want any, you must work as we do, or run the chance of starving in the winter." then nimble told him what their cousin blackie had said. "you were wise fellows to believe such nonsense!" said the red squirrel. "these mills and barns are all stored for the use of the miller and his family; and what is more, my friend, i can tell you that men are no great friends to us poor squirrels, and will kill us when they get the chance, and begrudge us the grain we help ourselves to." "well, that is very stingy," said velvet-paw; "i am sure there is enough for men and squirrels too. however, i suppose all must live, so we will let them have what we leave; i shall help myself after they have stored it up in yonder barn." "you had better do as we do, and make hay while the sun shines," said the red squirrel. "i would rather play in the sunshine, and eat what i want here," said idle velvet-paw, setting up her fine tail like a feather over her back, as she ate an ear of corn. "you are a foolish, idle thing, and will come to no good," said the red squirrel. "i wonder where you were brought up?" i am very sorry to relate that velvet-paw did not come to a good end, for she did not take the advice of her red cousin, to lay up provisions during the harvest; but instead of that, she ate all day long, and grew fat and lazy; and after the fields were all cleared, she went to the mill one day, when the mill was grinding, and seeing a quantity of wheat in the feeder of the mill, she ran up a beam and jumped down, thinking to make a good dinner from the grain she saw; but it kept sliding down and sliding down so fast, that she could not get one grain, so at last she began to be frightened, and tried to get up again, but, alas! this was not possible. she cried out to nimble to help her; and while he ran to look for a stick for her to raise herself up by, the mill-wheel kept on turning, and the great stones went round faster and faster, till poor velvet-paw was crushed to death between them. nimble was now left all alone, and sad enough he was, you may suppose. "ah," said he, "idleness is the ruin of gray squirrels, as well as men, so i will go away from this place, and try and earn an honest living in the forest. i wish i had not believed all the fine tales my cousin the black squirrel told me." then nimble went away from the clearing, and once more resolved to seek his fortune in the woods. he knew there were plenty of butter-nuts, acorns, hickory-nuts, and beech-nuts, to be found, besides many sorts of berries; and he very diligently set to work to lay up stores against the coming winter. as it was now getting cold at night, nimble-foot thought it would be wise to make himself a warm house; so he found out a tall hemlock-pine that was very thick and bushy at the top; there was a forked branch in the tree, with a hollow just fit for his nest. he carried twigs of birch and beech, and over these he laid dry green moss, which he collected on the north side of the cedar trees, and some long gray moss that he found on the swamp maples, and then he stripped the silky threads from the milk-weeds, and the bark of the cedar and birch-trees. these he gnawed fine, and soon made a soft bed; he wove and twisted the sticks, and roots, and mosses together, till the walls of his house were quite thick, and he made a sort of thatch over the top with dry leaves and long moss, with a round hole to creep in and out of. making this warm house took him many days' labour; but many strokes will fell great oaks, so at last nimble-foot's work came to an end, and he had the comfort of a charming house to shelter him from the cold season. he laid up a good store of nuts, acorns, and roots: some he put in a hollow branch of the hemlock-tree close to his nest; some he hid in a stump, and another store he laid under the roots of a mossy cedar. when all this was done, he began to feel very lonely, and often wished, no doubt, that he had had his sisters silvy and velvet-paw with him, to share his nice warm house; but of silvy he knew nothing, and poor velvet-paw was dead. one fine moonlight night, as nimble was frisking about on the bough of a birch-tree, not very far from his house in the hemlock, he saw a canoe land on the shore of the lake, and some indians with an axe cut down some bushes, and having cleared a small piece of ground, begin to sharpen the ends of some long poles. these they stuck into the ground close together in a circle; and having stripped some sheets of birch-bark from the birch trees close by, they thatched the sides of the hut, and made a fire of sticks inside. they had a dead deer in the canoe, and there were several hares and black squirrels, the sight of which rather alarmed nimble; for he thought if they killed one sort of squirrel, they might another, and he was very much scared at one of the indians firing off a gun close by him. the noise made him fall down to the ground, and it was a good thing that it was dark among the leaves and grass where the trunk of the tree threw its long shadow, so that the indian did not see him, or perhaps he might have loaded the gun again, and shot our little friend, and made soup of him for his supper. nimble ran swiftly up a pine-tree, and was soon out of danger. while he was watching some of the indian children at play, he saw a girl come out of the hut with a gray squirrel in her arms; it did not seem at all afraid of her, but nestled to her shoulder, and even ate out of her hand; and what was nimble's surprise to see that this tame gray squirrel was none other than his own pretty sister silver-nose, whom he had left in the hollow tree when they both ran away from the red squirrel. you may suppose the sight of his lost companion was a joyful one; he waited for a long, long time, till the fire went out, and all the indians were fast asleep, and little silvy came out to play in the moonlight, and frisk about on the dewy grass as she used to do. then nimble when he saw her, ran down the tree, and came to her and rubbed his nose against her, and licked her soft fur, and told her who he was, and how sorry he was for having left her in so cowardly a manner, to be beaten by the red squirrel. [illustration: nimble recovering his sister.] the good little silvy told nimble not to fret about what was past, and then she asked him for her sister velvet-paw. nimble had a long sorrowful tale to tell about the death of poor velvet; and silvy was much grieved. then in her turn she told nimble all her adventures, and how she had been caught by the indian girl, and kept, and fed, and tamed, and had passed her time very happily, if it had not been for thinking about her dear lost companions. "but now," she said, "my dear brother, we will never part again; you shall be quite welcome to share my cage, and my nice stores of indian corn, rice, and nuts, which my kind mistress gives me." "i would not be shut up in a cage, not even for one day," said nimble, "for all the nice fruit and grain in canada. i am a free squirrel, and love my liberty. i would not exchange a life of freedom in these fine old woods, for all the dainties in the world. so, silvy, if you prefer a life of idleness and ease to living with me in the forest, i must say good-bye to you." "but there is nothing to hurt us, my dear nimble--no racoons, no foxes, nor hawks, nor owls, nor weasels; if i see any hungry-looking birds or beasts, i have a safe place to run to, and never need be hungry!" "i would not lead a life like that, for the world," said nimble. "i should die of dulness; if there is danger in a life of freedom, there is pleasure too, which you cannot enjoy, shut up in, a wooden cage, and fed at the will of a master or mistress.--well, i shall be shot if the indians awake and see me; so i shall be off." silvy looked very sorrowful; she did not like to part from her newly-found brother, but she was unwilling to forego all the comforts and luxuries her life of captivity afforded her. "you will not tell the indians where i live, i hope, silvy, for they would think it a fine thing to hunt me with their dogs, or shoot me down with their bows and arrows." at these words silvy was overcome with grief, so jumping off from the log on which she was standing, she said, "nimble, i will go with you and share all your perils, and we will never part again." she then ran into the wigwam; and going softly to the little squaw, who was asleep, licked her hands and face, as if she would say, "good-bye, my good kind friend; i shall not forget all your love for me, though i am going away from you for ever." silvy then followed nimble into the forest, and they soon reached his nice comfortable nest in the tall hemlock-tree. * * * * * "nurse, i am glad silvy went away with nimble; are not you? poor nimble must have been so lonely without her; and then you know it must have seemed so hard to him if silvy had preferred staying with the indians to living with him." "those who have been used to a life of ease do not willingly give it up, my dear lady. thus you see love for her old companion was stronger even than love of self. but i think you must have tired yourself with reading so long to me." "indeed, nurse, i must read a little more, for i want you to hear how silvy and nimble amused themselves in the hemlock-tree." then lady mary continued reading as follows:-silvy was greatly pleased with her new home, which was as soft and as warm as clean dry moss, hay, and fibres of roots could make it. the squirrels built a sort of pent or outer roof of twigs, dry leaves, and roots of withered grass, which was pitched so high that it threw off the rain and kept the inner house very dry. they worked at this very diligently, and also laid up a store of nuts and berries. they knew that they must not only provide plenty of food for the winter, but also for the spring months, when they could get little to eat beside the buds and bark of some sort of trees, and the chance seeds that might still remain in the pine-cones. thus the autumn months passed away very quickly and cheerfully with the squirrels while preparing for the coming winter. half the cold season was spent, too, in sleep; but on mild, sunny days the little squirrels, roused by the bright light of the sunbeams on the white and glittering snow, would shake themselves, rub their black eyes, and after licking themselves clean from dust, would whisk out of their house, and indulge in merry gambols up and down the trunks of the trees, skipping from bough to bough, and frolicking over the hard, crisp snow, which scarcely showed on its surface the delicate print of their tiny feet and the sweep of their fine light feathery tails. sometimes they met with some little shrewmice running on the snow. these very tiny things are so small, they hardly look bigger than a large black beetle. they lived on the seeds of the tall weeds, which they might be seen climbing and clinging to, yet were hardly heavy enough to weigh down the heads of the dry stalks. it is pretty to see the footprints of these small shrewmice on the surface of the fresh fallen snow in the deep forest glades. they are not dormant during the winter, like many of the mouse tribe, for they are up and abroad at all seasons; for however stormy and severe the weather may be, they do not seem to heed its inclemency. surely, children, there is one who cares for the small tender things of earth, and shelters them from the rude blasts. nimble-foot and silver-nose often saw their cousins, the black squirrels, playing in the sunshine, chasing each other merrily up and down the trees or over the brush-heaps; their jetty coats and long feathery tails forming a striking contrast with the whiteness of the snow. sometimes they saw a few red squirrels too, but there was generally war between them and the black ones. in these lonely forests everything seems still and silent during the long wintry season, as if death had spread a white pall over the earth and hushed every living thing into silence. few sounds are heard through the winter days to break the deathlike silence that reigns around, excepting the sudden rending and cracking of the trees in the frosty air, the fall of a decayed branch, the tapping of a solitary woodpecker--two or three small species of which still remain after all the summer-birds are flown--and the gentle, weak chirp of the little tree-creeper, as it runs up and down the hemlocks and pines, searching the crevices of the bark for insects. yet in all this seeming death lies hidden the life of myriads of insects, the huge beast of the forest asleep in his lair, with many of the smaller quadrupeds and forest-birds, that, hushed in lonely places, shall awake to life and activity as soon as the sun-beams once more dissolve the snow, unbind the frozen streams, and loosen the bands which held them in repose. at last the spring, the glad, joyous spring, returned. the leaf-buds, wrapped within their gummy and downy cases, began to unfold; the dark green pines, spruce, and balsams began to shoot out fresh spiny leaves, like tassels, from the ends of every bough, giving out the most refreshing fragrance; the crimson buds of the young hazels and the scarlet blossoms of the soft maple enlivened the edges of the streams; the bright coral bark of the dogwood seemed as if freshly varnished, so brightly it glowed in the morning sunshine; the scream of the blue jay, the song of the robin and woodthrush, the merry note of the chiccadee and plaintive cry of the pheobe, with loud hammering strokes of the great red-headed woodpecker, mingled with the rush of the unbound forest streams, gurgling and murmuring as their water flowed over their stones, and the sighing of the breeze playing in the tree tops, made pleasant and ceaseless music. and then, as time passed on, the trees unfolded all their bright green leaves--the buds and forest flowers opened; and many a bright bell our little squirrels looked down upon, from their leafy home, that the eye of man had never seen. it was pleasant for our little squirrels, just after sunset, in the still summer evenings, when the small silver stars came stealing out one by one in the blue sky, to play among the cool dewy leaves of the grand old oaks and maples; to watch the fitful flash of the fireflies, as they glanced here and there, flitting through the deep gloom of the forest boughs, now lost to sight, as they closed their wings, now flashing out like tiny tapers, borne aloft by unseen hands in the darkness. where that little creek runs singing over its mossy bed, and the cedar-boughs bend down so thick and close that only a gleam of the bright water can be seen, even in the sunlight, there the fireflies crowd, and the damp foliage is all alive with their dazzling light. in this sweet, still hour, just at the dewfall, the rush of whirring wings may be heard from the islands, or in the forest, bordering on the water's edge; and out of hollow logs and hoary trunks of trees come forth the speckled night-hawks, cutting the air with their thin, sharp, wide wings and open beak, ready to intrap the unwary moth or musquito that float so joyously upon the evening air. one after another, sweeping in wider circles, come forth these birds of prey, till the whole air seems alive with them; darting hither and thither, and uttering wild, shrill screams, as they rise higher and higher in the upper air, till some are almost lost to sight. sometimes one of them will descend with a sudden swoop to the lower regions of the air, just above the highest treetops, with a hollow, booming sound, as if some one were blowing in an empty vessel. at this hour, too, the bats would quit their homes in hollow trees and old rocky banks, and flit noiselessly abroad over the surface of the quiet, star-lit lake: and now also would begin the shrill, trilling note of the green-frog, and the deep, hoarse bass of the bull-frog, which ceases only at intervals, through the long, warm summer night. you might fancy a droll sort of dialogue was being carried on among them. at first a great fellow, the patriarch of the swamp, will put up his head, which looks very much like a small pair of bellows, with yellow leather sides, and say, in a harsh, guttural tone, "go to bed, go to bed, go to bed." after a moment's pause, two or three will rise and reply, "no, i won't; no, i won't; no, i won't." then the old fellow, with a growl, replies, "get out, get out, get out." and forthwith, with a rush, and a splash, and a dash, they raise a chorus of whirring, grating, growling, grunting, whistling sounds, which make you stop up your ears. when all this hubbub has lasted some minutes, there is a pop and a splash, and down go all the heads under the weeds and mud; and after another pause, up comes the aged father of the frogs, and begins again with the old story, "go to bed, go to bed, go to bed," and so on. during the heat of the day the bull-frogs are silent; but as the day declines and the air becomes cooler, they recommence their noisy chorus. i suppose these sounds, though not very pleasant to the ears of men, may not be so disagreeable to those of wild animals. i daresay neither nimble nor silvy were in the least annoyed by the hoarse note of the bull-frog, but gambolled as merrily among the boughs and fresh dewy leaves as if they were listening to sweet music or the songs of the birds. the summer passed away very happily; but towards the close of the warm season the squirrels, nimble and silvy, resolved to make a journey to the rocky island on stony lake, to see the old squirrels, their father and mother. so they started at sunrise one fine pleasant day, and travelled along; till one cool evening, just as the moon was beginning to rise above the pine-trees, they arrived at the little rocky islet where they first saw the light. but when they eagerly ran up the trunk of the old oak tree, expecting to have seen their old father and mother, they were surprised and terrified by seeing a wood-owl in the nest. as soon as she espied our little squirrels she shook her feathers and set up her ears--for she was a long-eared owl--and said,-"what do you want here?--ho, ho, ho, ho!" "indeed, mrs. owl," said nimble, "we come hither to see our parents, whom we left here a year ago. can you tell us where we shall find them?" the owl peered out of her ruff of silken feathers, and, after wiping her sharp bill on her breast, said,-"your cousin, the black squirrel, beat your father and mother out of their nest a long time ago, and took possession of the tree and all that was in it; and they brought up a large family of little ones, all of which i pounced upon one after another, and ate. indeed, the oaks here belong to my family; so, finding these impudent intruders would not quit the premises, i made short work of the matter, and took the law into my own hands." "did you kill them?" asked silvy, in a trembling voice. "of course i did; and very nice, tender meat they were," replied the horrid old owl, beginning to scramble out of the nest, and eyeing the squirrels at the same time with a wicked look. "but you did not eat our parents too?" asked the trembling squirrels. "yes, i did. they were very tough, to be sure; but i am not very particular." the gray squirrels, though full of grief and vain regret, were obliged to take care of themselves. there was, indeed, no time to be lost; so made a hasty retreat. they crept under the roots of an old tree, where they lay till the morning. they were not much concerned for the death of the treacherous black squirrel who had told so many stories, got possession of their old nest, and caused the death of their parents; but they said, "we will go home again to our dear old hemlock-tree, and never leave it more." so these dear little squirrels returned to their forest home, and may be living there yet. * * * * * "nurse," said lady mary, "how do you like the story?" mrs. frazer said it was a very pretty one. "perhaps my dear little pet is one of nimble or silvy's children. you know, nurse, they might have gone on their travels too, when they were old enough, and then your brother may have chopped down the tree, and found them in the forest." "but your squirrel, lady mary, is a flying squirrel, and these were only common gray ones, which belong to a different species. besides, my dear, this history is but a fable." "i suppose, nurse," said the child, looking up in her nurse's face, "squirrels do not really talk." "no, my dear; they have not the use of speech as we have. but in all ages people have written little tales called fables, in which they make birds and beasts speak as if they were men and women, it being an easy method of conveying instruction." "my book is only a fable, then, nurse? i wish it had been true: but it is very pretty." chapter iv. squirrels--the chitmunks--docility of a pet one--roguery of a yankee pedlar--return of the musical chitmunk to his master's bosom--sagacity of a black squirrel. "mrs. frazer, are you very busy just now?" asked lady mary, coming up to the table where her nurse was ironing some lace. "no, my dear, not very busy, only preparing these lace edgings for your frocks. do you want me to do anything for you?" "i only want to tell you that my governess has promised to paint my dear squirrel's picture, as soon as it is tame and will let me hold it in my lap, without flying away. i saw a picture of a flying squirrel to-day, but it was very ugly--not at all like mine; it was long and flat, and its legs looked like sticks, and it was stretched out, just like one of those muskrat skins that you pointed out to me in a fur store. mamma said it was drawn so, to show it while it was in the act of flying; but it is not pretty--it does not show its beautiful tail, nor its bright eyes, nor soft silky fur. i heard a lady tell mamma about a nest full of dear, tiny little flying squirrels, that her brother once found in a tree in the forest; he tamed them, and they lived very happily together, and would feed from his hand. they slept in the cold weather like dormice; in the daytime they lay very still, but would come out, and gambol and frisk about at night. but somebody left the cage open, and they all ran away except one; and that he found in his bed, where it had run for shelter, with its little nose under his pillow. he caught the little fellow, and it lived with him till the spring, when it grew restless, and one day got away, and went off to the woods." "these little creatures are impatient of confinement, and will gnaw through the woodwork of the cage to get free, especially in the spring of the year. doubtless, my dear, they pine for the liberty which they used to enjoy before they were captured by man." "nurse, i will not let my little pet be unhappy. as soon as the warm days come again, and my governess has taken his picture, i will let him go free. are there many squirrels in this part of canada?" "not so many as in upper canada, lady mary. they abound more in some years than in others. i have seen the beech and oak woods swarming with black squirrels. my brothers have brought in two or three dozen in one day. the indians used to tell us that want of food, or very severe weather setting in in the north, drive these little animals from their haunts. the indians, who observe these things more than we do, can generally tell what sort of winter it will be, from the number of wild animals in the fall." "what do you mean by the fall, nurse?" "the autumn in canada, my lady, is called so from the fall of the leaves. i remember one year was remarkable for the great number of black, gray, and flying squirrels; the little striped chitmunk was also plentiful, and so were weasels and foxes. they came into the barns and granaries, and into the houses, and destroyed great quantities of grain; besides gnawing clothes that were laid out to dry; this they did to line their nests with. next year there were very few to be seen." "what became of them, nurse?" "some, no doubt, fell a prey to their enemies, the cats, foxes, and weasels, which were also very numerous that year; and the rest, perhaps, went back to their own country again." "i should like to see a great number of these pretty creatures travelling together," said lady mary. "all wild animals, my dear, are more active by night than by day, and probably make their long journeys during that season. the eyes of many animals and birds are so formed, that they see best in the dim twilight, as cats, and owls, and others. our heavenly father has fitted all his creatures for the state in which he has placed them." "can squirrels swim like otters and beavers, nurse? if they come to a lake or river, can they cross it?" "i think they can, lady mary; for though these creatures are not formed, like the otter, or beaver, or muskrat, to get their living in the water, they are able to swim when necessity requires them to do so. i heard a lady say that she was crossing a lake, between one of the islands and the shore, in a canoe, with a baby on her lap. she noticed a movement on the surface of the water. at first she thought it might be a water-snake, but the servant lad who was paddling the canoe said it was a red squirrel and he tried to strike it with the paddle; but the little squirrel leaped out of the water to the blade of the paddle, and sprang on the head of the baby, as it lay on her lap; from whence it jumped to her shoulder, and before she had recovered from her surprise, was in the water again, swimming straight for the shore, where it was soon safe in the dark pine woods." this feat of the squirrel delighted lady mary, who expressed her joy at the bravery of the little creature. besides, she said she had heard that gray squirrels, when they wished to go to a distance in search of food, would all meet together, and collect pieces of bark to serve them for boats, and would set up their broad tails like sails, to catch the wind, and in this way cross large sheets of water. "i do not think this can be true," observed mrs. frazer; "for the squirrel, when swimming, uses his tail as an oar or rudder to help the motion, the tail lying flat on the surface of the water; nor do these creatures need a boat, for god, who made them, has given them the power of swimming at their need." "nurse, you said something about a ground squirrel, and called it a chitmunk. if you please, will you tell me something about it, and why it is called by such a curious name?" "i believe it is the indian name for this sort of squirrel, my dear. the chitmunk is not so large as the black, red, and gray squirrels. it is marked along the back with black and white stripes; the rest of its fur is a yellowish tawny colour. it is a very playful, lively, cleanly animal, somewhat resembling the dormouse in its habits. it burrows underground. its nest is made with great care, with many galleries which open at the surface, so that when attacked by an enemy, it can run from one to another for security. for the squirrel has many enemies; all the weasel tribe, cats, and even dogs attack them. cats kill great numbers. the farmer shows them as little mercy as he does rats and mice, as they are very destructive, and carry off vast quantities of grain, which they store in hollow trees for use. not contenting themselves with one granary, they have several in case one should fail, or perhaps become injured by accidental causes. thus do these simple little creatures teach us a lesson of providential care for future events." "how wise of these little chitmunks to think of such precautions!" said lady mary. "nay, my dear child, it is god's wisdom, not theirs. these creatures work according to his will; and so they always do what is fittest and best for their own comfort and safety. man is the only one of god's creatures who disobeys him." these words made lady mary look grave, till her nurse began to talk to her again about the chitmunk. "it is very easily tamed, and becomes very fond of its master. it will obey his voice, come at a call or a whistle, sit up and beg, take a nut or an acorn out of his hand, run up a stick, nestle in his bosom, and become quite familiar. my uncle had a tame chitmunk that was much attached to him; it lived in his pocket or bosom; it was his companion by day and by night. when he was out in the forest lumbering, or on the lake fishing, or in the fields at work, it was always with him. at meals it sat by the side of his plate, eating what he gave it; but he did not give it meat, as he thought that might injure its health. one day he and his pet were in the steam-boat, going to toronto. he had been showing off the little chitmunk's tricks to the ladies and gentlemen on board the boat, and several persons offered him money if he would sell it; but my uncle was fond of the little thing, and would not part with it. however, just before he left the boat, he missed his pet; for a cunning yankee pedlar on board had stolen it. my uncle knew that his little friend would not desert its old master; so he went on deck where the passengers were assembled, and whistled a popular tune familiar to the chitmunk. the little fellow, on hearing it, whisked out of the pedlar's pocket, and running swiftly along a railing against which he was standing, soon sought refuge his master's bosom." lady mary clapped her hands with joy, and said, "i am so glad, nurse, that the chitmunk ran back to his old friend. i wish it had bitten that yankee pedlar's fingers." "when angry these creatures will bite very sharply, set up their tails, and run to and fro, and make a chattering sound with their teeth. the red squirrel is very fearless for its size, and will sometimes turn round and face you, set up its tail, and scold. but they will, when busy eating the seeds of the sunflower or thistle, of which they are very fond, suffer you to stand and watch them without attempting to run away. when near their granaries, or the tree where their nest is, they are unwilling to leave it, running to and fro, and uttering their angry notes; but if a dog is near they make for a tree, and as soon as they are out of his reach, turn round to chatter and scold, as long as he remains in sight. when hard pressed, the black and flying squirrels will take prodigious leaps, springing from bough to bough, and from tree to tree. in this manner they baffle the hunters, and travel a great distance over the tops of the trees. once i saw my uncle and brothers chasing a large black squirrel. he kept out of reach of the dogs, as well as out of sight of the men, bypassing round and round the tree as he went up, so that they could never get a fair shot at him. at last, they got so provoked that they took their axes, and set to work to chop down the tree. it was a large pine tree, and took them some time. just as the tree was ready to fall, and was wavering to and fro, the squirrel, that had kept on the topmost bough, sprang nimbly to the next tree, and then to another, and by the time the great pine had reached the ground, the squirrel was far away in his nest among his little ones, safe from hunters, guns, and dogs." "the black squirrel must have wondered, i think, nurse, why so many men and dogs tried to kill such a little creature as he was. do the black squirrels sleep in the winter as well as the flying squirrels and chitmunks?" "no, lady mary; i have often seen them on bright days chasing each other over logs and brush-heaps, and running gaily up the pine trees. they are easily seen from the contrast which their jetty black coats make with the sparkling white snow. these creatures feed a good deal on the kernels of the pines and hemlocks; they also eat the buds of some trees. they lay up great stores of nuts and grain for winter use. the flying squirrels sleep much, and in the cold season lie heaped upon each other, for the sake of warmth. as many as seven or eight may be found in one nest asleep. they sometimes awaken, if there come a succession of warm days, as in the january thaw; for i must tell you that in this country we generally have rain and mild weather for a few days in the beginning of january, when the snow nearly disappears from the ground. about the 12th, the weather sets in again steadily cold; when the little animals retire once more to sleep in their winter cradles, which they rarely leave till the hard weather is over." "i suppose, nurse, when they awake, they are glad to eat some of the food they have laid up in their granaries?" "yes, my dear, it is for this they gather their hoards in mild weather; which also supports them in the spring months, and possibly even during the summer, till grain and fruit are ripe. i was walking in the harvest field one day, where my brothers were cradling wheat. as i passed along the fence, i noticed a great many little heaps of wheat lying here and there on the rails, also upon the tops of the stumps in the field. i wondered at first who could have placed them there, but presently noticed a number of red squirrels running very swiftly along the fence, and perceived that they emptied their mouths of a quantity of the new wheat, which they had been diligently employed in collecting from the ears that lay scattered over the ground. these little gleaners did not seem to be at all alarmed at my presence, but went to and fro as busy as bees. on taking some of the grains into my hand, i noticed that the germ or eye of the kernels was bitten clean out." "what was that for, nurse? can you tell me?" "my dear young lady, i did not know at first, till, upon showing it to my father, he told me that the squirrels destroyed the germ of the grain, such as wheat or indian corn, that they stored up for winter use, that it might not sprout when buried in the ground or in a hollow tree." "this is very strange, nurse," said the little girl. "but i suppose," she added, after a moment's thought, "it was god who taught the squirrels to do so. but why would biting out the eye prevent the grain from growing?" "because the eye or bud contains the life of the plant; from it springs the green blade, and the stem that bears the ear, and the root that strikes down to the earth. the flowery part, which swells and becomes soft and jelly-like, serves to nourish the young plant till the tender fibres of the roots are able to draw moisture from the ground." lady mary asked if all seeds had an eye or germ. her nurse replied that all had, though some were so minute that they looked no bigger than dust, or a grain of sand; yet each was perfect in its kind, and contained the plant that would, when sown in the earth, bring forth roots, leaves, buds, flowers, and fruits in due season. "how glad i should have been to see the little squirrels gleaning the wheat, and laying it in the little heaps on the rail fence. why did they not carry it at once to their nests?" "they laid it out in the sun and wind to dry; for if it had been stored away while damp, it would have moulded, and have been spoiled. the squirrels were busy all that day; when i went to see them again, the grain was gone. i saw several red squirrels running up and down a large pine tree, which had been broken by the wind at the top; and there, no doubt, they had laid up stores. these squirrels did not follow each other in a straight line, but ran round and round in a spiral direction, so that they never hindered each other, nor came in each other's way two were always going up, while the other two were going down. they seem to work in families; for the young ones, though old enough to get their own living, usually inhabit the same nest, and help to store up the grain for winter use. they all separate again in spring. the little chitmunk does not live in trees, but burrows in the ground, or makes its nest in some large hollow log. it is very pretty to see the little chitmunks, on a warm spring day, running about and chasing each other among the moss and leaves; they are not bigger than mice, but look bright and lively. the fur of all the squirrel tribe is used in trimming, but the gray is the best and most valuable. it has often been remarked by the indians, and others, that the red and black squirrels never live in the same place; for the red, though the smallest, beat away the black ones. the flesh of the black squirrel is very good to eat; the indians also eat the red." lady mary was very glad to hear all these things, and quite forgot to play with her doll. "please, mrs. frazer," said the little lady, "tell me now about beavers and muskrats." but mrs. frazer was obliged to go out on business; she promised, however, to tell lady mary all she knew about these animals another day. chapter v. indian baskets--thread plants--maple sugar-tree--indian ornamental works --racoons. it was some time before lady mary's nurse could tell her any more stories. she received a letter from her sister-in-law, informing her that her brother was dangerously ill, confined to what was feared would prove his deathbed, and that he earnestly desired to see her before he died. the governor's lady, who was very kind and good to all her household, readily consented to let mrs. frazer go to her sick relation. lady mary parted from her dear nurse, whom she loved very tenderly, with much regret. mrs. frazer told her that it might be a fortnight before she could return, as her brother lived on the shores of one of the small lakes, near the head waters of the otonabee river, a great way off; but she promised to return as soon as she could, and, to console her young mistress for her absence, promised to bring her some indian toys from the backwoods. the month of march passed away pleasantly, for lady mary enjoyed many delightful sleigh-drives with her papa and mamma, who took every opportunity to instruct and amuse her. on entering her nursery one day, after enjoying a long drive in the country, great was her joy to find her good nurse sitting quietly at work by the store. she was dressed in deep mourning, and looked much thinner and paler than when she had last seen her. the kind little girl knew, when she saw her nurse's black dress, that her brother must be dead; and with the thoughtfulness of a true lady, remained very quiet, and did not annoy her with questions about trifling matters: she spoke low and gently to her, and tried to comfort her when she saw large tears falling on the work which she held in her hand, and kindly said, "mrs. frazer, you had better lie down and rest yourself, for you must be tired after your long, long journey." the next day mrs. frazer seemed to be much better; and she showed lady mary an indian basket made of birch-bark, very richly wrought with coloured porcupine-quills, and which had two lids. lady mary admired the splendid colours, and strange patterns on the basket. "it is for you, my dear," said her nurse; "open it, and see what is in it." lady mary lifted one of the lids, and took out another small basket, of a different shape and pattern. it had a top, which was sewn down with coarse-looking thread, which her nurse told her was nothing but the sinews of the deer, dried and beaten fine, and drawn out like thread. then, taking an end of it in her hand, she made lady mary observe that these coarse threads could be separated into a great number of finer ones, sufficiently delicate to pass through the eye of a fine needle, or to string tiny beads. "the indians, my lady, sew with the sinews of the wild animals they kill. these sinews are much stronger and tougher than thread, and therefore are well adapted to sew together such things as moccasins, leggings, and garments made of the skins of wild animals. the finer threads are used for sewing the beads and quill ornaments on moccasins, sheaths, and pouches, besides other things that i cannot now think of. "oh yes, i must tell you one thing more they make with these sinews. how do you think the indian women carry their infants when they go on a long journey? they tie them to a board, and wrap them up in strong bandages of linen or cotton, which they sew firmly together with their stoutest thread, and then they suspend the odd-looking burden to their backs. by this contrivance, they lessen the weight of the child considerably, and are able to walk many miles without showing signs of fatigue. it is also much more pleasant and healthy for the child than to be uncomfortably cramped up in its mother's arms, and shifted about from side to side, as first one arm aches, and then the other. "the indian women sew some things with the roots of the tamarack, or larch; such as coarse birch-baskets, hark canoes, and the covering of their wigwams. they call this 'wah-tap' [footnote: asclepia parvilfora.] (wood-thread), and they prepare it by pulling off the outer rind and steeping it in water. it is the larger fibres which have the appearance of small cordage when coiled up and fit for use. this 'wah-tap' is very valuable to these poor indians. there is also another plant, called indian hemp, which is a small shrubby kind of milk-weed, that grows on gravelly islands. it bears white flowers, and the branches are long and slender; under the bark there is a fine silky thread covering the wood; this is tough, and can be twisted and spun into cloth. it is very white and fine, and does not easily break. there are other plants of the same family, with pods full of fine shining silk; but these are too brittle to spin into thread. this last kind, lady mary, which is called milk-weed flytrap, i will show you in summer." [footnote: asclepia syrica.] but while mrs. frazer was talking about these plants, the little lady was examining the contents of the small birch-box. "if you please, nurse, will you tell me what these dark shining seeds are?" "these seeds, my dear, are indian rice; an old squaw, mrs. peter noggan, gave me this as a present for 'governor's daughter;'" and mrs. frazer imitated the soft, whining tone of the indian, which made lady mary laugh. "the box is called a 'mowkowk.' there is another just like it, only there is a white bird--a snow bird, i suppose it is intended for--worked on the lid." the lid of this box was fastened down with a narrow slip of deer skin, lady mary cut the fastening, and raised the lid--"nurse, it is only yellow sand, how droll, to send me a box of sand!" "it is not sand, taste it, lady mary." "it is sweet--it is sugar! ah! now i know what it is that this kind old squaw has sent me, it is maple-sugar, and is very nice i will go and show it to mamma." "wait a little, lady mary, let us see what there is in the basket besides the rice and the maple sugar." "what a lovely thing this is, dear nurse! what can it be?" "it is a sheath for your scissors, my dear, it is made of doe skin, embroidered with white beads, and coloured quills split fine, and sewn with deer sinew thread look at these curious bracelets." lady mary examined the bracelets, and said she thought they were wrought with beads, but mrs. frazer told her that what she took for beads were porcupine quills, cut out very finely, and strung in a pattern. they were not only neatly but tastefully made, the pattern, though a grecian scroll, having been carefully imitated by some indian squaw. "this embroidered knife sheath is large enough for a hunting knife," said lady mary, "a '_couteau de chasse_,'--is it not?" "this sheath was worked by the wife of isaac iron, an educated chief of the mud lake indians, she gave it to me because i had been kind to her in sickness." "i will give it to my dear papa," said lady mary, "for i never go out hunting, and do not wish to carry a large knife by my side;" and she laid the sheath away, after having admired its gay colours, and particularly the figure of a little animal worked in black and white quills. "this is a present for your doll; it is a doll's mat, woven by a little girl, aged seven years, rachel muskrat; and here is a little canoe of red cedar, made by a little indian boy." "what a darling little boat! and there is a fish carved on the paddles." this device greatly pleased lady mary, who said she would send rachel a wax doll, and little moses a knife or some other useful article, when mrs. frazer went again to the lakes; but when her nurse took out of the other end of the basket a birch-bark cradle, made for her doll, worked very richly, she clapped her hands for joy, saying, "ah, nurse, you should not have brought me so many pretty things at once, for i am too happy!" the remaining contents of the basket consisted of seeds and berries, and a small cake of maple-sugar, which mrs. frazer had made for the young lady. this was very different in appearance from the indian sugar; it was bright and sparkling, like sugar-candy, and tasted sweeter. the other sugar was dry, and slightly bitter: mrs. frazer told lady mary that this peculiar taste was caused by the birch-bark vessels, which the indians used for catching the sap, as it flowed from the maple-trees. "i wonder who taught the indians how to make maple-sugar?" asked the child. "i do not know," replied the nurse. "i have heard that they knew how to make this sugar when the discoverers of the country found them. [footnote: however this may be, the french settlers claim the merit of converting the sap into sugar.] it may be that they found it out by accident. the sugar-maple when wounded in march or april, yields a great deal of sweet liquor. some indians may have supplied themselves with this juice, when pressed for want of water; for it flows so freely in warm days in spring, that several pints can be obtained from one tree in the course of the day. by boiling this juice, it becomes very sweet; and at last when all the thin watery part has gone off in steam, it becomes thick, like honey; by boiling it still longer, it turns to sugar, when cold. so you see, my dear, that the indians may have found it out by boiling some sap, instead of water, and letting it remain on the fire till it grew thick." "are there many kinds of maple-trees, that sugar can be made from, nurse?" asked the little girl. "yes, [footnote: all the maple tribe are of a saccharine nature. sugar has been made in england from the sap of the sycamore.] my lady; but i the sugar-maple yields the best sap for the purpose; that of the birch-tree, i have heard, can be made into sugar; but it would require a larger quantity; weak wine, or vinegar, is made by the settlers of birch-sap, which is very pleasant tasted. the people who live in the backwoods, and make maple-sugar, always make a keg of vinegar at the sugaring off." "that must be very useful; but if the sap is sweet, how can it be made into such sour stuff as vinegar?" then nurse tried to make lady mary understand that the heat of the sun, or of a warm room, would make the liquor ferment, unless it had been boiled a long time, so as to become very sweet, and somewhat thick. the first fermentation, she told her, would give only a winy taste; but if it continued to ferment a great deal, it turned sour, and became vinegar. "how very useful the maple-tree is, nurse! i wish there were maples in the garden, and i would make sugar, molasses, wine, and vinegar; and what else would i do with my maple-tree?" mrs. frazer said,--"the wood makes excellent fuel; but is also used in making bedsteads, chests of drawers, and many other things. there is a very pretty wood for furniture, called 'bird's-eye maple;' the drawers in my bedroom that you think so pretty are made of it; but it is a disease in the tree that causes it to have these little marks all through the wood. in autumn, this tree improves the forest landscape, for the bright scarlet leaves of the maple give a beautiful look to the woods. the red maple (_acer rubrus_), another species, is very bright when the leaves are changing, but it gives no sugar." "then i will not let it grow in my garden, nurse!" "it is good for other purposes, my dear. the settlers use the bark dyeing wool; and a jet black ink can be made from it, by boiling down the bark with a bit of copperas, in an iron vessel; so you see it is useful. the bright red flowers of this tree look very pretty in the spring; it grows best by the water-side, and some call it 'the swamp-maple.'" this was all mrs. frazer could tell lady mary about the maple-trees. many little girls, as young as the governor's daughter, would have thought it very dull to listen to what her nurse had to say about plants and trees; but lady mary would put aside her dolls and toys, to stand beside her to ask questions, and listen to her answers; the more she heard the more she desired to hear, about these things. "the hearing ear, and the seeing eye, are two things that are never satisfied," saith the wise king solomon. lady mary was delighted with the contents of her indian basket, and spent the rest of her play-hours in looking at the various articles it contained, and asking her nurse questions about the materials of which they were made. some of the bark-boxes were lined with paper, but the doll's cradle was not, and lady mary perceived that the inside of it was very rough, caused by the hard ends of the quills with which it was ornamented. at first she could not think how the squaws worked with the quills, as they could not possibly thread them through the eye of a needle; but her nurse told her that when they want to work any pattern in birch-bark, they trace it with some sharp-pointed instrument, such as a nail, or bodkin, or even a sharp thorn, with which they pierce holes close together round the edge of the leaf, or blade, or bird they have drawn out on the birch-bark; into these holes they insert one end of the quill, the other end is then drawn through the opposite hole, pulled tight, bent a little, and cut off on the inside. this any one of my young readers may see, if they examine the indian baskets or toys, made of birch-bark. "i have seen the squaws in their wigwams at work on these things, sitting cross-legged on their mats,--some had the quilla in a little bark dish on their laps, while others held them in their mouths--not a very safe nor delicate way; but indians are not very nice in some of their habits," said mrs. frazer. "the prettiest sort of indian work is done in coloured moose-hair, with which, formed into a sort of rich embroidery, they ornament the moccasins, hunting-knife, sheaths, and birch-bark baskets and toys." "nurse, if you please, will you tell me what this little animal is designed to represent?" said lady mary, pointing to the figure of the racoon worked in quills on the sheath of the hunting-knife. "it is intended for a racoon, my lady," replied her nurse. "is the racoon a pretty-creature like my squirrel?" "it is much larger than your squirrel; its fur is not nearly so soft or so fine; the colour being black and gray, or dun; the tail barred across, and bushy,--you have seen many sleigh-robes made of racoon-skins, with the tails looking like tassels at the back of the sleighs." "oh yes, and a funny, cunning-looking face peeping out too!" "the face of this little animal is sharp, and the eyes black and keen, like a fox; the feet bare, like the soles of our feet, only black and leathery; their claws are very sharp; they can climb trees very fast. during the winter the racoons sleep in hollow trees, and cling together for the sake of keeping each other warm. the choppers find as many as seven or eight in one nest, fast asleep. most probably the young family remain with the old ones until spring, when they separate. the racoon in its habits is said to resemble the bear; like the bear, it lives chiefly on vegetables, especially indian corn, but i do not think that it lays by any store for winter. they sometimes awake if there come a few warm days, but soon retire again to their warm, cozy nests." "racoons will eat eggs; and fowls are often taken by them,--perhaps this is in the winter, when they wake up and are pressed by hunger." her nurse said that one of her friends had a racoon which he kept in a wooden cage, but he was obliged to have a chain and collar to keep him from getting away, as he used to gnaw the bars asunder; and had slily stolen away and killed some ducks, and was almost as mischievous as a fox, but was very lively and amusing in his way. lady mary now left her good nurse, and took her basket, with all its indian treasures, to show to her mamma, with whom we leave her for the present. chapter vi. canadian birds--snow sparrow--robin redbreast--canadian flowers--american porcupine. "spring is coming, nurse--spring is coming at last!" exclaimed the governor's little daughter, joyfully. "the snow is going away at last! i am tired of the white snow; it makes my eyes ache. i want to see the brown earth, and the grass, and the green moss, and the pretty flowers again." "it will be some days before this deep covering of snow is gone. the streets are still slippery with ice, which it will take some time, my lady, to soften." "but, nurse, the sun shines, and there are little streams of water running along the streets in every direction. see, the snow is gone from under the bushes and trees in the garden. i saw some dear little birds flying about, and i watched them perching on the dry stalks of the tall, rough weeds, and they appeared to be picking seeds out of the husks. can you tell me what birds they were?" "i saw the flock of birds you mean, lady mary. they are the common snow-sparrows [footnote: fringilla nivalia.]--almost our earliest visitants, for they may be seen in april, mingled with the brown song-sparrow, [footnote: fringilla malodia.] flitting about the garden fences, or picking the stalks of the tall mullein and amaranths, to find the seeds that have not been shaken out by the autumn winds; and possibly they also find insects cradled in the husks of the old seed-vessels. these snow-sparrows are very hardy; and though some migrate to the states in the beginning of winter, a few stay in the upper province, and others come back to us before the snow is all gone." "they are very pretty, neat-looking birds, nurse; dark slate colour, with white breasts." "when i was a little girl i used to call them my quaker-birds, they looked so neat and prim. in the summer you may find their nests in the brush-heaps near the edge of the forest. they sing a soft, low song." "nurse, i heard a bird singing yesterday when i was in the garden; a little, plain, brown bird, nurse." "it was a song-sparrow, lady mary. this cheerful little bird comes with the snow-birds, often before the robin." "oh, nurse, the robin! i wish you would show me a darling robin redbreast. i did not know they lived in canada." "the bird that we call the robin in this country, my dear, is not like the little redbreast you have seen at home. our robin is twice as large. though in shape resembling the european robin, i believe it is really a kind of thrush. [footnote: turdus migratoria.] it migrates in the fall, and returns to us early in the spring." "what is migrating, nurse? is it the same as emigrating?" "yes, lady mary; for when a person leaves his native country, and goes to live in another country, he is said to emigrate. this is the reason why the english, scotch, and irish families who come to live in canada are called emigrants." "what colour are the canadian robins, nurse?" "the head is blackish; the back, lead colour; and the breast is pale orange--not so bright a red, however, as the real robin." "have you ever seen their nests, nurse?" "yes, my dear, many of them. it is not a pretty nest. it is large, and coarsely put together, of old dried grass, roots, and dead leaves, plastered inside with clay, mixed with bits of straw, so as to form a sort of mortar. you know, lady mary, that the blackbird and thrush build nests, and plaster them in this way?" the little lady nodded her head in assent. "nurse, i once saw a robin's nest when i was in england. it was in the side of a mossy ditch, with primroses growing close beside it. it was made of green moss, and lined with white wool and hair. it was a pretty nest, with nice eggs in it; much better than your canadian robin's nest." [illustration: watching the birds] "our robins build in upturned roots, in the corners of rail fences, and in the young pear-trees and apple-trees in the orchard. the eggs are a greenish-blue. the robin sings a full, clear song; indeed, he is our best songster. we have so few singing-birds that we prize those that do sing very much." "does the canadian robin come into the house in winter, and pick up the crumbs, as the dear little redbreasts do at home?" "no, lady mary; they are able to find plenty of food abroad when they return to us, but they hop about the houses and gardens pretty freely. in the fall, before they go away, they may be seen in great numbers, running about the old pastures, picking up worms and seeds." "do people see the birds flying away together, nurse?" "not often, my dear; for most birds congregate together in small flocks, and depart unnoticed. many go away at night, when we are sleeping; and some fly very high on cloudy days, so that they are not distinctly seen against the dull, gray sky. the water-birds--such as geese, swans, and ducks--take their flight in large bodies. they are heard making a continual noise in the air; and may be seen grouped in long lines, or in the form of the letter v lying on its side (>), the point generally directed southward or westward, the strongest and oldest birds acting as leaders. when tired, these aquatic generals fall backward into the main body, and are replaced by others." lady mary was much surprised at the order and sagacity displayed by wild-fowl in their flight; and mrs. frazer told her that some other time she would tell her some more facts respecting their migration to other countries. "nurse, will you tell me something about birds' nests, and what they make them of?" "birds that live chiefly in the depths of the forest, or in solitary places, far away from the haunts of men, build their nests of ruder materials, and with less care in the manner of putting them together. dried grass, roots, and a little moss, seem to be the materials they make use of. it has been noticed by many persons, my dear, that those birds that live near towns and villages and cleared farms, soon learn to make better sorts of nests, and to weave into them soft and comfortable things, such--as silk, wool, cotton, and hair." "that is very strange, nurse." "it is so, lady mary; but the same thing may also be seen among human beings. the savage nations are contented with rude dwellings made of sticks and cane, covered with skins' of beasts, bark, or reeds; but when they once unite together in a more social state, and live in villages and towns, a desire for improvement takes place. the tent of skins or the rude shanty is exchanged for a hut of better shape; and this in time gives place to houses and furniture of more useful and ornamental kinds." "nurse, i heard mamma say that the britons who lived in england were once savages, and lived in caves, huts, and thick woods; that they dressed in skins, and painted their bodies like the indians." "when you read the history of england, you will see that such was the case," said mrs. frazer. "nurse, perhaps the little birds like to see the flowers, and the sunshine, and the blue sky, and men's houses. i will make my garden very pretty this spring, and plant some nice flowers, to please the dear little birds." many persons would have thought such remarks very foolish in our little lady. but mrs. frazer, who was a good and wise woman, did not laugh at the little girl; for she thought it was a lovely thing to see her wish to give happiness to the least of god's creatures, for it was imitating his own goodness and mercy, which delight in the enjoyment of the things which he has called into existence. "please, mrs. frazer, will you tell me which flowers will be first in bloom?" "the very first is a plant that comes up without leaves." "nurse, that is the christmas-rose. [footnote: winter aconite] i have seen it in the old country." "no, lady mary; it is the colt's-foot. [footnote: tussilago fartara] it is a common-looking, coarse, yellow-blossomed flower: it is the first that blooms after the snow. then comes the pretty snow flower, or hepatica. its pretty tufts of white, pink, or blue starry flowers may be seen on the open clearing, or beneath the shade of the half cleared woods or upturned roots and sunny banks. like the english daisy, it grows everywhere, and the sight of its bright starry blossoms delights every eye. the next flower that comes in is the dog's tooth violet." [footnote: erythronium] "what a droll name!" exclaimed lady mary, laughing. "i suppose it is called so from the sharpness of the flower leaves (petals), my lady, but it is a beautiful yellow lily. the leaves are also pretty, they are veined or clouded with milky white or dusky purple. the plant has a bulbous root, and in the month of april sends up its single, nodding, yellow spotted flowers. they grow in large beds, where the ground is black, moist, and rich, near creeks on the edge of the forest." "do you know any other pretty flowers, nurse?" "yes, my lady, there are a great many that bloom in april and may. white violets, and blue and yellow of many kinds. and then there is the spring beauty, [footnote: claytonia] a delicate little flower, with pink striped bells, and the everlasting flower, [footnote: graphalium] and saxifrage, and the white and dark red lily, that the yankees call 'white and red death.' [footnote: trillium or wake robin] these have three green leaves about the middle of the stalk, and the flower is composed of three pure white or deep red leaves--petals my father used to call them: for my father, lady mary, was a botanist, and knew the names of all the flowers, and i learned them from him. the most curious is the moccasin flower. the early one is bright golden yellow, and has a bag or sack which is curiously spotted with ruby red, and its petals are twisted like horns. there is a hard, thick piece that lies down just above the sack or moccasin part; and if you lift this up, you see a pair of round, dark spots like eyes, and the indians say it is like the face of a hound, with the nose and black eyes plain to be seen. two of the shorter, curled, brown petals look like flapped ears, one on each side of the face. there is a more beautiful sort, purple and white, which blooms in august. the plant is taller, and bears large, lovely flowers." "and has it a funny face and ears too, nurse?" "yes, my dear, but the face is more like an ape's: it is even more distinct than in the yellow moccasin. when my brother and i were children, we used to fold back the petals, and call them baby flowers: the sack, we thought, looked like a baby's white frock." lady mary was much amused at this notion. "there are a great number of very beautiful and also very curious flowers growing in the forest," said mrs. frazer. "some of them are used in medicine, and some by the indians for dyes, with which they stain the baskets and porcupine quills. one of our earliest flowers is called the blood-root. [footnote: sanguivaria.] it comes up a delicate, white-folded bud, within a vine-shaped leaf, which is veined on the under side with orange yellow. if the stem or the root of this plant be broken, a scarlet juice drops out very fast. it is with this the squaws dye red and orange colours." "i am glad to hear this, nurse. now i can tell my dear mamma what the baskets and quills are dyed with." "the flower is very pretty, like a white crocus, only not so large. you saw some crocuses in the conservatory the other day, i think, my dear lady." "oh yes; yellow ones, and purple too, in a funny china thing, with holes in its back, and the flowers came up through the holes. the gardener said it was a porcupine. "please, nurse, tell me of what colours real porcupine quills are?" "they are white and grayish-brown." then lady mary brought a print and showed it to her nurse, saying,-"nurse, is the porcupine like this picture?" "the american porcupine, my dear, is not so large as this species: its spines are smaller and weaker. it resembles the common hedgehog more nearly. it is an innocent animal, feeding mostly on roots and small fruits. it burrows in dry, stony hillocks, and passes the cold weather in sleep. it goes abroad chiefly during the night. the spines of the canadian porcupine are much weaker than those of the african species. the indians trap these creatures, and eat their flesh. they bake them in their skins in native ovens--holes made in the earth, lined with stones, which they make very hot, covering them over with embers." [footnote: there is a plant of the lily tribe, upon whose roots the porcupine feeds, as well as on wild bulbs and berries, and the bark of the black spruce and larch. it will also eat apples and indian corn.] mrs. frazer had told lady mary all she knew about the porcupine, when campbell, the footman, came to say that her papa wanted to see her. chapter vii. indian bag--indian embroidery--beaver's tail--beaver architecture-of the beaver--beaver tools--beaver meadows. when lady mary went down to her father, he presented her with a beautiful indian bag, which he had brought from lake huron, in the upper province. it was of fine doeskin, very nicely wrought with dyed moose-hair, and the pattern was very pretty; the border was of scarlet feathers on one side, and blue on the other, which formed a rich silken fringe at each edge. this was a present from the wife of a chief on manitoulin island. lady mary was much delighted with her present, and admired this new-fashioned work in moose-hair very much. the feathers, mrs. frazer told her, were from the summer red-bird or war-bird, and the blue-bird, both of which lady mary said she had seen. the indians use these feathers as ornaments for their heads and shoulders on grand occasions. [illustration: the present from father] lady mary recollected hearing her mamma speak of indians who wore mantles and dresses of gay feathers. they were chiefs of the sandwich islands she believed, who had these superb habits. "you might tell me something about these indians, nurse," said little mary. "i might occupy whole days in describing their singular customs, my dear," replied mrs. frazer, "and i fear you would forget one half of what i told you. but there are numerous interesting books in reference to them, which you will read as you grow older. you would be much amused at the appearance of an indian chief, when dressed out in the feathers we have been speaking of, his face covered with red paint, his robe flowing loose and free, and his calumet, or pipe, gaily decked with ribbons. the indians are great orators, being distinguished by their graceful gestures, their animated air, and their vigorous and expressive style. they are tall well made, and athletic, their complexion of a reddish copper colour, their hair long, coarse, and jet black. their senses are remarkably acute, and they can see and hear with extraordinary distinctness. they will follow up the track of a man or animal through the dense woods and across the vast plains by trifling signs, which no european can detect. their temperament is cold and unimpassioned, they are capable of enduring extreme hunger and thirst, and seem almost insensible to pain. under certain circumstances they are generous and hospitable, but when once roused, their vengeance is not easily satisfied. they will pursue a real or supposed foe with a hatred which never tires, and gratify their lust of cruelty by exposing him, when captured, to the most horrible torments. they support themselves by fishing and on the spoils of the chase; and though a few tribes have become partially civilized, and devoted themselves to the peaceful pursuits of husbandry, the majority retire further and further into the dense forests of the west as the white man continues his advance, and wander, like their forefathers, about the lonely shores of the great lakes, and on the banks of the vast rolling rivers." "thank you, nurse; i will not forget what you have told me. and now, have you anything more to say about birds and flowers? i can never weary of hearing about such interesting objects." "i promised to tell you about the beavers, my lady," replied mrs. frazer. "oh yes, about the beavers that make the dams and the nice houses, and cut down whole trees. i am glad you can tell me something about those curious creatures; for mamma bought me a pretty picture, which i will show you, if you please," said the little girl. "but what is this odd-looking, black thing here? is it a dried fish? it must be a black bass. yes, nurse, i am sure it is." the nurse smiled, and said: "it is not a fish at all, my dear; it is a dried beaver's tail. i brought it from the back lakes when i was at home, that you might see it. see, my lady, how curiously the beaver's tail is covered with scales; it looks like some sort of black leather, stamped in a diaper pattern. before it is dried it is very heavy, weighing three or four pounds. i have heard my brothers and some of the indian trappers say, that the animal makes use of its tail to beat the sides of the dams and smooth the mud and clay, as a plasterer uses a trowel. some people think otherwise, but it seems well suited from its shape and weight for the purpose, and, indeed, as the walls they raise seem to have been smoothed by some implement, i see no reason to disbelieve the story." "and what do the beavers make dams with, nurse?" "with small trees cut into pieces, and drawn in close to each other; and then the beavers fill the spaces between with sods, and stones, and clay, and all sorts of things, that they gather together and work up into a solid wall. the walls are made broad at the bottom, and are several feet in thickness, to make them strong enough to keep the water from washing through them. the beavers assemble together in the fall, about the months of october and november, to build their houses and repair their dams. they prefer running water, as it is less likely to freeze. they work in large parties, sometimes fifty or a hundred together, and do a great deal in a short time. they work during the night." "of what use is the dam, nurse?" "the dam is for the purpose of securing a constant supply of water, without which they could not live. when they have enclosed the beaver-pond, they separate into family parties of eleven or twelve, perhaps more, sometimes less, and construct dwellings, which are raised against the inner walls of the dam. these little huts have two chambers, one in which they sleep, which is warm and soft and dry, lined with roots and sedges and dry grass, and any odds and ends that serve their purpose. the feeding place is below; in this is stored the wood or the bark on which they feed. the entrance to this is under water, and hidden from sight; but it is there that the cunning hunter sets his trap to catch the unsuspecting beavers. "a beaver's house is large enough to allow two men a comfortable sleeping-room, and it is kept very clean. it is built of sticks, stones, and mud, and is well plastered outside and in. the trowel the beaver uses in plastering is his tail; this is considered a great delicacy at the table. their beds are made of chips, split as fine as the brush of an indian broom, these are disposed in one corner, and kept dry and sweet and clean. it is the bark of the green wood that is used by the beavers for food; after the stick is peeled, they float it out at a distance from the house. many good housewives might learn a lesson of neatness and order from the humble beaver. [illustration: beavers making a dam] "in large lakes and rivers the beavers make no dams, they have water enough without putting themselves to that trouble; but in small creeks they dam up, and make a better stop-water than is done by the millers. the spot where they build their dams is the most labour-saving place in the valley, and where the work will stand best. when the dam is finished, not a drop of water escapes; their work is always well done." "nurse, do not beavers, and otters, and musk rats feel cold while living in the water; and do they not get wet?" "no, my dear; they do not feel cold, and cannot get wet, for the thick coating of hair and down keeps them warm, and these animals, like ducks and geese, and all kinds of water-fowls, are supplied with a bag of oil, with which they dress their coats, and that throws off the moisture; for you know, lady mary, that oil and water will not mix. all creatures that live in the water are provided with oily fur, or smooth scales, that no water can penetrate; and water-birds, such as ducks and geese, have a little bag of oil, with which they dress their feathers." "are there any beavers in england, nurse?" asked lady mary. "no, my lady, not now; but i remember my father told me that this animal once existed in numbers in different countries of europe; he said they were still to be found in norway, sweden, russia, germany, and even in france. [footnote: the remains of beaver dams in wales prove that this interesting animal was once a native of great britain.] the beaver abounds mostly in north america, and in its cold portions; in solitudes that no foot of man but the wild indian has ever penetrated--in lonely streams and inland lakes--these harmless creatures are found fulfilling god's purpose, and doing injury to none. "i think if there had been any beavers in the land of israel in solomon's time, that the wise king who spake of ants, spiders, grasshoppers, and conies, [footnote: the rock rabbits of judea.] would have named the beavers also, as patterns of gentleness, cleanliness, and industry. they work together in bands, and live in families, and never fight or disagree. they have no chief or leader; they seem to have neither king nor ruler; yet they work in perfect love and harmony. how pleasant it would be, lady mary, if all christian people would love each other as these poor beavers seem to do." "nurse, how can beavers cut down trees; they have neither axes nor saws?" "here, lady mary, are the axes and saws with which god has provided these little creatures;" and mrs. frazer showed lady mary two long curved tusks, of a reddish-brown colour, which she told her were the tools used by the beavers to cut and gnaw the trees; she said she had seen trees as thick as a man's leg that had been felled by these simple tools. lady mary was much surprised that such small animals could cut through anything so thick. "in nature," replied her nurse, "we often see great things done by very small means. patience and perseverance work well. the poplar, birch, and some other trees, on which beavers feed, and which they also use in making their dams, are softer and more easily cut than oak, elm, or birch would be; these trees are found growing near the water, and in such places as the beavers build in. the settler owes to the industrious habits of this animal those large open tracts of land called beaver meadows, covered with long, thick, rank grass, which he cuts down and uses as hay. these beaver meadows have the appearance of dried-up lakes. the soil is black and spongy; for you may put a stick down to the depth of many feet. it is only in the months of july, august, and september, that they are dry. bushes of black alder, with a few poplars and twining shrubs, are scattered over the beaver meadows, some of which have high stony banks, and little islands of trees. on these are many pretty wild-flowers; among others, i found growing on the dry banks some real hare-bells, both blue and white." "ah, dear nurse, hare-bells! did you find real hare-bells, such as grow on the bonny highland hills among the heather? i wish papa would let me go to the upper province to see the beaver meadows, and gather the dear blue-bells." "my father, lady mary, wept when i brought him a handful of these flowers; for he said it reminded him of his highland home. i have found these pretty bells growing on the wild hills about rice lake, near the water, as well as near the beaver meadows." "do the beavers sleep in the winter time, nurse?" "they do not lie torpid, as racoons do, though they may sleep a good deal; but as they lay up a great store of provisions for the winter, of course they must awake sometimes to eat it." lady mary thought so too. "in the spring, when the long warm days return, they quit their winter retreat, and separate in pairs, living in holes in the banks of lakes and rivers, and do not unite again till the approach of the cold calls them together to prepare for winter, as i told you." "who calls them all to build their winter houses?" asked the child. "the providence of god, usually called instinct, that guides these animals; doubtless it is the law of nature given to them by god. "there is a great resemblance in the habits of the musk-rat and the beaver. they all live in the water; all separate in the spring, and meet again in the fall to build and work together; and, having helped each other in these things, they retire to a private dwelling, each family to its own. the otter does not make a dam, like the beaver, and i am not sure that, like the beaver, it works in companies: it lives on fish and roots; the musk-rat on shell-fish and roots; and the beaver on vegetable food mostly. musk-rats and beavers are used for food, but the flesh of the otter is too fishy to be eaten." "nurse, can people eat musk-rats?" asked lady mary, with surprise. "yes, my lady, in the spring months the hunters and indians reckon them good food. i have eaten them myself, but i did not like them, they were too fat. musk-rats build a little house of rushes, and plaster it, they have two chambers, and do not lie torpid, they build in shallow, rushy places in lakes but in spring they quit their winter houses and are often found in holes among the roots of trees. they live on mussels and shell fish. the fur is used in making caps, and hats, and fur gloves." "nurse, did you ever see a tame beaver?" "yes, my dear, i knew a squaw who had a tame beaver, which she used to take out in her canoe with her, and it sat in her lap, or on her shoulder, and was very playful." just then the dinner bell rang, and as dinner at government house waits for no one, lady mary was obliged to defer hearing more about beavers until another time. chapter viii. indian boy and his pets--tame beaver at home--kitten, wildfire--pet racoon and the spaniel puppies--canadian flora. "nurse, you have told me a great many nice stories; now i can tell you one, if you would like to hear it;" and the governor's little daughter fixed her bright eyes, beaming with intelligence, on the face of her nurse, who smiled, and said she should like very much to hear the story. "you must guess what it is to be about, nurse." "i am afraid i shall not guess right. is it 'little red riding hood,' or 'old mother hubbard,' or 'jack the giant-killer?'" "oh, nurse, to guess such silly stories!" said the little girl, stopping her ears. "those are too silly for me even to tell baby! my story is a nice story about a darling tame beaver. major pickford took me on his knee and told me the story last night." mrs. frazer begged lady mary's pardon for making such foolish guesses, and declared she should like very much to hear major pickford's story of the tame beaver. "well, nurse, you must know there was once a gentleman who lived in the bush, on the banks of a small lake, somewhere in canada, a long, long way from montreal. he lived all alone in a little log-house, and spent his time in fishing and trapping and hunting; and he was very dull, for he had no wife, and no little child like me to talk to. the only people whom he used to see were some french lumberers; and now and then the indians would come in their canoes and fish on his lake, and make their wigwams on the lake-shore, and hunt deer in the wood. the gentleman was very fond of the indians, and used to pass a great deal of his time with them, and talk to them in their own language. "well, nurse, one day he found a poor little indian boy who had been lost in the woods, and was half starved, sick, and weak; and the kind gentleman took him home to his house, and fed and nursed him till he got quite strong again. was not that good, nurse?" "it was quite right, my lady. people should always be kind to the sick and weak, and especially to a poor indian stranger. i like the story very much, and shall be glad to hear more about the indian boy." "nurse, there is not a great deal more about the indian boy; for when the indian party to which he belonged returned from hunting, he went away to his own home; but i forgot to tell you that the gentleman had often said how much he should like to have a young beaver to make a pet of. he was very fond of pets; he had a dear little squirrel, just like mine, nurse, a flying squirrel, which he had made so tame that it slept in his bosom and lived in his pocket, where he kept nuts and acorns and apples for it to eat; and he had a racoon too, nurse--only think, a real racoon! and major pickford told me something so droll about the racoon, only i want first to go on with the story about the beaver." "one day, as the gentleman was sitting by the fire reading, he heard a slight noise, and when he looked up was quite surprised to see an indian boy in a blanket coat, with his dark eyes fixed upon his face, while his long black hair hung down on his shoulders. he looked quite wild, and did not say a word, but only opened his blanket coat, and showed a brown-furred animal asleep on his breast. what do you think it was, nurse?" "a young beaver, my lady." "yes, nurse, it was a little beaver. the good indian boy had caught it and tamed it on purpose to bring it to his white friend, who had been so good to him. "i cannot tell you all the amusing things the indian boy said about the beaver, though the major told them to me; but i cannot talk like an indian, you know, mrs. frazer. after the boy went away, the gentleman set to work and made a little log-house for his beaver to live in, and set it in a corner of the shanty, and he hollowed a large sugar trough for its water, that it might have water to wash in, and cut down some young willows and poplars and birch trees for it to eat. and the little beaver grew very fond of its new master, it would fondle him just like a little squirrel, put its soft head on his knee, and climb up on his lap. he taught it to eat bread, sweet cake, and biscuit, and even roast and boiled meat, and it would drink milk too. "well, nurse, the little beaver lived very happily with this kind gentleman till the next fall, and then it began to get very restless and active, as if it were tired of doing nothing. one day its master heard of the arrival of a friend some miles off so he left the beaver to take care of itself, and went away, but he did not forget to give it some green wood, and plenty of water to drink and play in. he stayed several days, for he was very glad to meet with a friend in that lonely place, but when he came back, he could not open his door, and was obliged to get in at the window. what do you think the beaver had done? it had built a dam against the side of the trough, and a wall across the door, and it had dug up the hearth and the floor, and carried the earth and the stones to help to make its dam, and puddled it with water, and made such work. the house was in perfect confusion, with mud, chips bark, and stone, and oh, nurse, worse than all that, it had gnawed through the legs of the table and chairs, and they were lying on the floor in such a state; and it cost the poor gentleman so much trouble to put things to rights again, and make more chairs and another table! and when i laughed at the pranks of that wicked beaver--for i could not help laughing--the major pinched my ear, and called me a mischievous puss." mrs. frazer was very much entertained with the story, and she told lady mary that she had heard of tame beavers doing such things before; for in the season of the year when beavers congregate together to repair their works and build their winter houses, those that are in confinement become restless and unquiet, and show the instinct that moves these animals to provide their winter retreats, and lay up their stores of food. "nurse," said lady mary, "i did not think that beavers and racoons could be taught to eat sweet cake, and bread, and meat." "many animals learn to eat very different food to what they are accustomed to live upon in a wild state. the wild cat lives on raw flesh; while the domestic cat, you know, my dear, will eat cooked meat, and even salt meat, with bread and milk and many other things. i knew a person who had a black kitten called 'wildfire,' which would sip whisky toddy out of his glass, and seemed to like it as well as milk or water, only it made him too wild and frisky." "nurse, the racoon that the gentleman had would drink sweet whisky punch; but my governess said it was not right to give it to him; and major pickford laughed, and declared the racoon must have looked very funny when he was tipsy. was not the major naughty to say so?" mrs. frazer said it was not quite proper. "the racoon, lady mary, in its natural state, has all the wildness and cunning of the fox and weasel. he will eat flesh, poultry, and sucking pigs, and is also very destructive to indian corn. these creatures abound in the western states, and are killed in great numbers for their skins. the indian hunters eat the flesh, and say it is very tender and good; but it is not used for food in canada. the racoon belongs to the same class of animals as the bear, which it resembles in some points, though; being small, it is not so dangerous either to man or the larger animals. "and now, my dear, let me show you some pretty wild-flowers a little girl brought me this morning for you, as she heard that you loved flowers. there are yellow-mocassins, or ladies'-slippers, the same that i told you of a little while ago; and white lilies, crane-bills, and these pretty lilac geraniums; here are scarlet cups, and blue lupines--they are all in bloom now--and many others. if we were on the rice lake plains, my lady, we could gather all these, and many, many more. in the months of june and july those plains are like a garden, and their roses scent the air." "nurse, i will ask my dear papa to take me to the rice lake plains," said the little girl, as she gazed with delight on the lovely canadian flowers. chapter ix. nurse tells lady mary about a little boy who was eaten by a bear in the province of new brunswick--of a baby that was carried away, but taken alive--a walk in the garden--humming-birds--canadian balsams. "nurse," said lady mary, "did you ever hear of any one having been eaten by a wolf or bear?" "i have heard of such things happening, my dear, in this country; but only in lonely, unsettled parts, near swamps and deep woods." "did you ever hear of any little boy or girl having been carried off by a wolf or bear?" asked the child. "no, my lady, not in canada, though similar accidents may have happened there; but when i was a young girl i heard of such tragedies at new brunswick--one of the british provinces lying to the east of this, and a cold and rather barren country, but containing many minerals, such as coal, limestone, and marble, besides vast forests of pine, and small lakes and rivers. it resembles lower canada in many respects; but it is not so pleasant as the province of upper canada, neither is it so productive. "thirty years ago it was not so well cleared or cultivated as it is now, and the woods were full of wild beasts that dwelt among the swamps and wild rocky valleys. bears, and wolves, and catamounts abounded, with foxes of several kinds, and many of the fine-furred and smaller species of animals, which were much sought for on account of their skins. well, my dear, near the little village where my aunt and uncle were living, there were great tracts of unbroken swamps and forests, which of course sheltered many wild animals. a sad accident happened a few days before we arrived, which caused much sorrow and no little fright in the place. "an old man went out into the woods one morning with his little grandson to look for the oxen, which had strayed from the clearing. they had not gone many yards from the enclosure when they heard a crackling and rustling among the underwood and dry timber that strewed the ground. the old man, thinking it was caused by the cattle they were looking for, bade the little boy go forward and drive them on the track; but in a few he heard a fearful cry from the child, and hurrying forward through the tangled brushwood, saw the poor little boy in the deadly grasp of a huge black bear, which was making off at a fast trot with his prey. "the old man was unarmed, and too feeble to pursue the dreadful beast. he could only wring his hands and rend his gray hairs in grief and terror; but his lamentations could not restore the child to life. a band of hunters and lumberers, armed with rifles and knives, turned out to beat the woods, and were not long in tracking the savage animal to his retreat in a neighbouring cedar swamp. a few fragments of the child's dress were all that remained of him; but the villagers had the satisfaction of killing the great she-bear with, her two half-grown cubs. the magistrates of the district gave them a large sum for shooting these creatures, and the skins were sold, and the money given to the parents of the little boy; but no money could console them for the loss of their beloved child. "the flesh of the bear is eaten both by indians and hunters; it is like coarse beef. the hams are cured and dried, and by many thought to be a great dainty." "mrs. frazer, i would not eat a bit of the ham made from a wicked, cruel bear, that eats little children," said lady mary. "i wonder the hunters were not afraid to go into the swamps where such savage beasts lived. are there as many bears and wolves now in those places?" "no, my lady; great changes have taken place since that time. as the country becomes more thickly settled, the woods disappear. the axe and the fire destroy the haunts that sheltered these wild beasts, and they retreat further back, where the deer and other creatures on which they principally feed abound." "do the hunters follow them?" "there is no place, however difficult or perilous, where the hunter will not venture in search of game." "and do they pursue the graceful deer? they are so pretty, with their branching antlers and slender limbs, that i should have thought no man could be so cruel as to slay them." "but their flesh is very savoury, and the indian, when tired of bear's meat, is glad of a dish of fresh venison. so with his gun--if he has one--or with his bow and arrow, he lies in wait among the foliage and brushwood of the forest, or behind the rocks on the bank of some swift torrent, and when the unsuspecting stag makes his appearance on the opposite crag, he takes a careful aim, lets fly his rapid arrow, and seldom fails to kill his victim; which, dropping into the stream below, is borne by the current within his reach." "they are brave men, those hunters," said lady mary; "but i fear they are very cruel. i wish they would only kill the furious bears. that was a sad story you told me just now, nurse, about the poor little boy. have you heard of any other sufferers; or do people sometimes escape from these monsters?" "i also heard of a little child," continued nurse, "not more than two years old, who was with her mother in the harvest-field, who had spread a shawl on the ground near a tall tree, and laid the child upon it to sleep or play, when a bear came out of the wood and carried her off, leaping the fence with her in his arms. but the mother ran screaming after the beast, and the reapers pursued so closely with their pitch-forks and reaping-hooks, that bruin, who was only a half-grown bear, being hard pressed, made for a tree; and as it was not easy to climb with a babe in his arms, he quietly laid the little one down at the foot of the tree, and soon was among the thick branches out of the reach of the enemy. i daresay baby must have wondered what rough nurse had taken her up; but she was unhurt, and is alive now." "i am so glad, nurse, the dear baby was not hugged to death by that horrid black bear; and i hope he was killed." "i daresay, my lady, he was shot by some of the men; for they seldom worked near the forest without having a gun with them, in case of seeing deer, or pigeons, or partridges." "i should not like to live in that country, mrs. frazer; for a bear, a wolf, or a catamount might eat me." "i never heard of a governor's daughter being eaten by a bear," said mrs. frazer, laughing, as she noticed the earnest expression on the face of her little charge. she then continued her account of the ursine family. "the bear retires in cold weather, and sleeps till warmer seasons awaken him. he does not lay up any store of winter provisions, because he seldom rouses himself during the time of his long sleep; and in the spring he finds food, both vegetable and animal, for he can eat anything when hungry, like the hog. he often robs the wild bees of their honey, and his hide, being so very thick, seems insensible to the stings of the angry bees. bruin will sometimes find odd places for his winter bed, for a farmer, who was taking a stack of wheat into his barn to be threshed in the winter time, once found a large black bear comfortably asleep in the middle of the sheaves." "how could the bear have got into the stack of wheat, nurse?" "the claws of this animal are so strong, and he makes so much use of his paws, which are almost like hands, that he must have pulled the sheaves out and so made an entrance for himself. his skin and flesh amply repaid the farmer for any injury the grain had received. i remember seeing the bear brought home in triumph on the top of the load of wheat. bears often do great mischief by eating the indian corn when it is ripening; for besides what they devour, they spoil a vast deal by trampling the plants down with their clumsy feet. they will, when hard pressed by hunger, come close to the farmer's house and rob the pig-sty of its tenants. many years ago, before the forest was cleared away in the neighbourhood of what is now a large town, but in those days consisted of only a few poor log-houses, a settler was much annoyed by the frequent visits of a bear to his hog-pen. at last he resolved to get a neighbour who was a very expert hunter to come with his rifle and watch with him. the pen where the fatling hogs were was close to the log house, it had a long, low, shingled roof, and was carefully fastened up, so that no bear could find entrance. well, the farmer's son and the hunter had watched for two nights, and no bear came, on the third they were both tired, and lay down to sleep upon the floor of the kitchen, when the farmer's son was awakened by a sound as of some one tearing and stripping the shingles from the pen. he looked out, it was moonlight, and there he saw the dark shadow of some tall figure on the ground, and spied the great black bear standing on its hinder legs, and pulling the shingles off as fast as it could lay its big black paws upon them. the hogs were in a great fright, screaming and grunting with terror. the young man stepped back into the house, roused up the hunter, who took aim from the doorway, and shot the bear dead. the head of the huge beast was nailed up as a trophy, and the meat was dried or salted for winter use, and great were the rejoicings of the settlers, who had suffered so much from bruin's thefts of corn and pork." "i am glad the hunter killed him, nurse, for he might, have eaten up some of the little children, when they were playing about in the fields." "sometimes," continued mrs. frazer, "the bears used to visit the sugar bush, when the settlers were making maple sugar, and overturn the sap troughs and drink the sweet liquid. i daresay they would have been glad of a taste of the sugar too, if they could have got at it. the bear is not so often met with now as it used to be many years ago. the fur of the bear used to be worn as muffs and tippets, but is now little used for that purpose, being thought to be too coarse and heavy; but it is still made into caps for soldiers, and used for sleigh-robes." this was all mrs. frazer chose to recollect about bears, for she was unwilling to dwell long on any gloomy subject, which she knew was not good for young minds: so she took her charge into the garden to look at the flower-beds, and watch the birds and butterflies; and soon the child was gaily running from flower to flower, watching with childish interest the insects flitting to and fro. at last she stopped, and holding up her finger to warn mrs. frazer not to come too near, stood gazing in wonder and admiration on a fluttering object that was hovering over the full-blown honey-suckles on a trellis near the greenhouse. mrs. frazer approached her with due caution. "nurse," whispered the child, "look at that curious moth with a long bill like a bird; see its beautiful shining colours. it has a red necklace, like mamma's rubies. oh, what a curious creature! it must be a moth or a butterfly. what is it?" "it is neither a moth nor a butterfly, my dear. it is a humming-bird." [illustration: caught at last] "oh, nurse, a humming-bird--a real humming-bird!--pretty creature! but it is gone. oh, nurse, it darts through the air as swift as an arrow! what was it doing--looking at the honey-suckles? i daresay it thought them very pretty; or was it smelling them? they are very sweet." "my dear child, he might be doing so; i don't know. perhaps the good god has given to these creatures the same senses for enjoying sweet scents and bright colours as we have; yet it was not for the perfume, but the honey, that this little bird came to visit the open flowers. the long slender bill, which the humming-bird inserts into the tubes of the flowers, is his instrument for extracting the honey. look at the pretty creature's ruby throat, and green and gold feathers." "how does it make that whirring noise, nurse, just like the humming of a top?" asked the child. "the little bird produces the sound, from which he derives his name, by beating the air with his wings. this rapid motion is necessary to sustain his position in the air while sucking the flowers. "i remember, lady mary, first seeing humming-birds when i was about your age, while walking in the garden. it was a bright september morning, and the rail-fences and every dry twig of the brushwood were filled with the webs of the field-spider. some, like thick white muslin, lay upon the grass; while others were suspended from trees like forest lace-work, on the threads of which the dewdrops hung like strings of shining pearls; and hovering round the flowers were several ruby-throated humming-birds, the whirring of whose wings as they beat the air sounded like the humming of a spinning-wheel. and i thought, as i gazed upon them, and the beautiful lace webs that hung among the bushes, that they must have been the work of these curious creatures, which had made them to catch flies, and had strung the bright dewdrops thereon to entice them--so little did i know of the nature of these birds. but my father told me a great deal about them, and read me some very pretty things about humming-birds; and one day, lady mary, i will show you a stuffed one a friend gave me, with its tiny nest and eggs not bigger than peas." lady mary was much delighted at the idea of seeing the little nest and eggs, and mrs. frazer said, "there is a wild-flower that is known to the canadians by the name of the humming-flower, on account of the fondness which those birds evince for it. this plant grows on the moist banks of creeks it is very beautiful, of a bright orange-scarlet colour. the stalks and stem of the plant are almost transparent. some call it speckled jewels, for the bright blossoms are spotted with dark purple; and some, touch-me-not." "that is a droll name, nurse," said lady mary. "does it prick one's finger like a thistle?" "no, my lady; but when the seed-pods are nearly ripe, if you touch them they spring open and curl into little rings, and the seed drops out." "nurse, when you see any of these curious flowers, will you show them to me?" mrs. frazer said they would soon be in bloom, and promised lady mary to bring her some, and to show her the singular manner in which the pods burst. "but, my lady," said she, "the gardener will show you the same thing in the greenhouse. as soon as the seed-pods of the balsams in the pots begin to harden they will spring and curl, if touched, and drop the seeds like the wild plant; for they belong to the same family. but it is time for your ladyship to go in." when lady mary returned to the schoolroom, her governess read to her some interesting accounts of the habits of the humming-bird. "'this lively little feathered gem--for in its hues it unites the brightness of the emerald, the richness of the ruby, and the lustre of the topaz--includes in its wide range more than one hundred species. it is the smallest, and at the same time the most brilliant, of all the american birds. its headquarters may be said to be among the glowing flowers and luxurious fruits of the torrid zone and the tropics. but one species, the ruby-throated, is widely diffused, and is a summer visitor all over north america, even within the arctic circle, where, for a brief space of time, it revels in the ardent heat of the short-lived summer of the north. like the cuckoo, it follows the summer wherever it flies. "'the ruby-throated humming-bird [footnote: trochilus rubus] is the only species that is known in canada. with us it builds and breeds, and then returns to summer skies and warmer airs. the length of the humming-bird is only three inches and a half, and four and a quarter in extent from one tip of the wing to the other when on the wing the bird has the form of a cross, the wings forming no curve, though the tail is depressed during the time that it is poised in the act of sucking the honey of the flower. the tongue is long and slender; the bill long and straight; the legs are very short, so that the feet are hardly visible when on the wing. they are seldom seen walking, but rest on the slender sprigs when tired. the flight is so rapid that it seems without effort. the humming sound is produced by the wing, in the act of keeping itself balanced while feeding in this position. they resemble the hawk-moth, which also keeps up a constant vibratory motion with its wings. this little creature is of a temper as fierce and fiery as its plumes, often attacking birds of treble its size; but it seems very little disturbed by the near approach of the human species, often entering open windows, and hovering around the flowers in the flower-stand; it has even been known to approach the vase on the table, and insert its bill among the flowers, quite fearless of those persons who sat in the room. sometimes these beautiful creatures have suffered themselves to be captured by the hand. "'the nest of the ruby throated humming-bird is usually built on a mossy branch. at first sight it looks like a tuft of gray lichens, but when closely examined shows both care and skill in its construction, the outer wall being of fine bluish lichens cemented together, and the interior lined with the silken threads of the milk weed, the velvety down of the tall mullein, or the brown hair like filaments of the fern. these, or similar soft materials, form the bed of the tiny young ones. the eggs are white, two in number, and about the size of a pea, but oblong in shape. the parents hatch their eggs in about ten days and in a week the little ones are able to fly, though the old birds continue to supply them with honey for some time longer. the mexican indians give the name of sunbeam to the humming-bird, either in reference to its bright plumage or its love of sunshine. "'the young of the humming-bird does not attain its gay plumage till the second year. the male displays the finer colours--the ruby necklace being confined to the old male bird. the green and coppery lustre of the feathers is also finer in the male bird.'" lady mary was much pleased with what she had heard about the humming-bird, and she liked the name of sunbeam for this lovely creature. chapter x. aurora borealis, or northern lights, most frequently seen in northern climates--called merry dancers--rose tints--tint-like appearance--lady mary frightened. one evening, just as mrs. frazer was preparing to undress lady mary, miss campbell, her governess, came into the nursery, and taking the little girl by the hand, led her to the window, and bade her look out on the sky towards the north, where a low dark arch, surmounted by an irregular border, like a silver fringe, was visible. for some moments lady mary stood silently regarding this singular appearance; at length she said, "it is a rainbow, miss campbell; but where is the sun that you told me shone into the drops of rain to make the pretty colours?" "it is not a rainbow, my dear; the sun has been long set." "can the moon make rainbows at night?" asked the little girl. [illustration: the aurora borealis] "the moon does sometimes, but very rarely, make what is called a _lunar_ rainbow. luna was the ancient name for the moon. but the arch you now see is caused neither by the light of the sun nor of the moon, but is known by the name of aurora borealis, or northern lights. the word aurora means morning or dawn; and borealis, northern. you know, my dear, what is meant by the word dawn; it is the light that is seen in the sky before the sun rises." lady mary replied, "yes, miss campbell, i have often seen the sun rise, and once very early too, when i was ill, and could not sleep, for nurse lifted me in her arms out of bed, and took me to the window. the sky was all over of a bright golden colour, with streaks of rosy red; and nurse said, 'it is dawn; the sun will soon be up.' and i saw the beautiful sun rise from behind the trees and hills. he came up so gloriously, larger than when we see him in the middle of the sky, and i could look at him without hurting my eyes." "sunrise is indeed a glorious sight, my dear; but he who made the sun is more glorious still. do you remember what we read yesterday in the psalms?-"verse 1 the heavens declare the glory of god and the firmament showeth his handywork. 2 one day telleth another and one night certifieth another. 3 there is neither speech nor language, but their voices are heard among them. 5 in them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun which cometh forth as a bridegroom out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a giant to run his course. "the northern lights, lady mary, are frequently visible in canada, but are most brilliant in the colder regions near the north pole, where they serve to give light during the dark season to those dismal countries from which the sun is so many months absent. the light of the aurora borealis is so soft and beautiful, that any object can be distinctly seen; though in those cold countries there are few human beings to be benefited by this beautiful provision of nature." "the wild beasts and birds must be glad of the pretty lights," said the child thoughtfully; for lady mary's young heart always rejoiced when she thought that god's gifts could be shared by the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air, as well as by mankind. "look now, my dear," said miss campbell, directing the attention of her pupil to the horizon; "what a change has taken place whilst we have been speaking! see, the arch is sending up long shafts of light; now they divide, and shift from side to side, gliding along among the darker portions of vapour like moving pillars." "ah, there, there they go!" cried the little girl, clapping her hands with delight. "see, nurse, how the pretty lights chase each other and dance about! up they go, higher and higher! how pretty they look! but now they are gone! they are fading away. i am so sorry," said the child, despondingly, for a sudden cessation had taken place in the motions of the heavens. "we will go in for a little time, my dear," said her governess, "and then look out again. great changes take place sometimes in these aerial phenomena in a few minutes." "i suppose," said lady mary, "these lights are the same that the peasants of northern england and ireland call the merry dancers?" "yes, they are the same, and they fancy that they are seen when war and troubles are about to break out. but this idea is a very ignorant one, for were that the case, some of the cold countries of the world, where the sky is illumined night after night by the aurora borealis, would be one continual scene of misery. i have seen in this country a succession of these lights for four or five successive nights. this phenomenon owes its origin to _electricity_, which is a very wonderful agent in nature, and exists in various bodies, perhaps in all created things. it is this that shoots across the sky in the form of lightning, and causes the thunder to be heard, circulates in the air we breathe, occasions whirlwinds, waterspouts, earthquakes, and volcanoes, and makes one substance attract another. "look at this piece of amber. if i rub it on the table, it will become warm to the touch. now i will take a bit of thread and hold near it. see, the thread moves towards the amber and clings to it. sealing-wax and many other substances when heated have this property. some bodies give out flashes and sparks by being rubbed. if you stroke a black cat briskly in the dark, you will see faint flashes of light come from her fur, and on very cold nights in the winter season, flannels that are worn next the skin crackle and give sparks when taken off and shaken." these things astonished lady mary. she tried the experiment with the amber and thread, and was much amused by seeing the thread attracted; and she wanted to see the sparks from the cat's back, only there happened, unfortunately, to be no black cat or kitten in government house. mrs. frazer, however, promised to procure a beautiful black kitten for her, that she might enjoy the singular sight of the electric sparks from its coat; and lady mary wished winter were come, that she might see the sparks from her flannel petticoat and hear the sounds. "let us now go and look out again at the sky," said miss campbell; and lady mary skipped joyfully through the french window to the balcony, but ran back, and flinging her arms about her nurse, cried out, in accents of alarm, "nurse, nurse, the sky is all closing together! oh, miss campbell, what shall we do?" "there is no cause for fear, my dear child; do not be frightened. there is nothing to harm us." indeed, during the short time they had been absent, a great and remarkable change had taken place in the appearance of the sky. the electric fluid had diffused itself over the face of the whole heavens; the pale colour of the streamers had changed to bright rose, pale violet, and greenish-yellow. at the zenith, or that part more immediately overhead, a vast ring of deep indigo was presented to the eye, from this swept down, as it were a flowing curtain of rosy light which wavered and moved incessantly, as if agitated by a gentle breeze, though a perfect stillness reigned through the air. the child's young heart was awed by this sublime spectacle, it seemed to her as if it were indeed the throne of the great creator of the world that she was gazing upon, and she veiled her face in her nurse's arms and trembled exceedingly, even as the children of israel when the fire of mount sinai was revealed, and they feared to behold the glory of the most high god. after a while, lady mary, encouraged by the cheerful voices of her governess and nurse, ventured to look up to watch the silver stars shining dimly as from beneath a veil, and she whispered to herself the words that her governess had before repeated to her "the heavens declare the glory of god, and the firmament sheweth his handywork." after a little while, mrs. frazer thought it better to put lady mary to bed, as she had been up much longer than usual, and miss campbell was afraid lest the excitement should make her ill, but the child did not soon fall asleep, for her thoughts were full of the strange and glorious things she had seen that night. chapter xi. strawberries--canadian wild fruits--wild raspberries--the hunter and the lost child--cranberries--cranberry marshes--nuts. one day lady mary's nurse brought her a small indian basket, filled with ripe red strawberries. "nurse, where did you get these nice strawberries?" said the little girl, peeping beneath the fresh leaves with which they were covered. "i bought them from a little indian squaw in the street; she had brought them from a wooded meadow some miles off, my lady. they are very fine; see, they are as large as those that the gardener sent in yesterday from the forcing-house; and these wild ones have grown without any pains having been bestowed upon them." "i did not think, nurse, that wild strawberries could have been so fine as these; may i taste them?" mrs. frazer said she might. "these are not so large, so red, or so sweet as some that i have gathered when i lived at home with my father," said the nurse. "i have seen acres and acres of strawberries, as large as the early scarlet that are sold so high in the market, on the rice lake plains. when the farmers have ploughed a fallow on the rice lake plains, the following summer it will be covered with a crop of the finest strawberries. i have gathered pailsful day after day, these, however, have been partly cultivated by the plough breaking up the sod, but they seem as if sown by the hand of nature. these fruits and many sorts of flowers appear on the new soil that were never seen there before. after a fallow has been chopped, logged, and burned, if it be left for a few years, trees, shrubs, and plants, will cover it, unlike those that grew there before." "that is curious," said the child, "does god sow the seeds in the new ground?" "my lady, no doubt they come from him, for he openeth his hand, and filleth all things living with plenteousness. my father, who thought a great deal on these subjects, said that the seeds of many plants may fall upon the earth, and yet none of them take root till the soil be favourable for their growth. it may be that these seeds had lain for years, preserved in the earth till the forest was cleared away, and the sun, air, and rain caused them to spring up, or the earth may still bring forth the herb of the field, after its kind, as in the day of the creation, but whether it be so or not, we must bless the lord for his goodness and for the blessings that he giveth us at all times." "are there many sorts of wild fruits fit to eat, nurse, in this country? please, will you tell me all that you know about them?" "there are so many, lady mary, that i am afraid i shall weary you before i have told you half of them." "nurse, i shall not be tired, for i like to hear about fruits and flowers very much; and my dear mamma likes you to tell me all you know about the plants, trees, birds, and beasts of canada." "besides many sorts of strawberries, there are wild currants, both black and red, and many kinds of wild gooseberries," said mrs. frazer. "some grow on wastes by the roadside, in dry soil, others in swamps; but most gooseberries are covered with thorns, which grow not only on the wood, but on the berries themselves." "i would not eat those disagreeable, thorny gooseberries; they would prick my tongue," said the little girl. "they cannot be eaten without first being scalded. the settlers' wives contrive to make good pies and preserves with them, by first scalding the fruit and then rubbing it between coarse linen cloths. i have heard these tarts called thornberry pies, which, i think, was a good name for them. when emigrants first come to canada and clear the backwoods, they have little time to make nice fruit-gardens for themselves, and they are glad to gather the wild berries that grow in the woods and swamps to make tarts and preserves, so that they do not even despise the thorny gooseberries or the wild black currants. some swamp gooseberries, however, are quite smooth, of a dark red colour, but small, and they are very nice when ripe. the blossoms of the wild currants are very beautiful, of a pale yellowish green, and hang down in long graceful branches, the fruit is harsh but makes wholesome preserves. but there are thorny currants as well as thorny gooseberries, these have long, weak, trailing branches, the berries are small, covered with stiff bristles, and of a pale red colour. they are not wholesome, i have seen people made very ill by eating them, i have heard even of their dying in consequence of having done so." "i am sure, nurse, i will not eat those wild currants," said lady mary, "i am glad you have told me about their being poisonous." "this sort is not often met with, my dear, and these berries, though they are not good for man, doubtless give nourishment to some of the wild creatures that seek their food from god, and we have enough dainties and to spare without them. "the red raspberry is one of the most common and the most useful to us of the wild fruits. it grows in abundance all over the country--by the roadside, in the half opened woods, on upturned roots, or in old neglected clearings, there is no place so wild but it will grow, wherever its roots can find a crevice. with maple sugar, the farmers' wives never need lack a tart nor a dish of fruit and cream the poor irish emigrants' children go out and gather pailsful, which they carry to the towns and villages to sell. the birds, too, live upon the fruit, and flying away with it to distant places, help to sow the seed. a great many small animals eat the ripe raspberry, for even the racoon and great black bear come in for their share. "the black bears! o nurse! o mrs. frazer!" exclaimed lady mary, in great astonishment. "what! do bears eat raspberries?" "yes, indeed, my lady, they do. bears are fond of all ripe fruits. the bear resembles the hog in all it's tastes very closely; both in their wild state will eat flesh, grain, fruit, and roots." "there is a story about a beat and an indian hunter, which will show how bears ear berries. it is from the journal or peter jacobs, the indian missionary:-"at sunrise, next morning," he says, "we tried to land, but the water was so full of shoals, we could not without wading a great distance." "the beach before us was of bright sand, and the sun was about, when i saw an object moving on the shore: it appeared to be a man, and seemed to be making signals of distress. we were all weary and hungry, but thinking it was a fellow-creature in distress, we pulled towards him. judge of our surprise when the stranger proved to be an enormous bear!" "he was seated on his hams, and what we thought his signals, were his raising himself on his hind legs to pull down the berries from a high bush, and with his paws full, sitting down again to eat them at his leisure. "'thus he continued daintily enjoying his ripe fruit in the posture some lapdogs are taught to assume while eating. on we pulled, and forgot our hunger and weariness the bear still continued breakfasting. "'we got as close on shore as the shoals would permit, and john (one of the indians), taking my double barrelled gun, leaped into the water, gun in hand, and gained the beach. some dead brushwood hid the bear from john's sight, but from the canoe we could see both john and the bear. "'the bear now discovered us, and advanced towards us, and john, not seeing him for the bush, ran along the beach towards him. the weariness from pulling all night, and having eaten no food, made me lose my presence of mind, for i now remembered that the gun was only loaded with duck shot, and you might as well meet a bear with a gun loaded with pease. "'john was in danger, and we strained at our paddles to get to his assistance, but as the bear was a very large one, and as we had no other firearms we should have been but poor helps to john in the hug of a wounded bear. the bear was at the other side of the brush heap, john heard the dry branches cracking, and he dodged into a hollow under a bush. the bear passed, and was coursing along the sand but as he passed by where john lay, bang went the gun. the bear was struck. "'we saw him leap through the smoke to the very spot where we had last seen john. we held our breath; but instead of the cry of agony we expected to hear from john, bang went the gun again--john is not yet caught. our canoe rushed through the water--we might yet be in time; but my paddle fell from my hand with joy, as i saw john pop his head above the bush, and with a shout point to the side of the log on which he stood, 'there he lies, dead enough.' we were thankful indeed to our great preserver.' "though fruit and vegetables seem to be the natural food of the bear, they also devour flesh, and even fish--a fact of which the good indian missionary assures us, and which i shall tell you, lady mary, in his own words:-"'a few evenings after we left the _rock_, while the men were before me 'tracking' (towing the canoe), by pulling her along by a rope from the shore, i observed behind a rock in the river what i took to be a black fox. i stole upon it as quietly as possible, hoping to get a shot; but the animal saw me, and waded to the shore. it turned out to be a young bear fishing. the bear is a great fisherman. his mode of fishing is very curious. he wades into a current, and seating himself upright on his hams, lets the water come about up to his shoulders; he patiently waits until the little fishes come along and rub themselves against his sides; he seizes them instantly, gives them a nip, and with his left paw tosses them over his shoulder to the shore. his left paw is always the one used for tossing ashore the produce of his fishing. feeling is the sense of which bruin makes use here, not sight. "'the indians of that part say that the bear catches sturgeon when spawning in the shoal-water, but the only fish that i know of their catching is the sucker. of these, in the months of april and may, the bear makes his daily breakfast and supper, devouring about thirty or forty at a meal. as soon as he has caught a sufficient number, he wades ashore and regales himself on the best morsels, which are the thick of the neck, behind the gills. the indians often shoot him when thus engaged.' "there is a small red berry in the woods that is known by the name of the bear-berry, [footnote: _arbutus uva ursi_--"kinnikinnick" is the indian name.] of which they say the young bears are particularly fond." "i should be afraid of going to gather raspberries, nurse, for fear of the bears coming to eat them too." "the hunters know that the bears are partial to this fruit, and often seek them in large thickets where they grow. a young gentleman, lady mary, once went out shooting game, in the province of new brunswick, in the month of july, when the weather was warm, and there were plenty of wild berries ripe. he had been out for many hours, and at last found himself on the banks of a creek. but the bridge he had been used to cross was gone, having been swept away by heavy rains in the spring. passing on a little higher up, he saw an old clearing full of bushes, and knowing that wild animals were often to be met with in such spots, he determined to cross over and try his luck for a bear, a racoon, or a young fawn. not far from the spot he saw a large fallen swamp elm-tree, which made a capital bridge. just as he was preparing to cross, he heard the sound of footsteps on the dry crackling sticks, and saw a movement among the raspberry bushes. his finger was on the lock of his rifle in an instant, for he thought it must be a bear or a deer; but just as he was about to fire, he saw a small, thin, brown hand, all red and stained from the juice of the ripe berries, reaching down a branch of the fruit. his very heart leaped within him with fright, for in another moment he would have shot the poor little child that, with wan, wasted face, was looking at him from between the raspberry bushes. it was a little girl, about as old as you are, lady mary. she was without hat or shoes, and her clothes were all in tatters. her hands and neck were quite brown and sun-burned. she seemed frightened at first, and would have hid herself, had not the stranger called out gently to her to stay, and not to be afraid, and then he hurried over the log bridge, and asked her who she was, and where she lived. and she said 'she did not live anywhere, for she was lost.' she could not tell how many days, but she thought she had been seven nights out in the woods. she had been sent to take some dinner to her father, who was at work in the forest, but had missed the path, and gone on a cattle track, and did not find her mistake until it was too late, when she became frightened, and tried to get back, but only lost herself deeper in the woods. the first night she wrapped her frock about her head, and lay down beneath the shelter of a great upturned root. she had eaten but little of the food she had in the basket that day, for it lasted her nearly two. after it was gone she chewed some leaves, till she came to the raspberry clearing, and got berries of several kinds, and plenty of water to drink from the creek. one night, she said, she was awakened by a heavy tramping near her, and looking up in the moonlight, saw two great black beasts, which she thought were her father's oxen, and so she sat up and called, 'buck,' 'bright,'--for these were their names, but they had no bells, and looked like two great shaggy black dogs. they stood on their hind legs upright and looked at her, but went away. these animals were bears, but the child did not know that, and she said she felt no fear, for she said her prayers every night before she lay down to sleep, and she knew that god would take care of her, both sleeping and waking." "and did the hunter take her home? asked lady mary, who was much interested in the story. "yes, my dear, he did. finding that the poor little girl was very weak, the young man took her on his back. fortunately he happened to have a little wine in a flask, and a bit of dry biscuit in his knapsack, and this greatly revived the little creature. sometimes she ran by his side, while holding by his coat, talking to her new friend, seemingly quite happy and cheerful, bidding him not be afraid even if they had to pass another night in the wood; but just as the sun was setting, they came out of the dark forest into an open clearing. "it was not the child's home, but a farm belonging to a miller who knew her father, and had been in search of her for several days; and he and his wife were very glad when they saw the lost child, and gladly showed her preserver the way. they rejoiced very much when the poor wanderer was restored safe and well to her sorrowing parents." "nurse," said lady mary, "i am so glad the good hunter found the little girl. i must tell my own dear mamma that nice story. how sorry my mamma and papa would be to lose me in the woods!" the nurse smiled, and said, "my dear lady, there is no fear of such an accident happening to you. you are not exposed to the same trials and dangers as the children of poor emigrants; therefore you must be very grateful to god, and do all you can to serve and please him; and when you are able, be kind and good to those who are not so well off as you are." [illustration: the lost child and the bears] "are there any other wild fruits, nurse, besides raspberries and strawberries, and currants and goose berries?' "yes, my dear lady, a great many more. we will begin with wild plums these we often preserve, and when the trees are planted in gardens, and taken care of, the fruit is very good to eat. the wild cherries are not very nice, but the bark of the black cherry is good for agues and low fevers. the choke cherry is very beautiful to look at, but hurts the throat, closing it up if many are eaten, and making it quite sore. the huckle berry is a sweet, dark blue berry, that grows on a very delicate low shrub, the blossoms are very pretty, pale pink or greenish white bells the fruit is very wholesome, it grows on light dry ground, on those parts of the country that are called plains in canada. the settlers' children go out in parties, and gather great quantities, either to eat or dry for winter use. these berries are a great blessing to every one, besides forming abundant food for the broods of young quails and partridges, squirrels, too, of every kind eat them. there are blackberries also, lady mary, and some people call them thimble berries." "i have heard mamma talk about blackberries." "the canadian blackberries are not so sweet, i am told, my lady, as those at home, though they are very rich and nice tasted, neither do they grow so high. then there are high bush cranberries, and low bush cranberries. the first grow on a tall bush, and the fruit has a fine appearance, hanging in large bunches of light scarlet among the dark green leaves; but they are very, very sour, and take a great deal of sugar to sweeten them. the low-bush cranberries grow on a slender, trailing plant; the blossom is very pretty, and the fruit about the size of a common gooseberry, of a dark purplish red, very smooth and shining; the seeds are minute, and lie in the white pulp within the skin: this berry is not nice till it is cooked with sugar. there is a large cranberry marsh somewhere at the back of kingston, where vast quantities grow. i heard a young gentleman, say that he passed over this tract when he was hunting, while the snow was on the ground, and that the red juice of the dropped berries dyed the snow crimson beneath his feet. the indians go every year to a small lake called buckhorn lake, many miles up the river otonabee, in the upper province, to gather cranberries; which they sell to the settlers in the towns and villages, or trade away for pork, flour, and clothes. the cranberries, when spread out on a dry floor, will keep fresh and good for a long time. great quantities of cranberries are brought to england from russia, norway, and lapland, in barrels, or large earthen jars, filled with spring water; but the fruit thus roughly preserved must be drained, and washed many times, and stirred with sugar, before it can be put into tarts, or it would be salt and bitter. i will boil some cranberries with sugar, that you may taste them; for they are very wholesome." lady mary said she should like to have some in her own garden. "the cranberry requires a particular kind of soil, not usually found in gardens, my dear lady, for as the cranberry marshes are often covered with water in the spring, i suppose they need a damp, cool soil, near lakes or rivers, perhaps sand, too, may be good for them. but we can plant some berries, and water them well, in a light soil they may grow, and bear fruit, but i am not sure that they will do so. besides these fruits, there are many others, that are little used by man, but are of great service as food to the birds and small animals. there are many kinds of nuts, too--filberts, with rough prickly husks, walnuts, butternuts, and hickory nuts, these last are large trees, the nuts of which are very nice to eat, and the wood very fine for cabinet work, and for fire wood, the bark is used for dyeing. now, my dear, i think you must be quite tired with hearing so much about canadian fruits." lady mary said she was glad to learn that there were so many good things in canada, for she heard a lady say to her mamma that it was an ugly country, with nothing good or pretty in it. "there is something good and pretty to be found everywhere, my dear child, if people will but open their eyes to see it, and their hearts to enjoy the good things that god has so mercifully spread abroad for all his creatures to enjoy. but canada is really a fine country, and is fast becoming a great one." chapter xii garter snakes--rattle-snakes--anecdote of a little boy--fisherman and snake--snake charmers--spiders--land-tortoise "nurse, i have been so terrified. i was walking in the meadow, and a great snake--so big, i am sure"--and lady mary held out her arms as wide as she could--"came out of a tuft of grass. his tongue was like a scarlet thread, and had two sharp points; and, do you know, he raised his wicked head, and hissed at me. i was so frightened that i ran away. i think, mrs. frazer, it must have been a rattle-snake. only feel now how my heart beats"--and the little girl took her nurse's hand, and laid it on her heart. "what colour was it, my dear?" asked her nurse. "it was green and black, chequered all over; and it was very large, and opened its mouth very wide, and showed its red tongue. it would have killed me, if it had bitten me, would it not, nurse?" "it would not have harmed you, my lady; or even if it had bitten you, it would not have killed you. the chequered green snake of canada is not poisonous. it was more afraid of you than you were of it i make no doubt." "do you think it was a rattle snake, nurse?" "no, my dear, there are no snakes of that kind in lower canada, and very few below toronto. the winters are too cold for them. but there are plenty in the western part of the province, where the summers are warmer, and the winters milder. the rattle snake is a dangerous reptile, and its bite causes death, unless the wound be burned or cut out. the indians apply different sorts of herbs to the wound. they have several plants, known by the names of rattle snake root, rattle snake weed, and snake root. it is a good thing that the rattlesnake gives warning of its approach before it strikes the traveller with its deadly fangs. some people think that the rattle is a sign of fear, and that it would not wound people if it were not afraid they were coming near to hurt it. i will tell you a story lady mary, about a brave little boy. he went out nutting one day with another boy about his own age, and while they were in the grove gathering nuts a large black snake, that was in a low tree, dropped down and suddenly coiled itself round the throat of his companion. the child's screams were dreadful, his eyes were starting from his head with pain and terror. the other, regardless of the danger, opened a clasp knife that he had in his pocket, and seizing the snake near the head, cut it apart, and so saved his friend's life, who was well-nigh strangled by the tight folds of the reptile, which was one of a very venomous species, the bite of which generally proves fatal." "what a brave little fellow!" said lady mary. "you do not think it was cruel, nurse, to kill the snake?" she added, looking up in mrs. frazer's face. "no, lady mary, for he did it to save a fellow-creature from a painful death; and we are taught by god's word that the soul of man is precious in the sight of his creator. we should be cruel were we wantonly to inflict pain upon the least of god's creatures, but to kill them in self-defence, or for necessary food, is not cruel for when god made adam, he gave him dominion, or power, over the beasts of the field, and the fowls of the air, and every creeping thing. it was an act of great courage and humanity in the little boy, who perilled his own life to save that of his helpless comrade, especially as he was not naturally a child of much courage, and was very much afraid of snakes but love for his friend entirely overcame all thoughts of his own personal danger. [footnote: a fact related to me by a gentleman from the state of vermont, as an instance of impulsive feeling overcoming natural timidity.] "the large garter snake which you saw, my dear lady, is comparatively harmless. it lives on toads and frogs, and robs the nests of young birds, and also pilfers the eggs. its long forked tongue enables it to catch insects of different kinds, it will even eat fish, and for that purpose frequents the water as well as the black snake. [illustration: a boy hero] "i heard a gentleman once relate a circumstance to my father that surprised me a good deal. he was fishing one day in a river near his own house, but, being tired, he seated himself on a log or fallen tree, where his basket of fish also stood; when a large garter-snake came up the log, and took a small fish out of his basket, which it speedily swallowed. the gentleman, seeing the snake so bold as not to mind his presence, took a small rock-bass by the tail, and half in joke held it towards it, when, to his great surprise, the snake glided towards him, took the fish out of his hand, and sliding away with its prize to a hole beneath the log, began by slow degrees to swallow it, stretching its mouth and the skin of its neck to a very great extent; till, after a long while, it was fairly gorged, and then it slid down its hole, leaving its head and neck only to be seen." "i should have been so frightened, nurse, if i had been the gentleman, when the snake came to take the fish," said lady mary. "the gentleman was well aware of the nature of the reptile, and knew that it would not bite him. i have read of snakes of the most poisonous kinds being tamed and taught all manner of tricks. there are in india and egypt people that are called snake-charmers, who contrive to extract the fangs containing the venom from the cobra da capella, or hooded snake; which then become quite harmless. these snakes are very fond of music, and will come out of the leather bag or basket that their master carries them in, and will dance or run up his arms, twining about his neck, and even entering his mouth! they do not tell people that the poison-teeth have been extracted, so that it is thought to be the music that keeps the snake from biting. the snake has a power of charming birds and small animals, by fixing its eye steadily upon them, when the little creatures become paralyzed with fear, either standing quite still, or coming nearer and nearer to their cruel enemy, till they are within his reach. the cat has the same power, and can by this art draw birds from the tops of trees within her reach. these little creatures seem unable to resist the temptation of approaching her, and, even when driven away, will return from a distance to the same spot, seeking, instead of shunning, the danger which is certain to prove fatal to them in the end. some writers assert that all wild animals have this power in the eye, especially those of the cat tribe, as the lion and tiger, leopard and panther. before they spring upon their prey, the eye is always steadily fixed, the back lowered, the neck stretched out, and the tail waved from side to side; if the eye is averted, they lose the animal, and do not make the spring." "are there any other kinds of snakes in canada, nurse," asked lady mary, "besides the garter-snake?" "yes, my lady, several; the black snake, which is the most deadly, next to the rattle-snake is sometimes called the puff-adder, as it inflates the skin of the head and neck when angry. the copper-bellied snake is also poisonous. there is a small snake of a deep grass-green colour sometimes seen in the fields and open copse-woods. i do not think it is dangerous; i never heard of its biting any one. the stare-worm is also harmless. i am not sure whether the black snakes that live in the water are the same as the puff or black adder. it is a great blessing, my dear, that these deadly snakes are so rare, and do so little harm to man. indeed i believe they would never harm him, were they let alone; but if trodden upon, they cannot know that it was by accident, and so put forth the weapons that god has armed them with in self-defence. the indians in the north-west, i have been told, eat snakes, after cutting off their heads. the cat also eats snakes, leaving the head; she will also catch and eat frogs--a thing i have witnessed myself, and know to be true. [footnote: i once saw a half-grown kitten eat a live green frog which she first brought into the parlour, playing with it as with a mouse.] one day a snake fixed itself on a little girl's arm, and wound itself around it. the mother of the child was too much terrified to tear the deadly creature off, but filled the air with cries. just then a cat came out of the house, and quick as lightning sprang upon the snake, and fastened on its neck; which, caused the reptile to uncoil its folds, and it fell to the earth in the grasp of the cat. thus the child's life was saved, and the snake killed. thus you see, my dear, that god provided a preserver for this little one when no help was nigh. perhaps the child cried to him for aid, and he heard her and saved her by means of the cat." lady mary was much interested in all that mrs. frazer had told her. she remembered having heard some one say that the snake would swallow her own young ones, and she asked her nurse if it was true, and if they laid eggs. "the snake will swallow her young ones," said mrs. frazer. "i have seen the garter-snake open her mouth and let the little ones run into it when danger was nigh. the snake also lays eggs: i have been and handled them often. they are not covered with a hard, brittle shell, like that of a hen, but with a sort of whitish skin, like leather: they are about the size of a blackbird's egg, long in shape; some are rounder and larger. they are laid in some warm place, where the heat of the sun and earth hatches them. but though the mother does not brood over them, as a hen does over her eggs, she seems to take great care of her little ones, and defends them from their many enemies by hiding them out of sight in the singular manner i have just told you. this love of offspring, my dear child, has been wisely given to all mothers, from the human mother down to the very lowest of the insect tribe. the fiercest beast of prey loves its young, and provides food and shelter for them; forgetting its savage nature to play with and caress them. even the spider, which is a disagreeable insect, fierce and unloving to its fellows, displays the tenderest care for its brood, providing a safe retreat for them in the fine silken cradle she spins to envelop the eggs, which she leaves in some warm spot, where she secures them from danger: some glue a leaf down, and overlap it, to insure it from being agitated by the winds, or discovered by birds. there is a curious spider, commonly known as the nursing spider, which carries her sack of eggs with her wherever she goes; and when the young ones come out, they cluster on her back, and so travel with her; when a little older, they attach themselves to the old one by threads, and run after her in a train." lady mary laughed, and said she should like to see the funny little spiders all tied to their mother, trotting along behind her. "if you go into the meadow, my dear," said mrs. frazer, "you will see on the larger stones some pretty shining little cases, quite round, looking like gray satin." "nurse, i know what they are," said lady mary. "last year i was playing in the green meadow, and i found a piece of granite with several of these satin cases. i called them silk pies, for they looked like tiny mince pies. i tried to pick one off, but it stuck so hard that i could not, so i asked the gardener to lend me his knife; and when i raised the crust it had a little rim under the top, and i slipped the knife in, and what do you think i saw? the pie was full of tiny black shining spiders; and they ran out, such a number of them,--more than i could count, they ran so fast. i was sorry i opened the crust, for it was a cold, cold day, and the little spiders must have been frozen, out of their warm air-tight house." "they are able to bear a great deal of cold, lady mary--all insects can; and even when frozen hard, so that they will break if any one tries to bend them, yet when spring comes again to warm them, they revive, and are as full of life as ever. caterpillars thus frozen will become butterflies in due time. spiders, and many other creatures, lie torpid during the winter, and then revive in the same way as dormice, bears, and marmots do." "nurse, please will you tell me something about tortoises and porcupines?" said lady mary. "i cannot tell you a great deal about the tortoise, my dear," replied her nurse. "i have seen them sometimes on the shores of the lakes, and once or twice i have met with the small land-tortoise, in the woods on the banks of the otonabee river. the shell that covers these reptiles is black and yellow, divided into squares--those which i saw were about the size of my two hands. they are very harmless creatures, living chiefly on roots and bitter herbs: perhaps they eat insects as well. they lie buried in the sand during the long winters, in a torpid state: they lay a number of eggs, about the size of a blackbird's, the shell of which is tough and soft, like a snake's egg. the old tortoise buries these in the loose sand near the water's edge, and leaves them to be hatched by the heat of the sun. the little tortoise, when it comes out of the shell, is about as big as a large spider--it is a funny-looking thing. i have heard some of the indians say that they dive into the water, and swim, as soon as they are hatched; but this i am not sure of. i saw one about the size of a crown-piece that was caught in a hole in the sand: it was very lively, and ran along the table, making a rattling noise with its hard shell as it moved. an old one that one of my brothers brought in he put under a large heavy box, meaning to feed and keep it; but in the morning it was gone: it had lifted the edge of the box and was away, nor could he find out how it had contrived to make its escape from the room. this is all that i know about the canadian land-tortoise." chapter xiii. ellen and her pet fawns--docility of fan--jack's droll tricks-affectionate wolf--fall flowers--departure of lady mary--the end one day lady mary came to seek her nurse in great haste, and describe to her a fine deer that had been sent as a present to her father by one of his canadian friends. she said the great antlers were to be put up over the library door. "papa called me down to see the poor dead deer, nurse; and i was very sorry it had been killed: it was such a fine creature. major pickford laughed when i said so; but he promised to get me a live fawn. nurse, what is a fawn?" "it is a young deer, my lady." "nurse, please can you tell me anything about fawns? are they pretty creatures, and can they be tamed; or are they fierce, wild little things?" "they are very gentle animals; and, if taken young, can be brought up by sucking the finger like a young calf or a pet lamb. they are playful and lively, and will follow the person who feeds them, like a dog. they are very pretty, of a pale dun or red colour, with small white spots on the back like large hailstones; the eyes are large, and soft, and black, with a very meek expression in them; the hoofs are black and sharp: they are clean and delicate in their habits, and easy and graceful in their movements. "i remember," continued mrs. frazer, "to have heard of a sad accident which was caused by a fawn." "oh, what was it, nurse? do tell me, for i don't see how such a timid pretty creature could hurt any one." "a party of indians were rowing in a canoe on one of the great american rivers. as they passed a thick clump of trees, a young fawn suddenly sprang out, and, frightened by their cries, leaped into the water. for some days the rain had been heavy; the river was therefore running with a wild, impetuous current; and the fawn was carried along by the rushing tide at a tremendous rate. the indians, determined to capture it, paddled down the stream with eager haste, and in their excitement forgot that they were in the neighbourhood of a great rapid, or cataract; dangerous at all times, but especially so after long-continued rains. on, on, they went! suddenly the fawn disappeared, and looking behind them, the startled indians found themselves on the very brink of the rapid! two of their countrymen, standing on a rock overhanging the foaming waters, saw their peril, and by shouts and gestures warned them of it. with vigorous efforts they turned the prow of their canoe, and endeavoured to cross the river. they plied their paddles with all the desperation of men who knew that nothing could save them but their own exertions, that none on earth could help them. but the current proved too strong. it carried them over the fall, and dashed their bark broadside against a projecting rock. a moment, and all was over! not one of them was ever seen again!" "oh, what a sad story!" cried lady mary; "and all those men were killed through one poor little fawn! still, nurse, it was not the fawn's fault; it was the result of their own impatience and folly. did you ever see a tame fawn, nurse?" "i have seen many, my dear, and i can tell you of one that was the pet and companion of a little girl whom i knew several years ago. a hunter had shot a poor doe, which was very wrong, and contrary to the indian hunting law; for the native hunter will not, unless pressed by hunger, kill the deer in the spring of the year, when the fawns are young. the indian wanted to find the little one after he had shot the dam, so he sounded a decoy whistle, to imitate the call of the doe; and the harmless thing answered it with a bleat, thinking no doubt it was its mother calling to it. this betrayed its hiding-place, and it was taken unhurt by the hunter, who took it home, and gave it to my little friend ellen to feed and take care of." [illustration: the indian hunter] "please, mrs. frazer, will you tell me what sort of trees hemlocks are? hemlocks in england are poisonous weeds." "these are not weeds, but large forest trees--a species of pine. i will show you some the next time we go out for a drive--they are very handsome trees." "and what are creeks, nurse?" "creeks are small streams, such as in scotland would be termed 'burns,' and in england 'rivulets'" "now, nurse, you may go on about the dear little fawn, i want you to tell me all you know about it." "little ellen took the poor timid thing, and laid it in an old indian basket near the hearth, and put some wool in it, and covered it with an old cloak to keep it warm, and she tended it very carefully, letting it suck her fingers dipped in warm milk, as she had seen the dairy maid do in weaning young calves in a few days it began to grow strong and lively, and would jump out of its basket, and run bleating after its foster mother if it missed her from the room, it would wait at the door watching for her return. "when it was older, it used to run on the grass plot in the garden but if it heard its little mistress's step or voice in the parlour, it would bound through the open window to her side, and her call of 'fan, fan, fan,' would bring it home from the fields near the edge of the forest. but poor fan got killed by a careless boy throwing some fire wood down upon it, as it lay asleep in the wood-shed. ellen's grief was very great, but all she could do was to bury it in the garden near the river-side, and plant lilac bushes round its little green-sodded grave." "i am so sorry, nurse, that this good little girl lost her pretty pet." "some time after the death of 'fan,' ellen had another fawn given to her. she called this one jack,--it was older, larger, and stronger, but was more mischievous and frolicsome than her first pet. it would lie in front of the fire on the hearth, like a dog, and rub its soft velvet nose against the hand that patted it very affectionately, but gave a good deal of trouble in the house. it would eat the carrots, potatoes, and cabbages, while the cook was preparing them for dinner; and when the housemaid had laid the cloth for dinner, jack would go round the table and eat up the bread she had laid to each plate, to the great delight of the children, who thought it good fun to see him do so. "ellen put a red leather collar about jack's neck, and some months after this he swam across the rapid river, and went off to the wild woods, and was shot by some hunters, a great many miles away from his old home, being known by his fine red collar. after the sad end of her two favourites, ellen would have no more fawns brought in for her to tame." lady mary was much interested in the account of the little girl and her pets "is this all you know about fawns, nurse?" "i once went to call on a clergyman's wife who lived in a small log-house near a new village. the youngest child, a fat baby of two years old, was lying on the rug before a large log-fire, fast asleep; its little head was pillowed on the back of a tame half-grown fawn that lay stretched on its side, enjoying the warmth of the fire, as tame and familiar as a spaniel dog. this fawn had been brought up with the children, and they were very fond of it, and would share their bread and milk with it at meal times; but it got into disgrace by gnawing the bark of the young orchard-trees, and cropping the bushes in the garden; besides, it had a trick of opening the cupboard, and eating the bread, and drinking any milk it could find. so the master of the house gave it away to a baker who lived in the village; but it did not forget its old friends, and used to watch for the children going to school, and as soon as it caught sight of them, it would trot after them, poking its nose into the basket to get a share of their dinner, and very often managed to get it all!" "and what became of this nice fellow, nurse?" "unfortunately, my lady, it was chased by some dogs, and ran away to the woods near the town, and never came back again. dogs will always hunt tame fawns when they can get near them; so it seems a pity to domesticate them only to be killed in so cruel a way. the forest is the best home for these pretty creatures, though even there they have many enemies besides the hunter. the bear, the wolf, and the wolverine kill them. their only means of defence lies in their fleetness of foot. the stag will defend himself with his strong horns; but the doe and her little fawn have no such weapons to guard themselves when attacked by beasts of prey. the wolf is one of the greatest enemies they have." "i hate wolves," said lady mary; "wolves can never be tamed, nurse." "i have heard and read of wolves being tamed, and becoming very fond of their masters. a gentleman in canada once brought up a wolf puppy, which became so fond of him that when he left it, to go home to england, it refused to eat, and died of grief at his absence! kindness will tame even fierce beasts, who soon learn to love the hand that feeds them. bears and foxes have often been kept tame in this country, and eagles and owls; but i think they cannot be so happy shut up, away from their natural companions and habits, as if they were free to go and come at their own will." "i should not like to be shut up, nurse, far away from my own dear home," said the little girl, thoughtfully. "i think, sometimes, i ought not to keep my dear squirrel in a cage--shall i let him go?" "my dear, he has now been so used to the cage, and to have all his daily wants supplied, that i am sure he would suffer from cold and hunger at this season of the year if he were left to provide for himself; and if he remained here the cats and weasels might kill him." "i will keep him safe from harm, then, till the warm weather comes again; and then, nurse, we will take him to the mountain, and let him go, if he likes to be free, among the trees and bushes." it was now the middle of october; the rainy season that usually comes in the end of september and beginning of october in canada was over. the soft, hazy season, called indian summer, was come again; the few forest leaves that yet lingered were ready to fall--bright and beautiful they still looked, but lady mary missed the flowers. "i do not love the fall--i see no flowers now, except those in the greenhouse. the cold, cold winter, will soon be here again," she added sadly. "last year, dear lady, you said you loved the white snow, and the sleighing, and the merry bells, and wished that winter would last all the year round. "ah, yes, nurse; but i did not know how many pretty birds and flowers i should see in the spring and the summer; and now they are all gone, and i shall see them no more for a long time." "there are still a few flowers. lady mary, to be found; look at these." "ah, dear nurse, where did you get them? how lovely they are!" "your little french maid picked them for you, on the side of the mountain. rosette loves the wild-flowers of her native land." "nurse, do you know the names of these pretty starry flowers on this little branch, that look so light and pretty?" "these are asters; a word, your governess told me the other day, meaning star-like. some people call these flowers michaelmas daisies. these lovely lilac asters grow in light, dry ground; they are among the prettiest of our fall flowers. these with the small white starry flowers crowded, upon the stalks, with the crimson and gold in the middle, are dwarf asters." "i like these white ones, nurse; the little branches look so loaded with blossoms; see, they are quite bowed down with the weight of all these flowers." "these small shrubby asters grow on dry gravelly banks of lakes and rivers." "but here are some large dark purple ones." "these are also asters. they are to be found on dry wastes, in stony, barren fields, and by the corners of rail-fences; they form large spreading bushes, and look very lovely, covered with their large dark purple flowers. there is no waste so wild, my lady, but the hand of the most high can plant it with some blossom, and make the waste and desert place flourish like a garden. here are others, still brighter and larger, with yellow disks, and sky-blue flowers. these grow by still waters, near mill-dams and swampy places. though they are larger and gayer, i do not think they will please you so well as the small ones that i first showed you; they do not fade so fast, and that is one good quality they have." they are more like the china asters in the garden, nurse, only more upright and stiff, but here is another sweet blue flower--can you tell me its name? "no my dear, you must ask your governess." lady mary carried the nosegay to miss campbell, who told her the blue flower was called the fringed gentian, and that the gentians and asters bloomed the latest of all the autumn flowers in canada. among these wild flowers, she also showed her the large dark blue bell flowered gentian, which was in deed the last flower of the year. "are there no more flowers in bloom now, nurse?" asked the child, as she watched mrs. frazer arranging them for her in a flower glass. "i do not know of any now in bloom but the golden rods and the latest of the everlastings. rosette shall go out and try to get some of them for you. the french children make little mats and garlands of them to ornament their houses, and to hang on the little crosses above the graves of their friends, because they do not fade away like other flowers." next day, rosette, the little nursery maid, brought lady mary an indian basket full of sweet scented everlastings. this flower had a fragrant smell, the leaves were less downy than some of the earlier sorts but were covered with a resinous gum that caused it to stick to the fingers, it looked quite silky, from the thistle down, which, falling upon the leaves, was gummed down to the surface. "the country folks," said mrs. frazer, "call this plant neglected everlasting, because it grows on dry wastes by road-sides, among thistles and fire-weed; but i love it for its sweetness; it is like a true friend--it never changes. see, my dear, how shining its straw-coloured blossoms and buds are, just like satin flowers." "nurse, it shall be my own flower," said the little girl; "and i will make a pretty garland of it, to hang over my own dear mamma's picture. rosette says she will show me how to tie the flowers together; she has made me a pretty wreath for my doll's straw-hat, and she means to make her a mat and a carpet too." the little maid promised to bring her young lady some wreaths of the festoon pine--a low creeping plant, with dry, green, chaffy leaves, that grows in the barren pine woods, of which the canadians make christmas garlands; and also some of the winter berries, and spice berries, which look so gay in the fall and early spring, with berries of brightest scarlet, and shining dark-green leaves, that trail over the ground on the gravelly hills and plains. nurse frazer brought lady mary some sweetmeats, flavoured with an extract of the spicy winter-green, from the confectioner's shop; the canadians being very fond of the flavour of this plant. the indians chew the leaves, and eat the ripe mealy berries, which have something of the taste of the bay-laurel leaves. the indian men smoke the leaves as tobacco. one day, while mrs. frazer was at work in the nursery, her little charge came to her in a great state of agitation--her cheeks were flashed, and her eyes were dancing with joy. she threw herself into her arms, and said, "oh, dear nurse, i am going home to dear old england and scotland. papa and mamma are going away from government house, and i am to return to the old country with them. i am so glad--are not you?" but the tears gathered in mrs. frazer's eyes, and fell fast upon the work she held in her hand. lady mary looked surprised, when she saw how her kind nurse was weeping. "nurse, you are to go too; mamma says so. now you need not cry, for you are not going to leave ma." "i cannot go with you, my dearest child," whispered her weeping attendant, "much as i love you; for i have a dear son of my own. i have but him, and it would break my heart to part from him;" and she softly put aside the bright curls from lady mary's fair forehead, and tenderly kissed her. "this child is all i have in the world to love me, and when his father, my own kind husband, died, he vowed to take care of me, and cherish me in my old age, and i promised that i would never leave him; so i cannot go away from canada with you, my lady, though i dearly love you." "then, mrs. frazer, i shall be sorry to leave canada; for when i go home, i shall have no one to talk to me about beavers, and squirrels, and indians, and flowers, and birds." "indeed, my lady, you will not want for amusement there, for england and scotland are finer places than canada. your good governess and your new nurse will be able to tell you many things that will delight you; and you will not quite forget your poor old nurse, i am sure, when you think about the time you have spent in this country." "ah, dear good old nurse, i will not forget you," said lady mary, springing into her nurse's lap and fondly caressing her, while big bright tears fell from her eyes. there was so much to do, and so much to think about, before the governor's departure, that lady mary had no time to hear any more stories, nor to ask any more questions about the natural history of canada; though, doubtless, there were many other curious things that mrs. frazer could have related, for she was a person of good education, who had seen and noticed as well as read a great deal. she had not always been a poor woman, but had once been a respectable farmer's wife, though her husband's death had reduced her to a state of servitude; and she had earned money enough while in the governor's service to educate her son, and this was how she came to be lady mary's nurse. lady mary did not forget to have all her indian curiosities packed up with some dried plants and flower seeds collected by her governess; but she left the cage with her flying squirrel to mrs. frazer, to take care of till the following spring, when she told her to take it to the mountain, or st. helen's island, and let it go free, that it might be a happy squirrel once more, and bound away among the green trees in the canadian woods. when mrs. frazer was called in to take leave of the governor and his lady, after receiving a handsome salary for her care and attendance on their little daughter, the governor gave her a sealed parchment, which, when she opened, was found to contain a government deed for a fine lot of land, in a fertile township in upper canada. it was with many tears and blessings that mrs. frazer took leave of the good governor's family; and, above all, of her beloved charge, lady mary. appendix. the indians, though so stolid and impassive in their general demeanour, are easily moved to laughter, having a quick perception of fun and drollery, and sometimes show themselves capable of much humour, and even of wit. the following passage i extract from a hamilton paper, canada west which will, i think, prove amusing to my readers-at a missionary meeting in hamilton which took place a short time since, john sunday, a native preacher, was particularly happy in addressing his audience on the objects of the meeting, and towards the close astonished all present by the ingenuity and power of his appeal to their liberality. his closing words are too good to be lost. i give them as they were spoken by him-"there is a gentleman who, i suppose, is now in this house. he is a very fine gentleman, but a very modest one he does not like to show himself at these meetings. i do not know how long it is since i have seen him, he comes out so little. i am very much afraid that he sleeps a great deal of his time when he ought to be out doing good. his name is gold--mr. gold, are you here to-night or are you sleeping in your iron chest? come out, mr gold. come out and help us to do this great work--to preach the gospel to every creature ah, mr. gold, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to sleep so much in your iron chest. look at your white brother, mr. silver. he does a great deal of good while you are sleeping. come out mr. gold, look too at your little brown brother, mr. copper. he is everywhere. your poor little brown brother is running about doing all he can to help us. why don't you come out, mr. gold? well, if you won't show yourself send us your _shirt_--that is a _bank note_! "this is all i have to say." whether the witty appeal of the indian had the effect of bringing forth mr gold from his hiding place is not said, but we hope it moved some of the wealthy among his hearers to contribute a few sovereigns or gold dollars to the missionary work of converting the poor indians in the far west regions of canada. * * * * * list of indian words. a-da-min, the strawberry ah meek, the beaver ajidamo the red squirrel be-dau bun dawn of the morning chee-ma in in birch canoe. chee-to-waik the plover dah hinda, the bull frog gitche manito, giver of life the great spirit ish koo-dah, fire. kah ga-gee the raven. kaw no. kaw win no, no indeed. keen-o-beek, serpent. mad wa-oska, sound of waves. murmur of the waves mun a gah blue-berry misko-deed spring beauty nee-chee friend. nap a nee flour nee me no-che shah sweetheart omee mee the wild pigeon. opee chee the robin. o-waas sa the blue-bird peta wan ooka the light of the morning shaw shaw the swallow spook spirit ty yah! an exclamation of surprise waa wassa the whip-poor will. wah ho-no-mm a cry of lamentation. many of the indian names have been retained in canada for various rivers and townships and are very expressive of the peculiar qualities and features of the country. [illustration: mr. coon insisted on gadding about. (page 46)] aaron in the wildwoods by joel chandler harris author of "uncle remus," etc. _illustrated by oliver herford_ [illustration] boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge 1897 copyright, 1897 by joel chandler harris and houghton, mifflin and co. all rights reserved contents. page prelude 1 i. the little master 23 ii. the secrets of the swamp 38 iii. what chunky riley saw and heard 56 iv. between midnight and dawn 74 v. the hunt begins 92 vi. the hunt ends 111 vii. aaron sees the signal 129 viii. the happenings of a night 148 ix. the upsetting of mr. gossett 166 x. chunky riley sees a queer sight 185 xi. the problem that timoleon presented 202 xii. what the patrollers saw and heard 219 xiii. the apparition the fox hunters saw 237 xiv. the little master says good night 253 list of illustrations page mr. coon insisted on gadding about _frontispiece_. it was a swamp 8 that's randall's song 32 mr. red fox meets mr. gray fox 40 a-straddle of the grunter's back 48 the horses were right at his heels 72 the goblin pain 76 the spring of cool refreshing water 80 brindle and aaron 104 in the swamp 124 rambler's fight with the moccasin 132 he stood as still as a statue 144 it was the white-haired master 160 they tore him all to flinders 172 the excited horse plunged along 180 he edged away as far as he could 188 aaron and little crotchet 212 behind a tree stood george gossett 216 the black stallion 224 it was fine for mr. fox 238 the phantom horseman 242 aaron and timoleon 250 big sal holds the little master 262 the death of the little master 268 aaron in the wildwoods. prelude. i. once upon a time there lived on a large plantation in middle georgia a boy who was known as little crotchet. it was a very queer name, to be sure, but it seemed to fit the lad to a t. when he was a wee bit of a chap he fell seriously ill, and when, many weeks afterwards, the doctors said the worst was over, it was found that he had lost the use of his legs, and that he would never be able to run about and play as other children do. when he was told about this he laughed, and said he had known all along that he would never be able to run about on his feet again; but he had plans of his own, and he told his father that he wanted a pair of crutches made. "but you can't use them, my son," said his father. "anyhow, i can try," insisted the lad. the doctors were told of his desire, and these wise men put their heads together. "it is a crotchet," they declared, "but it will be no harm for him to try." "it is a little crotchet," said his mother, "and he shall have the crutches." thus it came about that the lad got both his name and his crutches, for his father insisted on calling him little crotchet after that, and he also insisted on sending all the way to philadelphia for the crutches. they seemed to be a long time in coming, for in those days they had to be brought to charleston in a sailing vessel, and then sent by way of augusta in a stage-coach; but when they came they were very welcome, for little crotchet had been inquiring for them every day in the week, and sunday too. and yet when they came, strange to say, he seemed to have lost his interest in them. his mother brought them in joyously, but there was not even a glad smile on the lad's face. he looked at them gravely, weighed them in his hands, laid them across the foot of the bed, and then turned his head on his pillow, as if he wanted to go to sleep. his mother was surprised, and not a little hurt, as mothers will be when they do not understand their children; but she respected his wishes, darkened the room, kissed her boy, and closed the door gently. when everything was still, little crotchet sat up in bed, seized his crutches, and proceeded to try them. he did this every day for a week, and at the end of that time surprised everybody in the house, and on the place as well, by marching out on his crutches, and going from room to room without so much as touching his feet to the floor. it seemed to be a most wonderful feat to perform, and so it was; but providence, in depriving the lad of the use of his legs, had correspondingly strengthened the muscles of his chest and arms, so that within a month he could use his crutches almost as nimbly and quite as safely as other boys use their feet. he could go upstairs and downstairs and walk about the place with as much ease, apparently, as those not afflicted, and it was not strange that the negroes regarded the performance with wonder akin to awe, declaring among themselves that their young master was upheld and supported by "de sperits." and indeed it was a queer sight to see the frail lad going boldly about on crutches, his feet not touching the ground. the sight seemed to make the pet name of little crotchet more appropriate than ever. so his name stuck to him, even after he got his gray pony, and became a familiar figure in town and in country, as he went galloping about, his crutches strapped to the saddle, and dangling as gayly as the sword of some fine general. thus it came to pass that no one was surprised when little crotchet went cantering along, his gray pony snorting fiercely, and seeming never to tire. early or late, whenever the neighbors heard the short, sharp snort of the gray pony and the rattling of the crutches, they would turn to one another and say, "little crotchet!" and that would be explanation enough. there seemed to be some sort of understanding between him and his gray pony. anybody could ride the gray pony in the pasture or in the grove around the house, but when it came to going out by the big gate, that was another matter. he could neither be led nor driven beyond that boundary by any one except little crotchet. it was the same when it came to crossing water. the gray pony would not cross over the smallest running brook for any one but little crotchet; but with the lad on his back he would plunge into the deepest stream, and, if need be, swim across it. all this deepened and confirmed in the minds of the negroes the idea that little crotchet was upheld and protected by "de sperits." they had heard him talking to the gray pony, and they had heard the gray pony whinny in reply. they had seen the gray pony with their little master on his back go gladly out at the big gate and rush with a snort through the plantation creek,--a bold and at times a dangerous stream. seeing these things, and knowing the temper of the pony, they had no trouble in coming to the conclusion that something supernatural was behind it all. ii. thus it happened that little crotchet and his gray pony were pretty well known through all the country-side, for it seemed that he was never tired of riding, and that the pony was never tired of going. what was the rider's errand? nobody knew. why should he go skimming along the red road at day dawn? and why should he come whirling back at dusk,--a red cloud of dust rising beneath the gray pony's feet? nobody could tell. this was almost as much of a puzzle to some of the whites as it was to the negroes; but this mystery, if it could be called such, was soon eclipsed by a phenomenon that worried some of the wisest dwellers in that region. this phenomenon, apparently very simple, began to manifest itself in early fall, and continued all through that season and during the winter and on through the spring, until warm weather set in. it was in the shape of a thin column of blue smoke that could be seen on any clear morning or late afternoon rising from the centre of spivey's canebrake. this place was called a canebrake because a thick, almost impenetrable, growth of canes fringed the edge of a mile-wide basin lying between the bluffs of the oconee river and the uplands beyond. instead of being a canebrake it was a vast swamp, the site of cool but apparently stagnant ponds and of treacherous quagmires, in which cows, and even horses, had been known to disappear and perish. the cowitch grew there, and the yellow plumes of the poison-oak vine glittered like small torches. there, too, the thunder-wood tree exuded its poisonous milk, and long serpent-like vines wound themselves around and through the trees, and helped to shut out the sunlight. it was a swamp, and a very dismal one. the night birds gathered there to sleep during the day, and all sorts of creatures that shunned the sunlight or hated man found a refuge there. if the negroes had made paths through its recesses to enable them to avoid the patrol, nobody knew it but themselves. why, then, should a thin but steady stream of blue smoke be constantly rising upwards from the centre of spivey's canebrake? it was a mystery to those who first discovered it, and it soon grew to be a neighborhood mystery. during the summer the smoke could not be seen, but in the fall and winter its small thin volume went curling upward continually. little crotchet often watched it from the brow of turner's hill, the highest part of the uplands. early in the morning or late in the afternoon the vapor would rise from the oconee; but the vapor was white and heavy, and was blown about by the wind, while the smoke in the swamp was blue and thin, and rose straight in the air above the tops of the trees in spite of the wayward winds. once when little crotchet was sitting on his pony watching the blue smoke rise from the swamp he saw two of the neighbor farmers coming along the highway. they stopped and shook hands with the lad, and then turned to watch the thin stream of blue smoke. the morning was clear and still, and the smoke rose straight in the air, until it seemed to mingle with the upper blue. the two farmers were father and son,--jonathan gadsby and his son ben. they were both very well acquainted with little crotchet,--as, indeed, everybody in the county was,--and he was so bright and queer that they stood somewhat in awe of him. "i reckin if i had a pony that wasn't afeard of nothin' i'd go right straight and find out where that fire is, and what it is," remarked ben gadsby. this stirred his father's ire apparently. "why, benjamin! why, what on the face of the earth do you mean? ride into that swamp! why, you must have lost what little sense you had when you was born! i remember, jest as well as if it was day before yesterday, when uncle jimmy cosby's red steer got in that swamp, and we couldn't git him out. git him out, did i say? we couldn't even git nigh him. we could hear him beller, but we never got where we could see ha'r nor hide of him. if i was thirty year younger i'd take my foot in my hand and wade in there and see where the smoke comes from." [illustration: it was a swamp] little crotchet laughed. "if i had two good legs," said he, "i'd soon see what the trouble is." this awoke ben gadsby's ambition. "i believe i'll go in there and see where the fire is." "fire!" exclaimed old mr. gadsby, with some irritation. "who said anything about fire? what living and moving creetur could build a fire in that thicket? i'd like mighty well to lay my eyes on him." "well," said ben gadsby, "where you see smoke there's obliged to be fire. i've heard you say that yourself." "me?" exclaimed mr. jonathan gadsby, with a show of alarm in the midst of his indignation. "did i say that? well, it was when i wasn't so much as thinking that my two eyes were my own. what about foxfire? suppose that some quagmire or other in that there swamp has gone and got up a ruction on its own hook? smoke without fire? why, i've seed it many a time. and maybe that smoke comes from an eruption in the ground. what then? who's going to know where the fire is?" little crotchet laughed, but ben gadsby put on a very bold front. "well," said he, "i can find bee-trees, and i'll find where that fire is." "well, sir," remarked mr. jonathan gadsby, looking at his son with an air of pride, "find out where the smoke comes from, and we'll not expect you to see the fire." "i wish i could go with you," said little crotchet. "i don't need any company," replied ben gadsby. "i've done made up my mind, and i a-going to show the folks around here that where there's so much smoke there's obliged to be some fire." the young man, knowing that he had some warm work before him, pulled off his coat, and tied the sleeves over his shoulder, sash fashion. then he waved his hand to his father and to little crotchet, and went rapidly down the hill. he had undertaken the adventure in a spirit of bravado. he knew that a number of the neighbors had tried to solve the mystery of the smoke in the swamp and had failed. he thought, too, that he would fail; and yet he was urged on by the belief that if he should happen to succeed, all the boys and all the girls in the neighborhood would regard him as a wonderful young man. he had the same ambition that animated the knight of old, but on a smaller scale. iii. now it chanced that little crotchet himself was on his way to the smoke in the swamp. he had been watching it, and wondering whether he should go to it by the path he knew, or whether he should go by the road that aaron, the runaway, had told him of. ben gadsby interfered with his plans somewhat; for quite by accident, young gadsby as he went down the hill struck into the path that little crotchet knew. there was a chance to gallop along the brow of the hill, turn to the left, plunge through a shallow lagoon, and strike into the path ahead of gadsby, and this chance little crotchet took. he waved his hand to mr. jonathan gadsby, gave the gray pony the rein, and went galloping through the underbrush, his crutches rattling, and the rings of the bridle-bit jingling. to mr. jonathan gadsby it seemed that the lad was riding recklessly, and he groaned and shook his head as he turned and went on his way. but little crotchet rode on. turning sharply to the left as soon as he got out of sight, he went plunging through the lagoon, and was soon going along the blind path a quarter of a mile ahead of ben gadsby. this is why young gadsby was so much disturbed that he lost his way. he was bold enough when he started out, but by the time he had descended the hill and struck into what he thought was a cattle-path his courage began to fail him. the tall canes seemed to bend above him in a threatening manner. the silence oppressed him. everything was so still that the echo of his own movements as he brushed along the narrow path seemed to develop into ominous whispers, as if all the goblins he had ever heard of had congregated in front of him to bar his way. the silence, with its strange echoes, was bad enough, but when he heard the snorting of little crotchet's gray pony as it plunged through the lagoon, the rattle of the crutches and the jingling of the bridle-bit, he fell into a panic. what great beast could it be that went helter-skelter through this dark and silent swamp, swimming through the water and tearing through the quagmires? and yet, when ben gadsby would have turned back, the rank undergrowth and the trailing vines had quite obscured the track. the fear that impelled him to retrace his steps was equally powerful in impelling him to go forward. and this seemed the easiest plan. he felt that it would be just as safe to go on, having once made the venture, as to turn back. he had a presentiment that he would never find his way out anyhow, and the panic he was in nerved him to the point of desperation. so on he went, not always trying to follow the path, but plunging forward aimlessly. in half an hour he was calmer, and pretty soon he found the ground firm under his feet. his instincts as a bee-hunter came back to him. he had started in from the east side, and he paused to take his bearings. but it was hard to see the sun, and in the recesses of the swamp the mosses grew on all sides of the trees. and yet there was a difference, which ben gadsby did not fail to discover and take account of. they grew thicker and larger on the north side, and remembering this, he went forward with more confidence. he found that the middle of the swamp was comparatively dry. huge poplar-trees stood ranged about, the largest he had ever seen. in the midst of a group of trees he found one that was hollow, and in this hollow he found the smouldering embers of a fire. but for the strange silence that surrounded him he would have given a whoop of triumph; but he restrained himself. bee-hunter that he was, he took his coat from his shoulders and tied it around a small slim sapling standing near the big poplar where he had found the fire. it was his way when he found a bee-tree. it was a sort of guide. in returning he would take the general direction, and then hunt about until he found his coat; and it was much easier to find a tree tagged with a coat than it was to find one not similarly marked. thus, instead of whooping triumphantly, ben gadsby simply tied his coat about the nearest sapling, nodding his head significantly as he did so. he had unearthed the secret and unraveled the mystery, and now he would go and call in such of the neighbors as were near at hand and show them what a simple thing the great mystery was. he knew that he had found the hiding-place of aaron, the runaway. so he fixed his "landmark," and started out of the swamp with a lighter heart than he had when he came in. to make sure of his latitude and longitude, he turned in his tracks when he had gone a little distance and looked for the tree on which he had tied his coat. but it was not to be seen. he re-traced his steps, trying to find his coat. looking about him cautiously, he saw the garment after a while, but it was in an entirely different direction from what he supposed it would be. it was tied to a sapling, and the sapling was near a big poplar. to satisfy himself, he returned to make a closer examination. sure enough, there was the coat, but the poplar close by was not a hollow poplar, nor was it as large as the tree in which ben gadsby had found the smouldering embers of a fire. he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and scratched his head, and discussed the matter in his mind the best he could. finally he concluded that it would be a very easy matter, after he found his coat again, to find the hollow poplar. so he started home again. but he had not gone far when he turned around to take another view of his coat. it had disappeared. ben gadsby looked carefully around, and then a feeling of terror crept over his whole body--a feeling that nearly paralyzed his limbs. he tried to overcome this feeling, and did so to a certain degree. he plucked up sufficient courage to return and try to find his coat; but the task was indeed bewildering. he thought he had never seen so many large poplars with small slim saplings standing near them, and then he began to wander around almost aimlessly. iv. suddenly he heard a scream that almost paralyzed him--a scream that was followed by the sound of a struggle going on in the thick undergrowth close at hand. he could see the muddy water splash above the bushes, and he could hear fierce growlings and gruntings. before he could make up his mind what to do, a gigantic mulatto, with torn clothes and staring eyes, rushed out of the swamp and came rushing by, closely pursued by a big white boar with open mouth and fierce cries. the white boar was right at the mulatto's heels, and his yellow tusks gleamed viciously as he ran with open mouth. pursuer and pursued disappeared in the bushes with a splash and a crash, and then all was as still as before. in fact, the silence seemed profounder for this uncanny and appalling disturbance. it was so unnatural that half a minute after it happened ben gadsby was not certain whether it had occurred at all. he was a pretty bold youth, having been used to the woods and fields all his life, but he had now beheld a spectacle so out of the ordinary, and of so startling a character, that he made haste to get out of the swamp as fast as his legs, weakened by fear, would carry him. more than once, as he made his way out of the swamp, he paused to listen; and it seemed that each time he paused an owl, or some other bird of noiseless wing, made a sudden swoop at his head. beyond the exclamation he made when this happened the silence was unbroken. this experience was unusual enough to hasten his steps, even if he had had no other motive for haste. when nearly out of the swamp, he came upon a large poplar, by the side of which a small slim sapling was growing. tied around this sapling was his coat, which he thought he had left in the middle of the swamp. the sight almost took his breath away. he examined the coat carefully, and found that the sleeves were tied around the tree just as he had tied them. he felt in the pockets. everything was just as he had left it. he examined the poplar; it was hollow, and in the hollow was a pile of ashes. "well!" exclaimed ben gadsby. "i'm the biggest fool that ever walked the earth. if i ain't been asleep and dreamed all this, i'm crazy; and if i've been asleep, i'm a fool." his experience had been so queer and so confusing that he promised himself he'd never tell it where any of the older people could hear it, for he knew that they would not only treat his tale with scorn and contempt, but would make him the butt of ridicule among the younger folks. "i know exactly what they'd say," he remarked to himself. "they'd declare that a skeer'd hog run across my path, and that i was skeer'der than the hog." so ben gadsby took his coat from the sapling, and went trudging along his way toward the big road. when he reached that point he turned and looked toward the swamp. much to his surprise, the stream of blue smoke was still flowing upward. he rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was the smoke. his surprise was still greater when he saw little crotchet and the gray pony come ambling up the hill in the path he had just come over. "what did you find?" asked little crotchet, as he reined in the gray pony. "nothing--nothing at all," replied ben gadsby, determined not to commit himself. "nothing?" cried little crotchet. "well, you ought to have been with me! why, i saw sights! the birds flew in my face, and when i got in the middle of the swamp a big white hog came rushing out, and if this gray pony hadn't been the nimblest of his kind, you'd never have seen me any more." "is that so?" asked ben gadsby, in a dazed way. "well, i declare! 'twas all quiet with me. i just went in and come out again, and that's all there is to it." "i wish i'd been with you," said little crotchet, with a curious laugh. "good-by!" with that he wheeled the gray pony and rode off home. ben gadsby watched little crotchet out of sight, and then, with a gesture of despair, surprise, or indignation, flung his coat on the ground, crying, "well, by jing!" v. that night there was so much laughter in the top story of the abercrombie house that the colonel himself came to the foot of the stairs and called out to know what the matter was. "it's nobody but me," replied little crotchet. "i was just laughing." colonel abercrombie paused, as if waiting for some further explanation, but hearing none, said, "good-night, my son, and god bless you!" "good-night, father dear," exclaimed the lad, flinging a kiss at the shadow his father's candle flung on the wall. then he turned again into his own room, where aaron the arab (son of ben ali) sat leaning against the wall, as silent and as impassive as a block of tawny marble. little crotchet lay back in his bed, and the two were silent for a time. finally aaron said:-"the white grunter carried his play too far. he nipped a piece from my leg." "i never saw anything like it," remarked little crotchet. "i thought the white pig was angry. you did that to frighten ben gadsby." "yes, little master," responded aaron, "and i'm thinking the young man will never hunt for the smoke in the swamp any more." little crotchet laughed again, as he remembered how ben gadsby looked as aaron and the white pig went careening across the dry place in the swamp. there was a silence again, and then aaron said he must be going. "and when are you going home to your master?" little crotchet asked. "never!" replied aaron the runaway, with emphasis. "never! he is no master of mine. he is a bad man." then he undressed little crotchet, tucked the cover about him,--for the nights were growing chill,--whispered good-night, and slipped from the window, letting down the sash gently as he went out. if any one had been watching, he would have seen the tall arab steal along the roof until he came to the limb of an oak that touched the eaves. along this he went nimbly, glided down the trunk to the ground, and disappeared in the darkness. i. the little master. if you imagine that the book called "the story of aaron (so-named), the son of ben ali" tells all the adventures of the arab while he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, you are very much mistaken. if you will go back to that book you will see that timoleon the black stallion, grunter the white pig, gristle the gray pony, and rambler the track dog, told only what they were asked to tell. and they were not anxious to tell even that. they would much rather have been left alone. what they did tell they told without any flourishes whatever, for they wanted to get through and be done with it. story-telling was not in their line, and they knew it very well; so they said what they had to say and that was the end of it so far as they were concerned: setting a worthy example to men and women, and to children, too. it is natural, therefore, that a man such as aaron was, full of courage and valuable to the man who had bought him from the speculator, should have many adventures that the animals knew nothing of, or, if they knew, had no occasion to relate. in the book you will find that buster john and sweetest susan asked only about such things as they heard of incidentally. but some of the most interesting things were never mentioned by aaron at all; consequently the children never asked about them. little crotchet, it will be remembered, who knew more about the matter than anybody except aaron, was dead, and so there was nobody to give the children any hint or cue as to the questions they were to ask. you will say they had aaron close at hand. that is true, but aaron was busy, and besides that he was not fond of talking, especially about himself. and yet, the most of the adventures aaron had in the wildwoods were no secret. they were well known to the people in the neighborhood, and for miles around. in fact, they were made the subject of a great deal of talk in little crotchet's day, and many men (and women too) who were old enough to be wise shook their heads over some of the events and declared that they had never heard of anything more mysterious. and it so happened that this idea of mystery deepened and grew until it made a very romantic figure of aaron, and was a great help to him, not only when he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, but afterwards when he "settled down," as the saying is, and turned his attention to looking after affairs on the abercrombie plantation. all this happened before buster john and sweetest susan were born, while their mother was a girl in her teens. when little crotchet was alive things on the abercrombie plantation were very different from what they were before or afterward. it is true the lad was a cripple and had to go on crutches, except when he was riding gristle, the gray pony. but he was very active and nimble, and very restless, too, for he was here, there, and everywhere. more than that, he was always in a good humor, always cheerful, and most of the time laughing at his own thoughts or at something he had heard. for it was well understood on that plantation, and, indeed, wherever little crotchet was familiarly known, that, as he was something of an invalid, and such a little bit of a fellow to boot, nothing unpleasant was to come to his ears. if he found out about trouble anywhere he was to find it out for himself, and without help from anybody else. but although little crotchet was small and crippled, he had a very wise head on his shoulders. one of the first things he found out was that everybody was in a conspiracy to prevent unpleasant things from coming to his ears, and the idea that he was to be humbugged in this way made him laugh, it was so funny. he said to himself that if he could have troubles while everybody was trying to help him along and make life pleasant for him, surely other people who had nobody to look out for them must have much larger troubles. and he found it to be true, although he never said much about it. the truth is that while people thought they were humbugging little crotchet, he was humbugging everybody except a few who knew what a shrewd little chap he was. these few had found out that little crotchet knew a great deal more about the troubles that visit the unfortunate in this world than anybody knew about his troubles--and he had many. it was very peculiar. he would go galloping about the plantation on the gray pony, and no matter where he stopped there was always a negro ready to let down the bars or the fence. how could this be? why, it was the simplest matter in the world. it made no difference where the field hands were working, nor what they were doing, they were always watching for their little master, as they called him. they were sure to know when he was coming--sure to see him; and no matter how high the fence was, down it would come whenever the gray pony was brought to a standstill. it was a sight to see the hoe hands or the plow hands when their little master went riding among them. it was hats off and "howdy, honey," with all, and that was something the white-haired master never saw unless he was riding with little crotchet, which sometimes happened. once the white-haired master said to little crotchet, "they all love you because you are good, my son." but little crotchet was quick to reply:-"oh, no, father; it isn't that. it's because i am fond of them!" now, wasn't he wise for his age? he had stumbled upon the great secret that makes all the happiness there is in this world. the negroes loved him because he was fond of them. he used to sit on the gray pony and watch the hands hoeing and plowing; and although they did their best when he was around, he never failed to find out the tired ones and send them on little errands that would rest them. to one it was "get me a keen switch." to another, "see if you can find me any flowers." one of the worst negroes on the plantation was big sal, a mulatto woman. she had a tongue and a temper that nothing could conquer. once little crotchet, sitting on the gray pony, saw her hoeing away with a rag tied around her forehead under her head handkerchief. so he called her out of the gang, and she came with no very good grace, and only then because some of the other negroes shamed her into it. no doubt little crotchet heard her disputing with them, but he paid no attention to it. when big sal came up, he simply said:-"help me off the horse. i have a headache sometimes, and i feel it coming on now. i want you to sit here and rub my head for me if you are not too tired." "what wid?" cried big sal. "my han's too dirty." "you get the headache out, and i'll get the dirt off," said little crotchet, laughing. big sal laughed too, cleaned her hands the best she could, and rubbed the youngster's head for him, while the gray pony nibbled the crabgrass growing near. but presently, when little crotchet opened his eyes, he found that big sal was crying. she was making no fuss about it, but as she sat with the child's head in her lap the tears were streaming down her face like water. "what are you crying about?" little crotchet asked. "god a'mighty knows, honey. i'm des a-cryin', an' ef de angels fum heav'm wuz ter come down an' ax me, i couldn't tell um no mo' dan dat." this was true enough. the lonely heart had been touched without knowing why. but little crotchet knew. "i reckon it's because you had the headache," he said. "i speck so," answered big sal. "it looked like my head'd bust when you hollered at me, but de pain all done gone now." "i'm glad," replied little crotchet. "i hope my head will quit aching presently. sometimes it aches all night long." "well, suh!" exclaimed big sal. it was all she could say. finally, when she had lifted little crotchet to his saddle (which was easy enough to do, he was so small and frail) and returned, uncle turin, foreman of the hoe hands, remarked:-"you'll be feelin' mighty biggity now, i speck." "who? me?" cried big sal. "god knows, i feel so little an' mean i could t'ar my ha'r out by de han'ful." uncle turin, simple and kindly old soul, never knew then nor later what big sal meant, but ever afterwards, whenever the woman had one of her tantrums, she went straight to her little master, and if she sometimes came away from him crying it was not his fault. if she was crying it was because she was comforted, and it all seemed so simple and natural to her that she never failed to express a deep desire to tear her hair out if anybody asked her where she had been or where she was going. it was not such an easy matter to reach the plow hands. the fields were wide and the furrows were long on that plantation, and some of the mules were nimbler than the others, and some of the hands were quicker. so that it rarely happened that they all came down the furrows abreast. but what difference did that make? let them come one by one, or two by two, or twenty abreast, it was all the same when the little master was in sight. it was hats off and "howdy," with "gee, beck!" and "haw, rhody!" and "whar you been, little marster, dat we ain't seed you sence day 'fo' yistiddy?" and so until they had all saluted the child on the gray pony. and why did susy's sam hang back and want to turn his mule around before he had finished the furrow? it was easy to see. susy's sam, though he was the most expert plowman in the gang, had only one good hand, the other being a mere stump, and he disliked to be singled out from the rest on that account. but it was useless for him to hang back. little crotchet always called for susy's sam. sometimes sam would say that his mule was frisky and wouldn't stand. but the word would come, "well, drive the mule out in the bushes," and then susy's sam would have a long resting spell that did him good, and there would be nobody to complain. and so it was with the rest. whoever was sick or tired was sure to catch the little master's eye. how did he know? well, don't ask too many questions about that. you might ask how the gray pony knew the poison vines and grasses. it was a case of just knowing, without knowing where the knowledge came from. but it was not only the plow hands and the hoe hands that little crotchet knew about. at the close of summer there were the cotton pickers and the reapers to be looked after. in fact, this was little crotchet's busiest time, for many of the negro children were set to picking cotton, and the lad felt called on to look after these more carefully than he looked after the grown hands. many a time he had half a dozen holding the gray pony at once. this made the older negroes shake their heads, and say that the little master was spoiling the children, but you may be sure that they thought none the less of him on that account. [illustration: that's randall's song] and then there were the reapers, the men who cut the oats and the wheat, and the binders that followed after. at the head of the reapers was randall, tall, black, and powerful. it was fun to see the blade of his cradle flashing in the sun, and hear it swing with a swish through the golden grain. he led the reapers always by many yards, but when he was making the pace too hot for them he had a way of stopping to sharpen his scythe and starting up a song which spread from mouth to mouth until it could be heard for miles. aaron, hiding in the wildwoods, could hear it, and at such times he would turn to one of his companions--the white pig, or rambler, or that gay joker, the fox squirrel--and say: "that's randall's song. he sees the little master coming." the white pig would grunt, and rambler would say he'd rather hear a horn; but the red squirrel would chatter like mad and declare that he lost one of his ears by sitting on a limb of the live oak and singing when he saw a man coming. but the reapers knew nothing about the experience of the fox squirrel, and so they went on singing whenever randall gave the word. and little crotchet was glad to hear them, for he used to sit on the gray pony and listen, sometimes feeling happy, and at other times feeling lonely indeed. it may have been the quaint melody that gave him a lonely feeling, or it may have been his sympathy for those who suffer the pains of disease or the pangs of trouble. the negroes used to watch him as they sang and worked, and say in the pauses of their song:-"little marster mighty funny!" that was the word,--"funny,"--and yet it had a deeper meaning for the negroes than the white people ever gave it. funny!--when the lad leaned his pale cheek on the frail hand, and allowed his thoughts (were they thoughts or fleeting aspirations or momentary longings?) to follow the swift, sweet echoes of the song. for the echoes had a thousand nimble feet, and with these they fled away, away,--away beyond the river and its bordering hills; for the echoes had twangling wings, like those of a turtle-dove, and on these they lifted themselves heavenward, and floated above the world, and above the toil and trouble and sorrow and pain that dwell therein. funny!--when the voice of some singer, sweeter and more powerful than the rest, rose suddenly from the pauses of the song, and gave words, as it seemed, to all the suffering that the little master had ever known. aye! so funny that at such times little crotchet would suddenly wave his hand to the singing reapers, and turn the gray pony's head toward the river. was he following the rolling echoes? he could never hope to overtake them. once when this happened uncle fountain stopped singing to say:-"i wish i wuz a runaway nigger!" "no, you don't!" exclaimed randall. "yes, i does," uncle fountain insisted. "how come?" "kaze den i'd have little marster runnin' atter me ev'y chance he got." "go 'way, nigger man! you'd have jim simmons's nigger dogs atter you, an' den what'd you do?" "dat ar aaron had um atter 'im, an' what'd he do?" "de lord, he knows,--i don't! but don't you git de consate in yo' min' dat you kin do what aaron done done, kaze you'll fool yo'se'f, sho!" "what aaron done done?" fountain was persistent. "he done fool dem ar nigger dogs; dat what he done done." "den how come i can't fool dem ar dogs?" "how come? well, you des try um one time, mo' speshully dat ar col'-nose dog, which he name soun'." "well, i ain't bleege ter try it when de white folks treat me right," remarked uncle fountain, after thinking the matter over. "dat what make i say what i does," asserted randall. "when you know 'zactly what you got, an' when you got mighty nigh what you want, dat's de time ter lay low an' say nothin'. hit's some trouble ter git de corn off'n de cob, but spozen dey want no corn on de cob, what den?" "honey, ain't it de trufe?" exclaimed uncle fountain. thus the negroes talked. they knew a great deal more about aaron than the white people did, but even the negroes didn't know as much as the little master, and for a very good reason. they had no time to find out things, except at night, and at night--well, you may believe it or not, just as you please, but at night the door of the swamp was closed and locked--locked hard and fast. the owls, the night hawks, the whippoorwills, and the chuck-will's widows could fly over. yes, and the willis whistlers could creep through or crawl under when they returned home from their wild serenades. but everything else--even that red joker, the fox squirrel--must have a key. aaron had one, and the white grunter, and rambler, and all the four-footed creatures that walk on horn sandals or in velvet slippers each had a key. the little master might have had one for the asking, but always when night came he was glad to lie on his sofa and read, or, better still, go to bed and sleep, so that he never had the need of a key to open the door of the swamp after it was closed and locked at night. ii. the secrets of the swamp. however hard and fast the door of the swamp may be locked at night, however tightly it may be shut, it opens quickly enough to whomsoever carries the key. there is no creaking of its vast and heavy hinges; there is not the faintest flutter of a leaf, nor the softest whisper of a blade of grass. that is the bargain the bearer of the key must make:- _that which sleeps, disturb not its slumber. that which moves, let it swiftly pass._ else the swamp will never reveal itself. the sound of one alien footfall is enough. it is the signal for each secret to hide itself, and for all the mysteries to vanish into mystery. the swamp calls them all in, covers them as with a mantle, and puts on its every-day disguise,--the disguise that the eyes of few mortals have ever penetrated. but those who stand by the bargain that all key-bearers must make--whether they go on two legs or on four, whether they fly or crawl or creep or swim--find the swamp more friendly. there is no disguise anywhere. the secrets come swarming forth from all possible or impossible places; and the mysteries, led by their torch-bearer jack-o'-the-lantern, glide through the tall canes and move about among the tall trees. the unfathomable blackness of night never sets foot here. it is an alien and is shut out. and this is one of the mysteries. if, when the door of the swamp is opened to a key-bearer the black night seems to have crept in, wait a moment,--have patience. it is a delusion. underneath this leafy covering, in the midst of this dense growth of vines and saw-grass and reeds and canes, there is always a wonderful hint of dawn--a shadowy, shimmering hint, elusive and indescribable, but yet sufficient to give dim shape to that which is near at hand. not far away the frightened squeak of some small bird breaks sharply on the ear of the swamp. this is no alien note, and jack-o'-the-lantern dances up and down, and all the mysteries whisper in concert:-"we wish you well, mr. fox. don't choke yourself with the feathers. good-night, mr. fox, good-night!" two minute globules of incandescent light come into sight and disappear, and the mysteries whisper:-"too late, mr. mink, too late! better luck next time. good-night!" a rippling sound is heard in the lagoon as the leander of the swamp slips into the water. jack-o'-the-lantern flits to the level shore of the pool, and the mysteries come sweeping after, sighing:-"farewell, mr. muskrat! good luck and good-night!" surely there is an alien sound on the knoll yonder,--snapping, growling, and fighting. have stray dogs crept under the door? oh, no! the swamp smiles, and all the mysteries go trooping thither to see the fun. it is a wonderful frolic! mr. red fox has met mr. gray fox face to face. something tells mr. red fox "here's your father's enemy." something whispers to mr. gray, "here's your mother's murderer." and so they fall to, screaming and gnawing and panting and snarling. mr. gray fox is the strongest, but his heart is the weakest. without warning he turns tail and flies, with mr. red fox after him, and with all the mysteries keeping them company. they run until they are past the boundary line,--the place where the trumpet flower tried to marry the black-jack tree,--and then, of course, the swamp has no further concern with them. and the mysteries and their torch-bearers come trooping home. [illustration: mr. red fox meets mr. gray fox] it is fun when mr. red fox and mr. gray fox meet on the knoll, but the swamp will never have such a frolic as it had one night when a strange bird came flying in over the door. it is known that the birds that sleep while the swamp is awake have been taught to hide their heads under their wings. it is not intended that they should see what is going on. even the buzzard, that sleeps in the loblolly pine, and the wild turkey, that sleeps in the live oak, conform to this custom. they are only on the edge of the swamp, but they feel that it would be rude not to put their heads under their wings while the swamp is awake. but this strange bird--of a family of night birds not hitherto known to that region--was amazed when he beheld the spectacle. "oho!" he cried; "what queer country is this, where all the birds are headless? if i'm to live here in peace, i must do as the brethren do." so he went off in search of advice. as he went along he saw the bull-frog near the lagoon. "queerer still," exclaimed the stranger. "here is a bird that has no head, and he can sing." this satisfied him, and he went farther until he saw mr. wildcat trying to catch little mr. flying-squirrel. "good-evening, sir," said the stranger. "i see that the birds in this country have no heads." mr. wildcat smiled and bowed and licked his mouth. "i presume, sir, that i ought to get rid of my head if i am to stay here, and i have nowhere else to go. how am i to do it?" "easy enough," responded mr. wildcat, smiling and bowing and licking his mouth. "birds that are so unfortunate as to have heads frequently come to me for relief. may i examine your neck to see what can be done?" the strange bird fully intended to say, "why, certainly, sir!" he had the words all made up, but his head was off before he could speak. being a large bird, he fluttered and shook his wings and jumped about a good deal. as the noise was not alien, the swamp and all its mysteries came forth to investigate, and oh, what a frolic there was when mr. wildcat related the facts! the torch-bearers danced up and down with glee, and the mysteries waltzed to the quick piping of the willis-whistlers. although the swamp was not a day older when aaron, the son of ben ali, became a key-bearer, the frolic over the headless bird was far back of aaron's time. older! the swamp was even younger, for it was not a swamp until old age had overtaken it--until centuries had made it fresh and green and strong. the indians had camped round about, had tried to run its mysteries down, and had failed. then came a band of wandering spaniards, with ragged clothes, and tarnished helmets, and rusty shields, and neighing horses--the first the swamp had ever seen. the spaniards floundered in at one side--where the trumpet vine tried to marry the black-jack tree--and floundered out on the other side more bedraggled than ever. this was a great victory for the swamp, and about that time it came to know and understand itself. for centuries it had been "organizing," and when it pulled de soto's company of spaniards in at one side and flung them out at the other, considerably the worse for wear, it felt that the "organization" was complete. and so it was and had been for years and years, and so it remained thereafter--a quiet place when the sun was above the trees, but wonderfully alert and alive when night had fallen. the swamp that aaron knew was the same that the indians and spaniards had known. the loblolly pine had grown, and the big poplars on the knoll had expanded a trifle with the passing centuries, but otherwise the swamp was the same. and yet how different! the indians had not found it friendly, and the spaniards regarded it as an enemy; but to aaron it gave shelter, and sometimes food, and its mysteries were his companions. jack-o'-the-lantern showed him the hidden paths when the mists of night fell darker than usual. he became as much a part of the swamp as the mysteries were, entering into its life, and becoming native to all its moods and conditions. and his presence there seemed to give the swamp new responsibilities. its thousand eyes were always watching for his enemies, and its thousand tongues were always ready to whisper the news of the coming of an alien. the turkey buzzard, soaring thousands of feet above the top of the great pine, the blue falcon, suspended in the air a mile away, the crow, flapping lazily across the fields, stood sentinel during the day, and the swamp understood the messages they sent. at night the willis-whistlers were on guard, and their lines extended for miles in all directions, and the swamp itself was awake, and needed no warning message. sometimes at night the sound of randall's trumpet fell on the ear of the swamp, or the voice of uncle fountain was heard lifted up in song, as he went over the hills to his fish-baskets in the river; and these were restful and pleasing sounds. sometimes the trailing cry of hounds was heard. if in the day, rambler, the track dog, would listen until he knew whether the cry came from jim simmons's "nigger dogs," from the gossett hounds, or from some other pack. if at night, the swamp cared little about it, for it was used to these things after the sun went down. mr. coon insisted on gadding about, and it served him right, the swamp insisted, when the hounds picked up his drag--as the huntsmen say--and brought him home with a whirl. he was safe when he got there, for let the hounds bay at the door of his house as long as they might, no hunter with torch and axe would venture into the swamp. they had tried it--oh, many times. _but the door was locked, and the key was safely kid in a hollow tree._ if it was merely cousin coon who lived up the river, well and good. it would teach the incurable vagrant a lesson, and the swamp enjoyed the fun. the willis-whistlers stopped to listen, the mysteries hid behind the trees, and jack-o'-the-lantern extinguished his torch as the hounds came nearer with their quavering cries. was it mr. coon or cousin coon? why, cousin coon, of course. how did the swamp know? it was the simplest thing in the world. wasn't there a splash and a splutter as he ran into the quagmire? wasn't there a snap and a snarl when the partridge-pea vine caught his foot? did he know the paths? didn't he double and turn and go back the way he came, to be caught and killed on dry land? would mr. coon of the swamp ever be caught on dry land? don't you believe it! if cut off from home, he would run to the nearest pond and plunge in. once there, was there a hound that would venture to take a bath with him? the swamp laughed at the thought of such a thing. aaron smiled, the white pig grunted, and rambler grinned. cousin coon is no more, but mr. coon is safe at home and the swamp knows it. _good luck to all who know the way, by crooked path and clinging vine! for them night's messengers shall stay, for them the laggard moon shall shine._ but it was not always that aliens and strangers were unwelcome. occasionally in the still hours between midnight and dawn the swamp would open its doors to gossett's riley. he had no key and he had never come to know and feel that the swamp was something more than a mixture of mud and water, trees, canes, vines, and all manner of flying, creeping, and crawling things. to him the swamp was merely a place and not a thing, but this was ignorance, and the swamp forgave it for various reasons, forgave it and pitied him as he deserved to be pitied. and yet he had qualities out of the common, and for these the swamp admired him. he was little more than a dwarf, being "bow-legged and chuckle-headed," as susy's sam used to say, and was called chunky riley, but he was very much of a man for all that. at a log-rolling there was not a negro for miles around who could pull him down with the handstick. aaron could do it, but aaron was not a negro, but an arab, and that is different. chunky riley was even stronger in limb and body than aaron, but aaron used his head, as well as body and limb--and that also is different. riley was not swift of foot, but he could run far, as gossett's hounds well knew. more than that, he could go on all-fours almost as fast as he could run on two legs, and that was something difficult to do. the swamp found chunky riley out in a very curious way. the first time he came to bring a message to aaron he waited for no introduction whatever. the willis-whistlers warned him, but he paid no attention to their warning; the mysteries whispered to him, but his ears were closed. he searched for no path, and was blind to all the signals. he blundered into the swamp and floundered toward the knoll as the spaniards did. he floundered out of the quagmire near where the white pig lay. he had the scent and all the signs of an alien, and the white grunter rushed at him with open mouth. the swamp was now angry from centre to circumference, and poor chunky riley's ending would have been swift and sudden but for the fact that he bore some undeveloped kinship to the elements that surrounded him. [illustration: a-straddle of the grunter's back] as the white pig rushed forward with open mouth, chunky riley caught a vague glimpse of him in the darkness, gave one wild yell, leaped into the air, and came down a-straddle of the grunter's back. this was more than the white pig had bargained for. he answered riley's yell with a loud squeal, and went tearing through the swamp to the place where aaron dwelt. the big owl hooted, rambler howled, and jack-o'-the-lantern threw down his torch and fled. the swamp that had been angry was amazed and frightened. what demon was this that had seized the white grunter and was carrying him off? what could the rest hope for if so fierce a creature as the white pig could be disposed of in this fashion? even aaron was alarmed at the uproar, for chunky riley continued to yell, and the white pig kept up its squealing. it was well that the grunter, when he came to aaron's place, ran close enough to a tree to rub chunky riley off his back, otherwise there is no telling what would have happened. it was well, too, that chunky riley called loudly for aaron when he fell, otherwise he would have been made mincemeat of; for as soon as the white pig was relieved of his strange burden, his anger rose fiercer than ever, and he came charging at chunky riley, who was lying prone on the ground, too frightened to do anything more than try to run to a tree on all-fours. aaron spoke sharply to the white pig. "shall i use a club on you, white grunter? shall i make bacon of you? you heard him call my name." the white pig paused. his small eyes glittered in the dark, and chunky riley heard his tusks grate ominously. he knew the creature was foaming with rage. "ooft! your name, son of ben ali?" said the white pig in language that chunky riley thought was merely a series of angry grunts and snorts. "ooft! i heard him call for aaron, and how long has it been since i heard you say to the red chatterer in the hickory-tree that there were a thousand aarons, but only one son of ben ali? ooft-gooft! am i a horse to be ridden? humph! no man could ride me--it is what you call a thing. umph! let it ride you and then talk about clubs. ooft!" "is dat aaron?" chunky riley ventured to inquire. "ef 't is, i wish you'd be good enough ter run dat ar creetur 'way fum here, kaze i ain't got no knack fer bein' chaw'd up an' spit out, an' trompled on, an' teetotally ruint right 'fo' my own face." "what's your name?" inquired aaron. "you ought ter know me, but i dunner whedder you does er not. i'm name riley--dey calls me chunky riley fer short." aaron was silent for a moment, as if trying to remember the name. presently he laughed and said: "why, yes; i know you pretty well. come, we'll kindle a fire." "no suh--not me! not less'n you'll run dat ar wil' hog off. he mo' servigrous dan a pant'er. ef i hadn't er straddled 'im des now he'd 'a' e't me bodaciously up an' dey wouldn't 'a' been nothin' lef' but de buttons on my cloze, an' nobody in de roun' worl' would 'a' know'd dey wuz buttons." aaron laughed while speaking to the white pig: "get to bed, grunter. it is the lifter--the man that is as strong in the back as a horse." "gooft-ooft! let him ride you out as he rode me in--ooft! he's no man! gooft! no bed for me. when a horse is ridden, he must eat, as i've heard you say, son of ben ali. gooft-ooft!" the white pig, still grinding his tusks together, turned and trotted off into the darkness, and presently aaron and chunky riley heard him crashing through the canes and reeds. then aaron kindled his fire. "why did you come?" inquired the son of ben ali when the two had made themselves comfortable. "des ter fetch word dat marster wuz layin' off ter git atter you wid simmons's nigger-dogs 'fo' long." "all the way through the dark for that? when did you come to like me so well?" "oh, 't ain't 'zackly dat," replied chunky riley frankly. "i hear um talkin' 'bout it when marster an' dat ar mr. simmons wuz walkin' out in de hoss lot. i wuz in de corn crib, an' dey didn't know it, an' i des sot dar an' lis'n at um. an' den dis mornin' i seed dat ar little marse abercrombie, an' he say, 'go tell aaron quick ez you kin.'" "the child with the crutches?" queried aaron. "de ve'y same," replied chunky riley. he paused awhile and then added: "i'd walk many a long mile fer dat white chil', day er night, rain er shine." he gazed in the flickering fire a long time, waiting for aaron to make some comment. hearing none, he finally turned his eyes on his companion. aaron was looking skyward, where one small star could be seen twinkling through the ascending smoke from the fire, and his lips were moving, though they framed no words that chunky riley could hear. something in the attitude of the son of ben ali disturbed the negro. "well, i done what i come ter do," he said, making a pretense of stretching himself and yawning, "an' i speck i'd better be gwine." the son of ben ali still kept his eye fixed on the twinkling star. "what pesters me," chunky riley went on, "is de idee dat dat ar wil' hog went 'zackly de way i got ter go. i don't want ter hatter ride 'im no mo' less'n i got a saddle an' bridle." "come!" exclaimed aaron suddenly, "i'll go with you. i want to see the little master." "de dogs'll fin' yo' track sho, ef dey start out to-morrer," suggested chunky riley. the only response the son of ben ali made to this suggestion was to say: "take the end of my cane in your hand and follow it. we'll take a short cut." chunky riley had queer thoughts as he followed his tall conductor, being led as if he were a blind man; but he said nothing. presently (it seemed but a few minutes to chunky riley) they stood on the top of a hill. "look yonder!" said aaron. away to the left a red light glimmered faintly. "what dat?" asked the superstitious negro. "the light in the little master's window." "how came it so red, den?" inquired chunky riley. "red curtain," replied aaron curtly. "well, de lord he'p us! is we dat close?" cried chunky riley. "your way is there," said the son of ben ali; "this is mine." the negro stood watching aaron until his tall form was lost in the darkness. iii. what chunky riley saw and heard left alone, chunky riley stood still and tried to trace in his mind the route he and aaron had followed in coming from the swamp. but he could make no mental map--and he knew every "nigh-cut" and by-path for miles around--that would fit in with the time it had taken them to reach the spot where he now stood. he looked back toward the swamp, but the night covered it, and he could see nothing. then he looked around him, to see if he knew his present whereabouts. oh, yes, that was easy; every foot of ground was familiar. the hill on which he had stood had been given over to scrub pines. the hill itself sloped away to the turner old fields. but still he was puzzled, and still he scratched his head, for he knew that the swamp was a good four miles away--nearly five--and it seemed to him that he and aaron had been only a few minutes in making the journey. so he scratched his head and wondered to himself whether aaron was really a "conjur' man." it was perhaps very lucky for chunky riley that he stopped when he did. if he had kept on he would have run into the arms of three men who were going along the plantation path that led from gossett's negro quarters to the abercrombie place. the delay that chunky riley made prevented him from meeting them, but it did not prevent him from hearing the murmur of their voices as he struck into the path. they were too far off for chunky riley to know whether they were white or black, but just as he turned into the path to go to gossett's the scent of a cigar floated to his nostrils. he paused and scratched his head again. he knew by the scent of the cigar that the voices he heard belonged to white men: but who were they? if they were the "patterollers" they'd catch aaron beyond all question; it would be impossible for him to escape. so thought chunky riley, and so thinking, he turned and followed the path towards the abercrombie place. he moved rapidly but cautiously. the scent of the cigar grew stronger, the sound of men's voices fell more distinctly on his ear. chunky riley left the path and skirted through the low pines until he came to the fence that inclosed the spring lot. he knew that if he was heard, the men would think he was a calf, or, mayhap, a mule; for the hill on which aaron had left him was now a part of a great pasture, in which the calves and dry cattle and (between seasons) the mules were allowed to roam at will. coming to the fence, chunky riley would have crossed it, but the voices were louder now, and he caught a glimpse of the red sparks of lighted cigars. creeping closer and closer, but ever ready to drop on the ground and run away on all-fours, chunky riley was soon able to hear what the men were saying. he knew the voices of his master and young master, mr. gossett--old grizzle, as he was called--and george, and he rightly judged that the strange voice mingling with theirs belonged to mr. jim simmons, who, with a trained pack of hounds,--"nigger dogs" they were called,--held himself at the service of owners of runaway negroes. mr. simmons's average fee was $15--that is to say when he was "called in time." but in special cases his charge was $30. when chunky riley arrived within earshot of the group, mr. gossett was just concluding a protest that he had made against the charge of $30, which he had reluctantly agreed to pay for the capture of aaron. "you stayed at my house to-day, you'll stay there to-night, and maybe you'll come back to dinner to-morrow. there's the feeding of you and your dogs. you don't take any account of that at all." mr. gossett's voice was sharp and emphatic. his stinginess was notorious in that region, and gave rise to the saying that gossett loved a dollar better than he did his wife. but he was no more ashamed of his stinginess than he was of the shabbiness of his hat. "but, colonel," remonstrated mr. jim simmons, "didn't you send for me? didn't you say, 'glad to see you, simmons; walk right in and make yourself at home'? you did, fer a fact." he spoke with a drawl that irritated the snappy and emphatic mr. gossett. "why, certainly, simmons; certainly i did. i mentioned the matter to show you that your charges are out of all reason in this case. all you have to do is to come here with your dogs in the morning, skirt around the place, pick up his trail, and there you are." "but, colonel!" insisted mr. jim simmons with his careless, irritating drawl, "ain't it a plum' fact that this nigger's been in the woods a month or sech a matter? ain't it a plum' fact that you've tracked him and trailed him with your own dogs?--and good dogs they are, and i'll tell anybody so. now what do you pay me fer? fer catching the nigger? no, sirree! the nigger's as good as caught now--when it comes to that. you pay me fer knowing how to catch him--that's what you pay me fer. you send fer the doctor. he comes and fumbles around a little, and you have to pay the bill whether he kills or cures. you don't pay him fer killing or curing; you pay him fer knowing how to fumble around. it's some different with me. if i don't catch your nigger, you button up your pocket. if i do catch him you pay me $30 down, not fer catching him, but fer knowing how to fumble around and catch him." the logic of this argument, which was altogether lost on chunky riley, silenced mr. gossett, but did not convince him. there was a long pause, as if all three of the men were wrestling with peculiar thoughts. finally mr. gossett spoke:-"it ain't so much the nigger i'm after, but i want to show abercrombie that i can't be outdone. he's laughing in his sleeve because i can't keep the nigger at home, and i'll be blamed"--here his voice sank to a confidential tone--"i'll be blamed if i don't believe that, between him and that son of his, they are harboring the nigger. yes, sir, harboring is the word." mr. jim simmons threw down his lighted cigar with such energy as to cause the sparks to fly in all directions. a cigar was an unfamiliar luxury to mr. simmons, and he had had enough of it. "addison abercrombie harboring a nigger!" exclaimed mr. simmons. "why, colonel, if every man, woman, and child in the united states was to tell me that i wouldn't believe it. addison abercrombie! why, colonel, though you're his next-door neighbor, as you may say, you don't know him half as well as i do. you ought to get acquainted with that man." "humph! i know him well enough, i reckon," responded mr. gossett. "i went to school with him. folks get to know one another at school. he was always stuck up, trying to hold his head higher than anybody else because his daddy had money and a big plantation. i made my prop'ty myself; i earned every dollar; and i know how it came." "but, colonel!" mr. jim simmons insisted, "addison abercrombie would hold his head high if he never seen a dollar, and he'd have the right to do it. him harbor niggers? shucks, colonel! you might as well tell me that the moon ain't nothing but a tater pudding." "what do you see in the man?" mr. gossett asked with some irritation in the tones of his voice. there was a pause, as though mr. simmons was engaged in getting his thoughts together. finally he said:-"well, colonel, i don't reckon i can make it plain to you, because when i come to talk about it i can't grab the identical idee that would fit what i've got in my mind. but i'll tell you what's the honest truth, in my opinion--and i'm not by myself, by a long shot--addison abercrombie is as fine a man as ever trod shoe leather. that's what." "humph!" grunted mr. gossett. "yes, sirree!" persisted mr. simmons, warming up a little. "it makes no difference where you see him, nor when you see him, nor how you see him, you can up and say: 'the lord has made many men of many minds, and many men of many kinds, but not sence adam has he made a better man than addison abercrombie.' that's the way i look at it, colonel. i may be wrong, but if i am i'll never find it out in this world." plainly, mr. gossett was not prepared to hear such a tribute as this paid to addison abercrombie, and he winced under it. he hemmed and hawed, as the saying is, and changed his position on the fence. he was thoroughly disgusted. now there was no disagreement between mr. gossett and mr. abercrombie,--no quarrel, that is to say,--but gossett knew that abercrombie regarded him with a feeling akin to contempt. he treasured in his mind a remark that abercrombie had made about him the day he bought aaron from the negro speculator. he never forgot nor forgave it, for it was an insinuation that mr. gossett, in spite of his money and his thrifty ways, was not much of a gentleman. on this particular subject mr. gossett was somewhat sensitive, as men are who have doubts in their own minds as to their standing. mr. gossett had an idea that money and "prop'ty," as he called it, made a gentleman; but it was a very vague idea, and queer doubts sometimes pestered him. it was these doubts that made him "touchy" on this subject. "what has this great man ever done for you, simmons?" mr. gossett asked, with a contemptuous snort. "not anything, colonel, on the top of the green globe. i went to him once to borrow some money, and he wanted to lend it to me without taking my note and without charging me any interest. i says to him, says i, 'you'll have to excuse me.'" "that was right; you did perfectly right, simmons. the man was trying to insult you." "but, colonel, he didn't go about it that way. don't you reckon you could tell when anybody was trying to insult you? that was the time i come to you." "i charged you interest, didn't i, simmons?" "you did, colonel, fer a fact." "i'm this kind of a man, simmons," remarked mr. gossett, with a touch of sincere pride and gratification in his voice. "when i do business with a man i do business. when i do him a favor it must be outside of business. it's mixing the two things up that keeps so many people poor." "what two things, colonel?" gravely inquired simmons. "why the doing of business and--er--the doing of favors." "oh, i see," said mr. simmons, as if a great light had been turned on the matter. then he laughed and continued: "yes, colonel, i borrowed the money from you and just about that time the fever taken me down, and if it hadn't 'a' been fer addison abercrombie the note i give you would have swallowed my house and land." "is that so?" inquired mr. gossett. "ask my wife," replied mr. simmons. "one day while i was out of my head with the fever, addison abercrombie, he rid by and saw my wife setting on the front steps, jest a-boohooing,--you know how wimmen will do, colonel; if they ain't a-jawing they're a-cryin'. so addison abercrombie, he ups and asks her what's the matter, and jennie, she tells him. he got right off his hoss and come in, and set by my bed the better part of the morning. and all that time there i was a-running on about notes and a-firing off my troubles in the air. so the upshot of the business was that addison abercrombie left the money there to pay the note and left word for me to pay him back when i got good and ready; and jennie hadn't hardly dried her eyes before here come a nigger on horseback with a basket on his arm, and in the basket was four bottles of wine. wine! why, colonel, it was worse 'n wine. jennie says that if arry one of the bottles had 'a' had a load of buckshot in it, the roof would 'a' been blow'd off when the stopper flew out. and, colonel! if ever you feel like taking a right smart of exercise, jest pass my house some day and stick your head over the palings and tell jennie that addison abercrombie's got a streak of meanness in him." "have you ever paid abercrombie?" mr. gossett inquired. his voice was harsh and businesslike. "i was laying off to catch this nigger of yours and pay him some on account," replied mr. simmons. "why, it has been three years since you paid me," suggested mr. gossett. "two years or sech a matter," remarked mr. simmons complacently. "then that's the reason you think abercrombie ain't harboring my nigger?" inquired mr. gossett scornfully. "but, colonel," drawled mr. simmons, "what under the sun ever got the idee in your head that addison abercrombie _is_ harboring your nigger?" "it's as simple as a-b ab," mr. gossett replied with energy. "he tried to buy the nigger off the block and couldn't, and now he thinks i'll sell if the nigger'll stay in the woods long enough. that's the reason he's harboring the nigger. and more than that: don't i know from my own niggers that the yaller rapscallion comes here every chance he gets? he comes, but he don't go in the nigger quarters. now, where does he go?" "yes, where?" said mr. gossett's son george, who up to that moment had taken no part in the conversation. "three times this month i've dealt out an extra rasher of bacon to two of our hands, and they tell the same tale." "it looks quare," mr. simmons admitted, "but as sure as you're born addison abercrombie ain't the man to harbor a runaway nigger. if he's ever had a nigger in the woods, it's more'n i know, and when that's the case you may set it down fer a fact that he don't believe in runaway niggers." this was a lame argument, but it was the best that mr. simmons could muster at the moment. "no," remarked mr. gossett sarcastically, "his niggers don't take to the woods because they do as they blamed please at home. it sets my teeth on edge to see the way things are run on this plantation. why, i could take the stuff that's flung away here and get rich on it in five years. it's a scandal." "i believe you!" assented his son george dutifully. chunky riley heard this conversation by snatches, but he caught the drift of it. what he remembered of it was that some of his fellow servants were ready to tell all they knew for an extra "rasher" of meat, and that the hunt for aaron would begin the next morning,--and it was now getting along toward dawn. he wanted to warn aaron again. he wanted especially to tell aaron that three men were sitting on the fence waiting for him. but this was impossible. the hour was approaching when chunky riley must be in his cabin on the gossett plantation ready to go to work with the rest of the hands. he had slept soundly the first half of the night, and he would be as fresh in the field when the sun rose as those who had slept the night through. as he turned away from the fence a dog in the path leading from the spring to the stile suddenly began to bay. the men tried to drive him away, and one of them threw a stick at him, but the dog refused to be intimidated. he bayed them more fiercely, but finally retreated toward the spring, stopping occasionally to bark at the men on the fence. "if i'm not mistaken," remarked mr. gossett, "that's my dog rambler. i know his voice, and he's been missing ever since that nigger went to the woods. i wonder if he's taken up over here? george, i wish you'd make it convenient to come over here as soon as you can, and find out whether rambler is here. now, there's a dog, simmons, that's away ahead of anything you've got in the shape of a nigger dog,--nose as cold as ice, and as much sense as the common run of folks." "he ain't doing you much good," responded mr. simmons. "that's a fact," said mr. gossett. "till i heard that dog barking i thought rambler had been killed by that nigger." chunky riley struck into the plantation path leading to gossett's, at the point where the three men had tied their horses. they had ridden as far as they thought prudent, considering the errand they were on, and then they dismounted and made their horses fast to the overhanging limbs of a clump of oaks, which, for some reason or other, had been left standing in the field. one of the horses whinnied when chunky riley came near, and the negro paused. aaron would have known that the horse said, "please take me home, and be quick about it; i'm hungry;" but chunky riley could only guess. and as he guessed a thought struck him--a thought that made him scratch his head and chuckle. he turned in his tracks, went back along the path a little way, and listened. then he returned, and the horse whinnied again. the creature was growing impatient. once more chunky riley indulged in a hearty laugh, slapping himself softly on the leg. then he went to the horses one by one, pulled down the swinging limbs to which their bridle reins were fastened, and untied them. this done, he proceeded to make himself "mighty skace," as he expressed it. he started toward home at a rapid trot, without pausing to listen. but even without listening, he could hear the horses coming after him, mr. simmons's horse with the others. the faster he trotted the faster the horses trotted; and when chunky riley began to run the horses broke into a gallop, and came clattering along the path after him, their stirrups flying wildly about and making a clamor that chunky riley had not bargained for. the faster he ran the faster the horses galloped, until at last it seemed to him that the creatures were trying to run him down. this idea took possession of his mind, and at once his fears magnified the situation. he imagined the horses were right at his heels. he could feel the hot breath of one of them on the back of his neck. fortunately for chunky riley there was a fence at the point where the path developed into a lane. over this he climbed and fell exhausted, fully expecting the horses to climb over or break through and trample him under their feet. but his expectations were not realized; the horses galloped along the lane, and presently he could hear them clattering along the big road toward gossett's. chunky riley was exhausted as well as terror-stricken. the perspiration rolled from his face, and he could hear his heart beat. he lay in the soft grass in the fence corner until he had recovered somewhat from his exertions and his fright. finally he rose, looked back along the way he had come, then toward the big road, and shook his head. [illustration: the horses were right at his heels] "is anybody ever see de beat er dat?" he exclaimed. whereupon he went through the woods instead of going by the road, and was soon in his cabin frying his ration of bacon. iv. between midnight and dawn. when aaron parted from chunky riley on the hill after they had come from the swamp, he went along the path to the spring, stooped on his hands and knees and took a long draught of the cool water. then he went to the rear of the negro quarters, crossed the orchard fence, and passed thence to the flower garden in front of the great house. at one corner of the house a large oak reared its head above the second story. some of its limbs when swayed by the wind swept the dormer window that jutted out from little crotchet's room. behind the red curtain of this dormer window a light shone, although it was now past midnight. it shone there at night whenever little crotchet was restless and sleepless and wanted to see aaron. and this was often, for the youngster, with all his activity, rarely knew what it was to be free from pain. but for his journeys hither and yonder on the gray pony he would have been very unhappy indeed. all day long he could make some excuse for putting his aches aside; he could even forget them. but at night when everything was quiet, pain would rap at the door and insist on coming in and getting in bed with him. little crotchet had many quaint thoughts and queer imaginings, and one of these was that pain was a sure-enough something or other that could come in at the door and go out when it chose--a little goblin dressed in red flannel, with a green hat running to a sharp peak at the top, and a yellow tassel dangling from the peak--a red flannel goblin always smelling of camphor and spirits of turpentine. sometimes--and those were rare nights--the red goblin remained away, and then little crotchet could sleep and dream the most beautiful dreams. but usually, as soon as night had fallen on the plantation and there was no longer any noise in the house, the little red goblin, with his peaked green hat, would open the door gently and peep in to see whether the lad was asleep--and he knew at a glance whether little crotchet was sleeping or only feigning sleep. sometimes the youngster would shut his eyes ever so tight, and lie as still as a mouse, hoping that the red goblin would go away. but the trick never succeeded. the red goblin was too smart for that. if there was a blaze in the fireplace he would wink at it very solemnly; if not, he'd wink at the candle. and he never was in any hurry. he'd sit squat on the floor for many long moments. sometimes he'd run and jump in the bed with little crotchet and then jump out again. sometimes he'd pretend he was going to jump in the bed, when suddenly another notion would strike him, and he'd turn and run out at the door, and not come back again for days. but this was unusual. night in and night out, the year round, the red goblin rarely failed to show himself in little crotchet's room, and crawl under the cover with the lad. there was but one person in all that region whom the red goblin was afraid of, and that was aaron. but he was an obstinate goblin. frequently he'd stay after aaron came, and try his best to fight it out with the son of ben ali; but in the end he would have to go. there were times, however, when aaron could not respond to little crotchet's signal of distress,--the light in the dormer window,--and at such times the red goblin would have everything his own way. he would stay till all the world was awake, and then sneak off to his hiding-place, leaving little crotchet weak and exhausted. [illustration: the goblin pain] thus it happened that, while chunky riley was taking an unexpected ride on the white pig, and afterward while the three men were sitting on the pasture fence beyond the spring, the red goblin was giving little crotchet a good deal of trouble. no matter which way he turned in bed, the red goblin was there. he was there when aaron came into the flower garden. he was there when aaron stood at the foot of the great oak at the corner of the house. he was there when aaron put forth his hand, felt for and found one of the iron spikes that had been driven into the body of the oak. the red goblin was in bed with little crotchet and tugging at his back and legs when aaron pulled himself upward by means of the iron spike; when he found another iron spike; when, standing on and holding to these spikes, he walked up the trunk of the tree as if it were a ladder; and when he went into little crotchet's room by way of the dormer window. the real name of the red goblin with the green hat was pain, as we know, and he was very busy with little crotchet this night; and though the lad had fallen into a doze, he was moving restlessly about when aaron entered the room. the son of ben ali stepped to the low bed, and knelt by it, placing his hand that the night winds had cooled on little crotchet's brow, touching it with firm but gentle strokes. the lad awoke with a start, saw that aaron was near, and then closed his eyes again. "it's a long way for you to come," he said. "there's a lot of things for you in the basket there." "if twice as long, it would be short for me," replied aaron. then, still stroking little crotchet's brow with one hand, and gently rubbing his body with the other, the son of ben ali told of chunky riley's ride on the white pig. with his eyes closed, the lad could see the whole performance, and he laughed with so much heartiness that aaron laughed in sympathy. this was such a rare event that little crotchet opened his eyes to see it, but soon closed them again, for now he felt that the red goblin was preparing to go. "i sent chunky riley," said little crotchet, after a while. "they're after you to-morrow--jim simmons and his hounds. and he has his catch-dog with him. i saw the dog to-day. he's named pluto. he's big and black, and bob-tailed, and his ears have been cropped. oh, i'm afraid they'll get you this time, aaron. why not stay here with me to-morrow, and the next day?" "here?" there was a note of surprise in aaron's voice. "yes. what's to hinder you? i can keep everybody out of the room, except"-"except somebody," said aaron, smiling. "no, no! the white-haired master is a good man. good to all. he'd shake his head and say, 'runaway hiding in my house! that's bad, bad!' no, little master, they'll not get aaron. you sleep. to-morrow night i'll come. my clothes will be ripped and snagged. have me a big needle and some coarse thread. i'll mend 'em here and while i'm mending i may tell a tale. i don't know. maybe. you sleep." aaron was no mesmerist, but somehow, the red goblin being gone, little crotchet was soon in the land of dreams. aaron remained by the bed to make sure the sleep was sound, then he rose, tucked the cover about the lad's shoulders (for the morning air was cool), blew out the candle, went out on the roof, closing the window sash after him, and in a moment was standing in the flower garden. there he found rambler, the track dog, awaiting him, and together they passed out into the lot and went by the spring, where aaron stooped and took another draught of the cool, refreshing water. all this time the three men had been sitting on the pasture fence at the point where it intersected the path leading from the spring, and they were sitting there still. as aaron started along this path, after leaving the spring, rambler trotted on before, and his keen nose soon detected the presence of strangers. with a whine that was more than half a whistle, rambler gave aaron the signal to stop, and then went toward the fence. the situation became clear to him at once, and it was then that chunky riley and the three men had heard him bark. they called it barking, but it was a message to aaron saying:-"lookout! lookout! son of ben ali, look sharp! i see three--grizzlies two, and another." [illustration: the spring of cool refreshing water] there was nothing alarming in the situation. in fact, aaron might have gone within hailing distance of the three men without discovery, for the spring lot was well wooded. if mr. addison abercrombie had any peculiarity it was his fondness for trees. he could find something to admire in the crookedest scrub oak and in the scraggiest elm. he not only allowed the trees in the spring lot to stand, but planted others. where aaron stood a clump of black-jacks, covering a quarter of an acre, had sprung up some years before. they were now well-grown saplings and stood as close together, according to the saying of the negroes, as hairs on a hog's back. through these aaron slowly edged his way, moving very carefully, until he reached a point close enough to the three men to see and hear what was going on. standing in the black shadow of these saplings he made an important discovery. chunky riley, it will be remembered, suspected that the two gossetts and mr. simmons were intent on capturing aaron; but this was far from their purpose. they had no such idea. while aaron stood listening, watching, he saw a tall shadow steal along the path. he heard the swish of a dress and knew it was a woman. the shadow stole along the path until it came to the three men on the fence and then it stopped. "well?" said mr. gossett sharply. "what did you see? where did the nigger go? don't stand there like you are deaf and dumb. talk out!" "i seed him come fum de spring, marster, an' go up by de nigger cabins. but atter dat i ain't lay eyes on 'im." "did he go into the cabins?" "i lis'n at eve'y one, marster, an' i ain't hear no talkin' in but one." "was he in that one?" "ef he wuz, marster, he wa'n't sayin' nothin'. big sal was talkin' wid randall, suh." "what were they talking about?" "all de words i hear um say wuz 'bout der little marster--how good he is an' how he all de time thinkin' mo' 'bout yuther folks dan he do 'bout his own se'f." "humph!" snorted mr. gossett. mr. simmons moved about uneasily. "whyn't you go in an' see whether aaron was in there?" asked george gossett. "bekaze, marse george, dey'd 'a' know'd right pine-blank what i come fer. 'sides dat, big sal is a mighty bad nigger 'oman when she git mad." "you're as big as she is," suggested mr. gossett. "yes, suh; but i ain't got de ambition what big sal got," replied the woman humbly. "i'll tell you, simmons, that runaway nigger is the imp of satan," remarked mr. gossett. "but, colonel, if he's that, what do you want him caught for?" inquired mr. simmons humorously. "why, so much the more need for catching him. i want to get my hands on him. if i don't convert him, why, then you may go about among your friends and say that gossett is a poor missionary. you may say that and welcome." "i believe you!" echoed george. "you may go home now," said mr. gossett to the woman. "thanky, marster." she paused a moment to wipe her face with her apron, and then climbed over the fence and went toward the gossett plantation. aaron slipped away from the neighborhood of the three men, crossed the fence near where chunky riley had been standing, went swiftly through the pasture for half a mile, struck into the plantation path some distance ahead of the woman, and then came back along the path to meet her. when he saw her coming he stopped, turned his back to her and stood motionless in the path. the woman was talking to herself as she came up; but when she saw aaron she hesitated, advanced a step, and then stood still, breathing hard. all her superstitious fears were aroused. "who is you? who is dat? name er de lord! can't you talk? don't be foolin' wid me! man, who is you?" "one!" replied aaron. the sound of a human voice reassured her somewhat, but her knees shook so she could hardly stand. "what yo' name?" she asked again. "too long a name to tell you." "what you doin'?" "watching a child--looking hard at it." "wuz you, sho nuff?" she came a step nearer. "how come any chil' out dis time er night?" "a black child," aaron went on. "its dress was afire. it went up and down the path here. it went across the hill. crying and calling--calling and crying, 'aaron! aaron! mammy's hunting for you! aaron! aaron! mammy's telling on you.'" "my lord fum heaven!" moaned the woman; "dat wuz my chil'--de one what got burnt up kaze i wuz off in de fiel'." she threw her apron over her head, fell on her knees, and moaned and shuddered. "well, i'm aaron. you hunted for me in the nigger cabins; you slipped to the fence yonder; you told three men you couldn't find me." "o lord! i wuz bleege ter do it. it wuz dat er take ter de woods, an' dey ain't no place fer me in de woods. what'd i do out dar by myse'f at night? i know'd dey couldn't ketch you. oh, dat wuz my chil'!" "stand up!" aaron commanded. "what you gwine ter do?" the woman asked, slowly rising to her feet, and holding herself ready to dodge an expected blow--for, as she herself said, she was not at all "ambitious." "your breakfast is ready, and i've been waiting here to give it to you. hold your apron." the woman did as she was told, and aaron took from the basket which little crotchet had given him four biscuits and as many slices of ham. "i'll take um, an' thanky, too," said the woman; "but hongry as i is, i don't b'lieve i kin eat a mou'ful un um atter what i done. i'm too mean to live!" "get home! get home and forget it," aaron replied. "oh, i can't go thoo dem woods atter what you tol' me!" cried the woman. "i'll go with you," said aaron. "come!" "you!" the woman lifted her voice until it sounded shrill on the moist air of the morning. "you gwine dar to gossett's? don't you know dey er gwine ter hunt you in de mornin'? don't you know dey got de dogs dar? don't you know some er de niggers'll see you--an' maybe de overseer? don't you know you can't git away fum dem dogs fer ter save yo' life?" "come!" said aaron sharply. "it's late." "min', now! ef dey ketch you, 't ain't me dat done it," the woman insisted. "come!--i must be getting along," was aaron's reply. he went forward along the path, and though he seemed to be walking easily, the woman had as much as she could do to keep near him. though his body swayed slightly from side to side, he seemed to be gliding along rather than walking. ahead of him, sometimes near, sometimes far, and frequently out of sight, a dark shadow moved and flitted. it was rambler going in a canter. a hare jumped from behind a tussock and went skipping away. it was a tempting challenge. but rambler hardly glanced at him. "good-by, mr. rabbit! i'll see you another day!" thus aaron, the woman, and rambler went to gossett's. "man, ain't you tired?" the woman asked when they came in sight of the negro quarters. "me? i'll go twenty miles before sun-up," replied aaron. "i'll never tell on you no mo'," said the woman; "not ef dey kills me." she turned to go to her cabin, when aaron touched her on the shoulder. "wait!" he whispered. "if it brings more meat for your young ones, tell! fetch the men here; show 'em where i stood,--if it brings you more meat for your babies." "sho nuff?" asked the woman, amazed. aaron nodded his head. "what kind er folks is you?" she cried. "you ain't no nigger. dey ain't no nigger on top er de groun' dat'd stan' up dar an' talk dat away. will dey ketch you ef i tell?" the woman was thinking about the meat. aaron lifted his right hand in the air, turned, and disappeared in the darkness, which was now changing to the gray of dawn. the woman remained where she was standing for some moments as if considering some serious problem. then she shook her head. "i'd git de meat--but dey mout ketch 'im, an' den what'd i look like?" this remark seemed to please her, for she repeated it more than once before moving out of her tracks. when she did move, she went to her cabin, kindled a fire, cooked something for her children,--she had three,--placed a biscuit and a piece of ham for each, and, although she had not slept a wink, prepared to go to the field. it was almost time, too, for she heard the hog feeder in the horse lot talking angrily to the mules, as he parceled out their corn and forage. presently she heard him calling the hogs to get a bite of corn,--the fattening hogs that were running about in the horse lot. soon, too, she heard the sharp voice of mr. gossett, her master, calling to the hog feeder. and you may be sure the man went as fast as his legs could carry him. get out of the way, dogs, chickens, wheelbarrows, woodpile, everything, and let the negro run to his master! had he seen the horses? oh, yes, marster, that he had! they were standing at the lot gate, and they whickered and whinnied so that he was obliged to go and see what the trouble was. and there were the horses, mr. simmons's among the rest. yes, marster, and the hog feeder was just on the point of alarming the neighborhood, thinking something serious had happened, when the thought came to his mind that the horses had grown tired of waiting and had broken loose from their fastenings. oh, yes, marster, they would do that way sometimes, because horses have a heap of sense, especially marster's horses. when one broke loose the others wanted to follow him, and then they broke loose too. and they were fed,--eating right now, and all fixed up. saddle 'em by sun-up? yes, marster, and before that if you want 'em, for they've already had a right smart snack of corn and good clean fodder. as for aaron, he had far to go. he had no fear of mr. gossett's hounds, but he knew that he would have some difficulty in getting away from those that mr. simmons had trained. if he could outmanoeuvre them, that would be the best plan. if not,--well, he would make a stand in the swamp. but there was the crop-eared, bob-tailed cur--the catch dog--that was the trouble. aaron knew, too, that mr. simmons was a professional negro hunter, and that he naturally took some degree of pride in it. being a professional, with a keen desire to be regarded as an expert, it was to be supposed that mr. simmons had made a study of the tactics of fugitive negroes. as a matter of fact, mr. simmons was a very shrewd man; he was also, in spite of his calling, a very kind-hearted man. in his soul he despised mr. gossett, whose negroes were constantly in the woods, and loved and admired addison abercrombie, whose negroes never ran away, and who, if every slave on his plantation were a fugitive, would never call on mr. simmons to catch them. aaron was far afield when, as the sun rose, mr. gossett's hog feeder called the house girl and asked her to tell mr. gossett that the horses were saddled and ready at the front gate. then mr. simmons's dogs, which had been shut up in the carriage house, were turned out and fed. the hounds were given half-cooked corn meal, but the catch dog, pluto, must needs have a piece of raw meat, which he swallowed at one gulp. this done, mr. simmons blew one short, sharp note on his horn, and the hunt for aaron began. v. the hunt begins. when aaron left the negro woman at gossett's he went rapidly through the woods until he came to the old fields that had once been cultivated, but were now neglected for newer and better soil. these deserted fields had been dismally naked of vegetation for years, and where they undulated into hills the storms had cut deep red gashes. but these wounds were now gradually healing. a few years before a company of travelers had camped out one night at curtwright's factory, not many miles away, and where they fed their horses a grass new to that region--new, in fact, to this country--made its appearance. it grew and spread for miles around and covered the red hills with the most beautiful mantle that the southern summers had ever seen. it refused to wither and parch under the hot sun, but flourished instead. it had crept from curtwright's factory, and had already begun to carpet the discarded lands through which aaron was now passing, and the turf felt as soft as velvet under his feet. the touch of it seemed to inspire his movements, for he began to trot; and he trotted until, at the end of half an hour, he struck into the plantation road leading to the oconee. aaron was making for the river. having received fair warning, and guessing something of the character of mr. simmons, he had made up his mind that the best plan would be to get away from the dogs if possible. he hoped to find one of the ward negroes at the river landing, and in this he was not disappointed. old uncle andy, who was almost on the retired list, on account of his age and faithfulness, although he was still strong and vigorous, was just preparing to visit his set-hooks which were down the river. he was about to shove the boat into deep water and jump in when aaron called him. "ah-yi," he answered in a tone almost gay, for he had a good master, and he had no troubles except the few that old age had brought on him. "up or down?" inquired aaron. "down, honey; down. all de time down. den i'll lef' um down dar an' let rowan ward" (this was his master whom he talked about so familiarly) "sen' one er his triflin' no 'count nigners atter um wid de waggin'." "i want to go up," said aaron. "i ain't henderin' you," replied old uncle andy. "whar yo' huffs? walk. i ain't gwine pull you in dis boat. no. i won't pull rowan ward yit, en he know it. i won't pull nobody up stream in his boat less'n it's sally ward" (his mistress), "en she'd do ez much fer me. what yo' name, honey?" "aaron, i'm called." "ah-yi!" exclaimed old uncle andy, under his breath. "dey are atter you. oh, yes! en what's mo' dey'll git you. en mo' dan dat, dey oughter git you! dem gossetts is rank pizen, en der niggers is pizen. a nigger what ain't got no better sense dan ter b'long ter po' white trash ain't got no business ter git good treatment. look at me! dey ain't nobody dast ter lay de weight er der han' on me. ef dey do, dey got ter whip sally ward en rowan ward. you ain't bad ez dem yuther gossett niggers, kaze you been in de woods en you er dar yit. kensecontly you got one chance, en it's de onliest chance. cross dis river en go up dar ter de house, en wake up sally ward en tell 'er dat ole andy say she mus' buy you. ef she hum en haw, des put yo' foot down en tell her dat ole andy say she des got ter buy you. she'll do it! she'll know better'n not ter do it. ah-h-h-h!" aaron would have laughed at this display of self-importance, but he knew that to laugh would be to defeat the object he had in view. so his reply was very serious. "she's good!" cried old uncle andy. "dey's er heap er good wimmen, but dey ain't no 'oman like sally ward,--i don't keer ef she is got a temper. ef folks is made out'n dus' dey wuz des nuff er de kin' she wuz made out'n fer ter make her. dey wuz de greates' plenty fer ter make her, but dey wan't a pinch lef' over. how come you got ter go up de river?" "wait a little while, and simmons's dog'll tell you," replied aaron. "jim simmons? i wish i had rowan ward here ter do my cussin'!" exclaimed old uncle andy, striking the edge of the bateau viciously. "kin you handle dish yer paddle? git in dis boat, den! jim simmons! much he look like ketchin' anybody. git in dis boat, i tell you! en take dis paddle en he'p me pull ef you want to go up de river." aaron lost no time in getting in the bateau. instead of sitting down he remained standing, and braced himself by placing one foot in advance of the other. in this position he leaned first on one side and then on the other as he swept the long, wide oar through the water. a few strokes carried him into the middle of the oconee and nearly across. then, out of the current and in the still water, aaron headed the boat up stream. it was a long, heavy, unwieldy affair, built for carrying the field hands and the fruits of the harvest across the river, for the ward plantation lay on both sides of the oconee. the bateau was unwieldy, but propelled by aaron's strong arms it moved swiftly and steadily up the stream. old uncle andy had intended to help row the boat, but when he saw how easily aaron managed it he made himself comfortable by holding his oar across his lap and talking. "i done year tell er you," he said. "some folks say you er nigger, en some say you ain't no nigger. i'm wid dem what say you ain't no nigger, kaze you don't do like a nigger, en dey ain't no nigger in de roun' worl' what kin stan' up in dis boat an' shove it 'long like you doin'. dey all weak-kneed en wobbly when dey git on de water. i wish sally ward could see you now. she'd buy you terreckly. don't you want ter b'long ter sally ward?" "no,--abercrombie," replied aaron. "yo' sho fly high," remarked old uncle andy. "dey er good folks, dem abercrombies. ef dey's anybody anywheres 'roun' dat's mos' ez good ez sally ward en rowan ward it's de abercrombies. i'll say dat much an' not begrudge it. speshally dat ar cripple boy. dey tells me dat dat chil' don't never git tired er doin' good. en dat's a mighty bad sign; it's de wust kinder sign. you watch. de lord done put his han' on dat chil', en he gwine take 'im back up dar whar he b'longs at. when folks git good like dey say dat chil' is, dey are done ripe." to this aaron made no reply. he had had the same or similar thoughts for some time. he simply gave the waters of the river a stronger backward sweep with the oar. the shadows were still heavy on the water, and the overhanging trees helped to make them heavier, but the reflection of dawn caught and became entangled in the ripples made by the boat, and far away in the east the red signal lights of the morning gave forth a dull glow. the fact that aaron made no comment on his remarks had no effect on uncle andy. he continued to talk incessantly, and when he paused for a moment it was to take breath and not to hear what his companion had to say. "jim simmons. huh. i wish sally ward could git de chance fer ter lay de law down ter dat man." (uncle andy had his wish later in the day). "she'd tell 'im de news. she'd make 'im 'shamed er hisse'f--gwine trollopin' roun' de country huntin' niggers en dem what ain't niggers, en all b'longin' ter gossett. how come dey ain't no niggers but de gossett niggers in de woods? tell me dat. you may go all 'roun' here for forty mile, en holler at eve'y plantation gate en ax 'em how many niggers dey got in de woods, en dey'll tell you na'er one. dey'll tell you ids twel you holler at de gossett gate an' dar dey'll holler back: forty-'leven in de woods an' spectin' mo' ter foller. now, how come dat? when you stoop in de road fer ter git a drink er water you kin allers tell when dey's sump'n dead up de creek." still aaron swept the water back with his oar, and still the bateau went up stream. one mile--two miles--two miles and a half. at last aaron headed the boat toward the shore. "what you gwine ter lan' on the same side wid jim simmons fer?" uncle andy inquired indignantly. "ain't you got no sense? don't you know he'll ketch you ef you do dat? you reckon he gwine ter foller you ter de landin' en den turn right 'roun' in his tracks en go back?" "i'll hide in the big swamp," replied aaron. "hide!" exclaimed uncle andy. "don't you know dey done foun' out whar you stays at? a'er one er dem gossett niggers'll swap der soul's salvation fer a bellyful er vittles. ef dey wuz ter ketch you des dry so, i'd be sorry fer you, but ef you gwine ter run right in de trap, you'll hatter fin' some un else fer ter cry atter you. you put me in min' er de rabbit. man come 'long wid his dogs, en jump de rabbit out er his warm bed, en he done gone. dogs take atter him, but dey ain't nowhar. he done out er sight. den dey trail 'im en trail 'im, but dat ain't do no good. rabbit done gone. de man, he let de dogs trail. he take his stan' right at de place whar rabbit jump fum. he prime he gun, en wink he eye. de dogs trail, en trail, en trail, en it seem like dey gwine out er hearin'. man stan' right still en wink de t'er eye. en, bless gracious! 'fo' you know it, _bang_ go de gun en down drap de rabbit. stidder gwine on 'bout his business, he done come back en de man bag 'im. dat 'zackly de way you gwine do--but go on, go on! de speckled pullet hollered shoo ter hawk, but what good did dat do?" by this time the bateau had floated under a tree that leaned from the river bank over the water. aaron laid his oar in the boat and steadied it by holding to a limb. then he turned to uncle andy. "maybe some day i can help you. so long!" he lifted himself into the tree. as he did so a dog ran down the bank whining. "wait!" cried uncle andy. "wait, en look out! i hear a dog in de bushes dar. ef it's a simmons dog drap back in de boat en i'll take you right straight to sally ward." "it's my dog," said aaron. "he's been waiting for me." it was rambler. "desso! i wish you mighty well, honey." with that uncle andy backed the boat out into the river, headed it down stream, and aided the current by an occasional stroke of his oar, which he knew well how to use. standing on the hill above the river, aaron saw that the red signal lights in the east had been put out, and it was now broad day. in the top of a pine a quarter of a mile away a faint shimmer of sunlight glowed a moment and then disappeared. again it appeared and this time to stay. he stood listening, and it seemed to him that he could hear in the far-off distance the faint musical cry of hounds. perhaps he was mistaken; perhaps it was a fox-hunting pack, or, perhaps-he turned and moved rapidly to the swamp, which he found wide awake and ready to receive him. so vigorous was the swamp, and so jealous of its possessions, that it rarely permitted the summer sun to shine upon its secrets. if a stray beam came through, very well, but the swamp never had a fair glimpse of the sun except in winter, when the glare was shorn of its heat, all the shadows pointing to the north, where the cold winds come from. at midday, in the season when the swamp was ready for business, the shade was dense--dense enough to give the effect of twilight. at sunrise dawn had hardly made its way to the places where the mysteries wandered back and forth, led by jack-o'-the-lantern. but the willis-whistlers knew when dawn came in the outer world, and they hid their shrill pipes in the canes and disappeared; but the mysteries still had an hour to frolic--an hour in which they might dispense with the services of jack-o'-the-lantern. so aaron found them there--all his old friends and a new one, the old brindle steer to whom he sometimes gave a handful of salt. the brindle steer was supposed to be superannuated, but he was not. he had the hollow horn, as the negroes called it, and this had made him thin and weak for a time, but he was now in fair trim, the swamp proving to be a well-conducted hospital, stocked with an abundance of pleasant medicine. he was not of the swamp, but he had been taken in out of charity, and he was the more welcome on that account. moreover, he had introduced himself to the white pig in a sugarcane patch, and they got on famously together--one making luscious cuds of the green blades and the other smacking his mouth over the sweets to be found in the stalks. aaron was glad to see the brindle steer, and brindle was so glad to see aaron that he must needs hoist his tail in the air and lower his horns, which were remarkably long and sharp, and pretend that he was on the point of charging, pawing the ground and making a noise with his mouth that was something between a bleat and a bellow. it was such a queer sound that aaron laughed, seeing which brindle shook his head and capered around the son of ben ali as if trying to find some vulnerable point in his body that would offer small resistance to the long horns. "you are well, brindle," said aaron. "no, son of ben ali, not well--only a great deal better," replied brindle. "that is something, brindle; be glad, as i am," remarked aaron. "you may have work to do to-day--with your horns." brindle drew a long breath that sounded like a tremendous sigh. "it is well you say with my horns, son of ben ali. no cart for me. when the time comes for the cart i shall have--what do you call it?" "the hollow horn," suggested aaron. "yes, two hollow horns, son of ben ali. no cart for me. though there is nothing the matter with my horns, the people shall believe that both are hollow. when i was sick, son of ben ali, something was the matter with all nine of my stomachs." "nine! you have but three, brindle," said aaron. "only three, son of ben ali? well, when i was sick i thought there were nine of them. what am i to do to-day?" "go not too far, brindle. when you hear hounds running through the fields from the river come to the big poplar. there you will find me and the white grunter." "i'm here, son of ben ali, and here i stay. all night i have fed on the sprouts of the young cane, and once i waded too far in the quagmire. i'm tired. i'll lie here and chew my cud. but no yoke, son of ben ali, and no cart." whereupon old brindle made himself comfortable by lying down and chewing his cud between short pauses. [illustration: brindle and aaron] * * * * * meanwhile mr. jim simmons, accompanied only by george gossett (the father had turned back in disgust soon after the chase began), was galloping across the country in a somewhat puzzled frame of mind. when mr. simmons had given one short blast on his horn to warn his dogs that a hunt was on the programme, the three men rode along the plantation path toward the abercrombie place. "now, colonel," remarked mr. simmons as they started out, "i want you to keep your eyes on that red dog. it'll be worth your while." "is that sound?" george gossett asked. "well, sometimes i call him sound on account of his voice, and sometimes i call him sandy on account of his color, but just you watch his motions." pride was in the tone of mr. simmons's voice. the dog was trotting in the path ahead of the horse. suddenly he put his nose to the ground and seemed to be so delighted at what he found there that his tail began to wag. he lifted his head, and ran along the path for fifty yards or more. then he put his nose to the ground again, and kept it there as he cantered along the narrow trail. then he began to trot, and finally, with something of a snort, turned and ran back the way he had come. he had not given voice to so much as a whimper. "don't he open on track?" asked george gossett. "he'll cry loud enough and long enough when he gets down to business," mr. simmons explained. "just you keep your eyes on him." "fiddlesticks. he's tracking us," exclaimed mr. gossett contemptuously. "but, colonel, if he is, i'm willing to take him out and kill him, and, as he stands, i would take no man's hundred dollars for him. i'll see what he's up to." suiting the action to the word, mr. simmons turned his horse's head and galloped after sound, who was now moving rapidly, followed by all the expectant dogs. nothing was left for the two gossetts to do but to follow mr. simmons, though the elder plainly showed his indignation, not only by his actions, but by the use of a few words that are either too choice or too emphatic to be found in a school dictionary. sound ran to the point where aaron and the woman had stopped. he followed the woman's scent to her cabin; but this not proving satisfactory, he turned and came back to where the two had stood. there he picked up aaron's scent, ran around in a small circle, and then, with a loud, wailing cry, as if he had been hit with a cudgel, he was off, the rest of the dogs joining in, their cries making a musical chorus that fell on the ear with a lusty, pleasant twang as it echoed through the woods. "wait," said mr. gossett, as mr. simmons made a movement to follow the dogs. "this is a fool's errand you are starting on. the nigger we're after wouldn't come in a mile of this place. it's one of the spivey niggers the dogs are tracking. or one of the ward niggers. i'm too old to go galloping about the country just to see the dogs run. george, you can go if you want to, but i'd advise you to go in the house and go to bed. that's what i'll do. simmons, if you catch the right nigger, well and good. if i thought the dogs were on his track, i'd ride behind them the balance of the week. but it's out of reason. we know where the nigger goes, and the dogs haven't been there." "i'll risk all that, colonel. if we don't come up with the nigger, why, it costs nobody nothing," remarked mr. simmons. "i'll go along and see the fun, pap," said george. "well, be back by dinner time. i want you to do something for me." mr. gossett called a negro and had his horse taken, while george and mr. simmons galloped after the hounds, which were now going out of the woods into the old, worn-out fields beyond. as mr. simmons put it, they were "running pretty smooth." they were not going as swiftly as the modern hounds go, but they were going rapidly enough to give the horses as much work as they wanted to do. the hounds were really after aaron. mr. simmons suspected it, but he didn't know it. he was simply taking the chances. but his hopes fell as the dogs struck into the plantation road leading to the river. "if they were after the runaway, what on earth did he mean by going in this direction?" mr. simmons asked himself. he knew the dogs were following the scent of a negro, and he knew the negro had been to the abercrombie place, but more than this he did not know. then it occurred to him that a runaway with some sense and judgment might be expected to go to the river, steal a bateau, and float down stream to avoid the hounds. he had heard of such tricks in his day and time, and his hopes began to rise. but they fell again, for he suddenly remembered that the negro who left the scent which the hounds were following could not possibly have known that he was to be hunted with dogs, consequently he would not be going to the river to steal a boat. but wait! another thought struck mr. simmons. didn't the colonel send one of his nigger women to the quarters on the abercrombie plantation? he surely did. didn't the woman say she had seen the runaway? of course she did. weren't the chances ten to one that when she saw him she told him that simmons would be after him in the morning? exactly so! the result of this rapid summing up of the situation was so satisfactory to mr. simmons that he slapped the pommel of his saddle and cried:-"by jing, i've got him!" "got who?" inquired george gossett, who was riding close up. "wait and see!" replied mr. simmons. "oh, i'll wait," said young gossett, "and so will you." vi. the hunt ends. it will be seen that mr. jim simmons, in his crude way, was a very shrewd reasoner. he didn't "guess;" he "reckoned," and it cannot be denied that he came very near the truth. you will remember that when we children play hide-the-switch the one that hides it guides those who are hunting for it by making certain remarks. when they are near where the switch is hid, the hider says, "you burn; you are afire," but when they get further away from the hiding-place the word is, "you are cold; you are freezing." in hunting for aaron, mr. jim simmons was burning, for he had come very close to solving the problem that the fugitive had set for him. mr. simmons was so sure he was right in his reasoning that he cheered his dogs on lustily and touched up his horse. george gossett did the same, and dogs, horses, and men went careering along the plantation road to the river landing. the sun was now above the treetops, and the chill air of the morning was beginning to surrender to its influence. the course of the river was marked out in mid-air by a thin line of white mist that hung wavering above the stream. the dogs ran crying to the landing, and there they stopped. one of the younger hounds was for wading across; but sound, the leader, knew better than that. he ran down the river bank a hundred yards and then circled back across the field until he reached a point some distance above the landing. then he returned, his keen nose always to the ground. at the landing he looked across the river and whined eagerly. mr. simmons seemed to be very lucky that morning, for just as he and george gossett galloped to the landing a boatload of field hands started across from the other side, old uncle andy coming with it to row it back. on the other side, too, mr. simmons saw a lady standing,--a trim figure dressed in black,--and near her a negro boy was holding a horse that she had evidently ridden to the landing. this was the lady to whom uncle andy sometimes referred as sally ward, and for whom he had a sincere affection. the river was not wide at the landing, and the boatload of field hands, propelled by four muscular arms, was not long in crossing. as the negroes jumped ashore sound went among them and examined each one with his nose, but he returned to the landing and looked across and whined. they saluted mr. simmons and george gossett politely, and then went on their way, whistling, singing, and cracking jokes, and laughing loudly. "was a bateau missing from this side this morning?" mr. simmons asked uncle andy. "suh?" uncle andy put his hand to his ear, affecting to be very anxious to hear what mr. simmons had said. the question was repeated, whereat uncle andy laughed loudly. "you sho is a witch fer guessin', suh! how come you ter know 'bout de missin' boat?" mr. simmons smiled under this flattery. "i thought maybe a boat would be missing from this side this morning," he said. "dey sho wuz, suh; but i dunner how de name er goodness you come ter know 'bout it, kaze i wuz on de bank cross dar 'fo' 't wuz light, en i ain't see you on dis side. yes, suh! de boat wuz gone. dey foun' it 'bout a mile down de river, en on account er de shoals down dar, dey had ter take it out'n de water en fetch it back yer in de waggin. yes, suh! dish yer de very boat." "where's the ford?" mr. simmons inquired. "i used to know, but i've forgotten." "right below yer, suh!" replied uncle andy. "you'll see de paff whar de stock cross at. b'ar down stream, suh, twel you halfway cross, den b'ar up. ef you do dat you won't git yo' stirrup wet." the ford was easily found, but the crossing was not at all comfortable. in fact, uncle andy had maliciously given mr. simmons the wrong directions. the two men rode into the water, bore down the stream, and their horses were soon floundering in deep water. they soon touched bottom again, and in a few moments they were safe on the opposite bank,--safe, but dripping wet and in no very good humor. mr. simmons's dogs, obedient to his call, followed his horse into the water and swam across. sound clambered out, shook himself, and ran back to the landing where the lady was waiting for the boat to return. it had been mr. simmons's intention to proceed at once down the river to the point where the boat had been found, and where he was sure the dogs would pick up the scent of the runaway; but he found that the way was impossible for horses. he must needs go to the landing and inquire the way. uncle andy had just made the middle seat in the bateau more comfortable for his mistress by placing his coat, neatly folded, on the hard plank, and mrs. ward was preparing to accept the old negro's invitation to "git aboard, mistiss," when mr. simmons and george gossett rode up. both raised their hats as the lady glanced toward them. they were hardly in a condition to present themselves, mr. simmons explained, and then he inquired, with as much politeness as he could command, how to reach the place where the missing boat had been found. "the missing boat? why, i never heard of it till now. was one of the bateaux missing this morning?" the lady asked uncle andy. "yessum. when de fishin' good en de niggers put out der set-hooks, dey ain't many mornin's in de week dat one er de yuther er deze boats ain't missin'!" "i never heard of it before." "no, mistiss; de boys 'low you wouldn't keer nohow. dey runs um over de shoals, en dar dey leaves um." "but both bateaux are here." "yessum. we fetches um back 'roun' by de road in de waggin." "who carried the bateau over the shoals this morning?" "me, ma'am. nobody ain't know nuttin' 'bout it but de two elliks, en when dat ar gemmun dar ax me des now if dey wa'n't a boat missin' fum 'roun' yer dis mornin' hit sorter flung me back on myse'f. i 'low 'yes, suh,' but he sho flung me back on myse'f." uncle andy began to chuckle so heartily that his mistress asked him what he was laughing at, though she well knew. "i hit myse'f on de funny bone, mistiss, en when dat's de case i bleege ter laugh." at this the lady laughed, and it was a genial, merry, and musical laugh. mr. simmons smiled, but so grimly that it had the appearance of a threat. "and so this is mr. simmons, the famous negro hunter?" said mrs. ward. "well, mr. simmons, i'm glad to see you. i've long had something to say to you. whenever you are sent for to catch one of my negroes i want you to come straight to the house on the hill yonder and set your dogs on me. when one of my negroes goes to the woods, you may know it's my fault." "trufe, too!" remarked uncle andy, under his breath, but loud enough for all to hear. "that may be so, ma'am," replied mr. simmons; "but among a passel of niggers you'll find some bad ones. what little pleasure i get out of this business is in seeing and hearing my dogs run. somebody's got to catch the runaways, and it might as well be me as anybody." "why, certainly, mr. simmons. you have become celebrated. your name is trumpeted about in all the counties round. you are better known than a great many of our rising young politicians." the lady's manner was very gracious, but there was a gleam of humor in her eye. mr. simmons didn't know whether she was laughing at him or paying him a compliment; but he thought it would be safe to change the subject. "may i ask the old man there a few questions?" he inquired. "why, certainly," mrs. ward responded. "cross-examine him to your heart's content. but be careful about it, mr. simmons. he's old and feeble, and his mind is not as good as it used to be. i heard him telling the house girl last night that he was losing his senses." "de lawsy massy, mistiss! you know i wuz des projickin' wid dat gal. dey ain't any na'er nigger in de country got any mo' sense dan what i got. you know dat yo'se'f." "was anybody with you in the bateau when you went down the river this morning?" "yes, suh, dey wuz," replied uncle andy solemnly. "who was it?" "well, suh"-"don't get excited, now, andrew," his mistress interrupted. "tell mr. simmons the truth. you know your weakness." if uncle andy's skin had been white or even brown, mr. simmons would have seen him blushing violently. he knew his mistress was making fun of him, but he was not less embarrassed on that account. he looked at mrs. ward and laughed. "speak right out," said the lady. "who was with you in the bateau?" "little essek, ma'm,--my gran-chil'. i'm bleedge ter have some un long fer ter hol' de boat steady when i go ter look at my set-hooks. little essek wuz de fust one i see, en i holler'd at 'im." "did anybody cross from the other side this morning?" asked mr. simmons. "not dat i knows un, less'n it wuz criddle's jerry. he's got a wife at de abercrombie place. he fotch marse criddle's buggy to be worked on at our blacksmif shop, en he rid de mule home dis mornin'. little essek had 'er down yer 'bout daylight waitin' fer jerry, kaze he say he got ter be home soon ef not befo'." uncle andy had an imagination. jerry had brought the buggy and had ridden the mule home. he also had a wife at the abercrombie place, but his master had given him no "pass" to visit her, thinking it might delay his return. for that reason jerry did not cross the river the night before. "and here we've been chasing criddle's jerry all the morning," remarked george gossett to mr. simmons. "pap was right." "but what was the nigger doing at your place?" mr. simmons was still arguing the matter in his mind. "don't ask me," replied george gossett. "dey ain't no 'countin' fer a nigger, suh," remarked uncle andy affably. "dey ain't no 'countin' fer 'em when dey ol' ez i is, much less when dey young en soople like criddle's jerry." under the circumstances there was nothing for mr. simmons and young gossett to do but to turn short about and recross the river. it was fortunate for them that a negro boy was waiting to take mrs. ward's horse across the river. they followed him into the ford, and made the crossing without difficulty. then the two men held a council of war. uncle andy had another name for it. "i wish you'd look at um jugglin'," he said to his mistress, as he helped her from the bateau. george gossett was wet, tired, and disgusted, and he would not hear to mr. simmons's proposition to "beat about the bushes" in the hope that the dogs would strike aaron's trail. "we started wrong," he said. "let's go home, and when we try for the nigger again, let's start right." "well, tell your father i'll be back the day after to-morrow if i don't catch his nigger. i'm obliged to go home now and change my duds if i don't strike a trail. it's a true saying that there's more mud than water in the oconee. i'll take a short cut. i'll go up the river a mile or such a matter and ride across to dawson's old mill road. that will take me home by dinner time." as it happened, mr. simmons didn't take dinner at home that day, nor did he return to gossett's at the time he appointed. he called his dogs and turned his horse's head up stream. he followed the course of the river for a mile or more, and then bore away from it. while he was riding along, lost in his reflections, he suddenly heard sound giving tongue far ahead. that sagacious dog had unexpectedly hit on aaron's trail, and he lost no time in announcing the fact as loudly as he could. mr. simmons was very much surprised. "if that blamed dog is fooling me this time i'll feel like killing him," he remarked to himself. the rest of the dogs joined in, and they were all soon footing it merrily in the direction of the big swamp. the blue falcon, circling high in the air, suddenly closed her wings and dropped into the leafy bosom of the swamp. this was the first messenger. that red joker, the fox squirrel, had heard the wailing cry of the hounds, and scampered down the big pine. halfway down he made a flying leap into the live oak, and then from tree to tree he went running, scrambling, jumping. but let him go never so fast, the blue falcon was before him, and let the blue falcon swoop never so swiftly, the message was before her. for the white grunter had ears. ooft! he had heard the same wailing sound when the hounds were after him before he was old enough to know what his tusks were for. and rambler had ears. in fact, the swamp itself had ears, and for a few moments it held its breath (as the saying is) and listened. listened intently,--and then quietly, cautiously, and serenely began to dispose of its forces. near the big poplar aaron had a pile of stones. they had been selected to fit his hand; they were not too large nor too small; they were not too light nor too heavy. this pile of stones was aaron's ammunition, and he took his stand by it. the white pig rose slowly from his bed of mud, where he had been wallowing, and shook himself. then he scratched himself by rubbing his side against a beech-tree. the brindle steer slowly dragged himself through the canes and tall grass, and came to aaron's tree, where he paused with such a loud sigh that rambler jumped away. "it is the track dogs," he said. "yes; i'm sorry," replied aaron. "when the big black dog comes stand aside and leave him to me." "gooft! not if it's the one that chewed my ear," remarked the white pig. "i came this morning by the thunder-wood tree," said aaron. "hide in the grass near there, and when they pass come charging after them." the dogs came nearer and nearer, and the swamp could hear mr. simmons cheering them on. as for mr. simmons, he was sure of one thing--the dogs were trailing either a wildcat or a runaway. he had never trained them not to follow the scent of a wildcat, and he now regretted it; for his keen ear, alive to differences that would not attract the attention of those who had never made a study of the temperament of dogs, detected a more savage note in their cry than he was accustomed to hear. nor did his ear deceive him. sound was following the scent of aaron, but his companions were trailing rambler, who had accompanied aaron, and this fact gave a fiercer twang to their cry. when aaron was going from gossett's to the river landing, rambler was not trotting at his heels, but scenting ahead, sometimes far to the right and at other times far to the left. but in going from the river to the swamp it was otherwise. rambler had to hold his head high to prevent aaron's heel from striking him on the under jaw. his scent lay with that of the son of ben ali. for that reason mr. simmons was puzzled by the peculiar cry of the dogs. he had trained them not to follow the scent of hares, coons, and foxes, and if they were not trailing a runaway he knew, or thought he knew, that they must be chasing a wildcat. pluto, the crop-eared catch dog, galloped by his master's horse. he was a fierce-looking brute, but mr. simmons knew that he would be no match for a wildcat. [illustration: in the swamp] when the dogs entered the swamp mr. simmons tried to follow, but he soon found his way barred by the undergrowth, by the trailing vines, the bending trees, the rank canes. he must needs leave his horse or lead it when he entered the swamp. he chose to do neither, but sat in his saddle and waited, pluto waiting with him, ready to go in when the word was given. when the hounds entered the swamp they were in full cry. they struggled through the vines, the briers, and the canes, and splashed through the spreading arms of the lagoon. suddenly they ceased to cry. then mr. simmons heard a strange snarling and snapping, an ominous crashing, fierce snorting, and then howls and screams of pain from his hounds. "a cat, by jing!" he exclaimed aloud. intent on saving his hounds if possible, he gave pluto the word, and that savage brute plunged into the swamp with gleaming red jaws and eager eyes. mr. simmons never really knew what happened to his hounds, but the swamp knew. when they splashed past the white pig that fierce guardian of the swamp sprang from his lair and rushed after them. they tried hard to escape, but the hindmost was caught. the white pig ran by his side for the space of three full seconds, then, lowering his head, he raised it again with a toss sidewise, and the hound was done for--ripped from flank to backbone as neatly as a butcher could have done it. another was caught on the horn of the red steer and flung sheer into the lagoon. sound, the leader, fell into rambler's jaws, and some old scores were settled there and then. pluto came charging blindly in. he saw the white pig and made for him, experience telling him that a hog will run when a dog is after it; but experience did him small service here. the white pig charged to meet him, seeing which pluto swerved to one side, but he was not nimble enough. with a downward swoop and an upward sweep of his snout the white pig caught pluto under the shoulder with his tusk and gave him a taste of warfare in the swamp. another dog would have left the field, but pluto had a temper. he turned and rushed at the white pig, and the swamp prepared to witness a battle royal. but just then there was a whizzing, zooning sound in the air, a thud, and pluto tumbled over and fell in a heap. aaron had ended the cur's career as suddenly as if he had been blown to pieces by a cannon. there was one stone missing from the store of ammunition at the foot of the big poplar. meanwhile, rambler was worrying sound, and the white pig, seeing no other enemy in sight, went running to the scene of that fray. his onslaught was so furious that rambler thought it good manners to get out of grunter's way. so he loosed his hold on sound, and jumped aside. sound was still able to do some jumping on his own account, and he turned tail and ran, just as the white pig was about to trample him under foot. but he was not quick enough to escape with a whole skin. the tusk of the white pig touched him on the hind leg, and where it touched it tore. mr. simmons had five dogs when he came to the swamp. sound came out to him after the morning's adventure, but had to be carried home across the saddle bow. two days later another of the dogs went limping home. three dogs were left in the swamp. mr. simmons blew his horn, and called for some time, and then he slowly went his way. he had a great tale to tell when he got home. his dogs had jumped a wildcat at the river, chased him to the swamp, and there they found a den of wildcats. there was a great fight, but three of the dogs were killed, and the cats were so fierce that it was as much as mr. simmons could do to escape with his life. indeed, according to his tale, the biggest cat followed him to the edge of the swamp. and he told this moving tale so often that he really believed it, and felt that he was a sort of hero. as for the swamp, it had a rare frolic that night. all the mysteries came forth and danced, and the willis-whistlers piped as they had never piped before, and old mr. bullfrog joined in with his fine bass voice. and the next morning mr. buzzard, who roosted in the loblolly pine, called his sanitary committee together, and soon there was nothing left of pluto and his companions to pester the swamp. vii. aaron sees the signal. the swamp had a fine frolic on the night of the day that it routed mr. simmons's dogs, but aaron was not there to see it. he knew that, for some days at least, he would be free from active pursuit. the only danger he would have to encounter would come from the patrollers,--the negroes called them "patterollers,"--who visited the various plantations at uncertain intervals. if he began to go about with too much confidence it was entirely possible he would run into the arms of the patrollers, and he would have small opportunity to escape. therefore, while he knew that he would not be hunted by dogs for some time to come, he also knew he must be constantly on the alert to guard against surprises. the most active member of the patrol was george gossett himself; and after he and his companions had visited mr. fullalove's distillery, which they never failed to do when they went patrolling, they were not in a condition to be entirely responsible for their actions. they had nothing to restrain them on such occasions except the knowledge that some of the owners of the negroes would jump at an excuse to hold them to personal account. and this was not a pleasant result to contemplate, especially after a night's spree. for these reasons aaron was much more anxious to elude george gossett and the patrollers than he was to escape from mr. jim simmons's hounds. he knew he must avoid the negro cabins, which were traps for the unwary when the patrollers were around, and he knew he must keep off the public road--the "big road," as it was called--and not venture too often on the frequently traveled plantation paths. young gossett and his companions had a way of dismounting from their horses out of sight and hearing of the negro quarters on the plantations that lay on their "beat." leaving the animals in charge of one man, they would cautiously post themselves at the various fence crossings and paths frequented by the negroes, and in this way capture all who were going to the negro quarters or coming away. if a negro had a "pass" or a permit from his master, well and good. if he had none--well, it would be a sorry night's frolic for him. but aaron had one great advantage over all the slaves who went to and fro between the plantations after nightfall. he had rambler to warn him; and yet, after an experience that he had on one occasion, he felt that he must be more cautious than ever. it happened not many weeks before he was hunted by mr. simmons's hounds. in trying to kill a moccasin, rambler had the misfortune to be bitten by the serpent. the wound was on his jowl, and in spite of all that aaron could do the poor dog's head and neck swelled fearfully. when night came the son of ben ali made rambler as comfortable as possible, bruising herbs and barks and binding them to the wound, and making him a soft bed. on that particular night aaron felt that he ought to visit the little master, and yet he was doubtful about it. he finally concluded to wait until late, and then go to the hill where, a few weeks later, he parted from chunky riley. if a light was shining behind the little master's curtain he would go and drive the red goblin, pain, from the room. he went to the hill, and the light was shining. the little red goblin was up to his old tricks. as he went along aaron fell to thinking about the little master, and wondering why the child should be constantly given over to suffering. he forgot all about himself in trying to solve this problem, forgot to be cautious, forgot that he was a fugitive, and went blindly along the path to the fence above the spring lot. there, without warning, he found himself face to face with george gossett. the rest of the patrollers were posted about at various points. perhaps george gossett was as much surprised as aaron. at any rate, he said nothing. he took a half-consumed cigar from his lips, and flipped the ashes from it. no doubt he intended to say something, yet he was in no hurry. his pistol was in his coat pocket, his hand grasped the handle, and his finger was on the trigger. he felt that he was prepared for any emergency--and so he was, except for the particular emergency that aaron then and there invented. [illustration: rambler's fight with the moccasin] the son of ben ali took off his hat, to show how polite he was in the dark, advanced a step, and then suddenly plunged at young gossett headforemost. struck fairly in the pit of the stomach by this battering ram, the young man, who was not too sober to begin with, went down like a log, and aaron ran away like a deer. the worst of it was that when george gossett recovered consciousness and was able to call his nearest companion to his assistance, that individual simply laughed at the amazing story. "why, it don't stand to reason," he said. "there ain't a living nigger that'd dast to do sech a thing, and the dead ones couldn't." "didn't you hear him when he butted me?" inquired young gossett feebly. "i heard you when you fell off the fence," replied the other. "i allowed that you had jumped down to let the blood git in your feet." "i tell you," insisted the young man, "he come up so close i could 'a' put my hand on him. he took off his hat as polite as you please, and the next thing i know'd i didn't know nothing." "shucks!" exclaimed his companion as loudly as he dared to talk; "you jest about set up on the fence there and went to sleep, and fell off. i told you about them low-wines at the still; i told you when you was a-swilling 'em, same as a fattening hog, that if you didn't look out you'd have to be toted home. and here you are!" young gossett had to go home, and as he was the leading spirit the rest had to go with him. he managed to sit his horse after a fashion, but it was as much as he could do. once in the big road, his companions made many rough jokes at his expense, and they advised him never to tell such another tale as that if he didn't want the public at large to "hoot at him." the adventure taught aaron a new lesson in caution; and even now, after mr. simmons's famous pack of "nigger-dogs" had been all but destroyed, he felt that it was necessary to be more cautious than ever, even when rambler accompanied him. he had no idea that mr. simmons thought his dogs had been attacked by wildcats. in fact, he thought that mr. simmons had full knowledge of his movements, and he was prepared any day to see mr. gossett gather his neighbors together, especially the young men, surround the swamp armed with shotguns, and try in that way to capture him. but when night fell on the day of his experience with mr. simmons's dogs, he resolved to visit little crotchet. he was tired; he had traveled many miles, and had had little sleep, but sleep could be called at any time, and would come at the call. only at night could he visit the little master. in the daytime he could stretch himself on a bed of fragrant pine-needles, with odorous heart-leaves for his pillow, and take his ease. so now, after all the turmoil and confusion he had experienced in field and wood, he went to the hill from which he could see the light in little crotchet's window. usually it was late before aaron would venture to climb to the window, but there was one signal that made it urgent for him to go. when the light was suddenly extinguished and as suddenly relit, it was a signal that aaron must come as soon as he could. this was little crotchet's invention and he thought a great deal of it. and it must be admitted that it was very simple and complete. sitting on the hill, aaron saw the light shining through the red curtain. then it disappeared and the window remained dark for a minute. then the light suddenly shone out again. the arab glanced at the two stars that revolve around the north star, and judged it was not more than nine o'clock. what could the little master want at this early hour? no need to ask that question; little crotchet had a great deal of business on hand. in the first place, while mr. simmons's hounds were hunting aaron, timoleon, the black stallion, had escaped from his stable, and he created a great uproar on the place. when the negro who usually fed and groomed him went into the lot to catch the horse, he found that the catcher is sometimes caught. for timoleon, made furious by his freedom from the confinement of the halter and the four walls of the stable, seized the man by the shoulder and came near inflicting a fatal injury. nothing saved the unfortunate negro but the fact that randall, who chanced to be walking about the lot, made a pretense of attacking the horse with a wagon whip. timoleon dropped the negro and made a furious rush at randall; but randall was in reach of the fence, and so made his escape, while the wounded negro took advantage of the opportunity to stagger, stumble, and crawl to a place of safety. this done, he lay as one dead. he was carried to his cabin, and a messenger was sent, hot-foot, for the doctor, who lived in the neighborhood not far away. little crotchet witnessed a part of the scene, and, oh! he was angry. it was outrageous, wicked, horrible, that a horse should be so cruel. he sat on the gray pony and shook his fist impotently at the black stallion. "oh, if i had you where i could put the lash on you, i'd make you pay for this, you mean, cruel creature!" singular to say, timoleon whinnied when he heard the little master's voice, and came galloping to the fence where the gray pony stood, and put his head over the top rail. "blest ef i don't b'lieve he know you, honey," said randall. this somewhat mollified little crotchet, but he was still angry. "why are you so mean and cruel! oh, i'll make somebody lash you well for this!" the black stallion whinnied again in the friendliest way. "is anybody ever see de beat er dat!" exclaimed randall. nothing could be done, and so the black stallion roamed about the lot at will, and that night when the mules came in from the field they had to be fed and housed under the ginhouse shelter. the white-haired master was away from home on business, but the whole plantation knew that he prized timoleon above all the other horses on the place, and so neither turin nor randall would take harsh measures to recapture the horse. they were careful enough, however, to have the high fence strengthened where they found it weak. this was one of the reasons why little crotchet wanted to see aaron. but there was also another reason. the lad wanted to introduce the runaway to a new friend of his, mr. richard hudspeth, his tutor, who had been employed to come all the way from massachusetts to take charge of the lad's education, which was already fair for his age. in fact, what little crotchet knew about books was astonishing when it is remembered that he never went to school. he had been taught to read and write and cipher by his mother, and this opened the door of his father's library, which was as large as it was well selected. mr. hudspeth had been recommended by an old friend who had served two years in congress with mr. abercrombie, and there was no trouble in coming to an agreement, for mr. hudspeth had reasons of his own for desiring to visit the south. he belonged to the anti-slavery society, and was an aggressive abolitionist. he was a fair-skinned young man, with a silk-like yellow beard, active in his movements, and had a voice singularly sweet and well modulated. he talked with great nicety of expression, and had a certain daintiness of manner which, in so far as it suggested femininity, was calculated to give the casual observer a wrong idea of mr. hudspeth's disposition and temperament. he had been installed as little crotchet's tutor for more than a week. the lad did not like him at first. his preciseness seemed to smack too much of method and discipline,--the terror of childhood and youth. and there was a queer inflection to his sentences, and his pronunciation had a strange and an unfamiliar twang. but these things soon became familiar to the lad, as mr. hudspeth, little by little, won his attention and commanded his interest. the teacher (for he was emphatically a teacher in the best sense, and not a tutor in any sense) saw at the beginning that the dull routine of the text-books would be disastrous here, both to health and spirits. and so he fell back on his own experience, and became himself the mouthpiece of all good books he had ever read, and of all great thoughts that had ever planted themselves in his mind. and he entered with real enthusiasm into all little crotchet's thoughts, and drew him out until the soul of the lad would have been no more clearly defined had every detail been painted on canvas and hung on the wall before the teacher's eyes. it was this teacher that little crotchet wanted aaron to see, a fact which, taken by itself, was sufficient evidence that the lad had grown fond of mr. hudspeth. little crotchet was very cunning about it, too. he invited the teacher to come to his room after tea, and when mr. hudspeth came the lad, lying upon his bed, put the question plumply:-"do you want to see my runaway?" "your runaway? i don't understand you." "don't you know what a runaway is? why, of course you do. a runaway negro." "ah! a fugitive slave. yes; i have seen a few." "but you've never seen my runaway at all. he isn't a negro. he's an arab. i'll let you see him if you promise never to tell. it's a great secret. i'm so small, and--and so crippled, you know, nobody would ever think i had a runaway?" "never fear me. do you keep him in a box and permit only your best friends to peep at him occasionally?" "oh, no," said little crotchet, laughing at the idea. "he's a sure-enough runaway. he's been advertised in the newspapers. and they had the funniest picture of him you ever saw. they made him look like all the rest of the runaways that have their pictures in the milledgeville papers,--a little bit of a man, bare-headed and stooped over, carrying a cane on his shoulder with a bundle hanging on the end of it. sister cut it out for me. i'll show it to you to-morrow." mr. hudspeth was very much interested in the runaway, and said he would be glad to see him. "well, you must do as i tell you. if i could jump up and jump about i wouldn't ask you, you know. take the candle in your hand, go out on the stair landing, close the door after you, and stand there until you hear me call." mr. hudspeth couldn't understand what all this meant, but he concluded to humor the joke. so he did as he was bid. he carried the candle from the room, closed the door, and stood on the landing until he heard little crotchet calling. when he reã«ntered the room he held the candle above his head and looked about him. he evidently expected to see the runaway. "this is equal to joining a secret society," he said. "where is your runaway? has he escaped?" "i just wanted to make the window dark a moment and then bright again. that is my signal. if he sees it, he'll come. don't you think it's cunning?" "i shall certainly think so if the runaway comes," replied mr. hudspeth somewhat doubtfully. "he has never failed yet," said little crotchet. "if he fails now, it will be because jim simmons's hounds have caught him, or else he is too tired to come out on the hill and watch for the signal." "were the bloodhounds after him?" inquired mr. hudspeth, with a frown. "bloodhounds!" exclaimed little crotchet. "i never saw a bloodhound, and i never heard of one around here. if my runaway is caught, the dog that did it could be put in the pocket of that big overcoat you had strapped on your trunk." the lad paused and held up his finger. his ear had caught the sound of aaron's feet on the shingles. there was a faint grating sound, as the window sash was softly raised and lowered, and then the son of ben ali stepped from behind the curtain. he stood still as a statue when his eye fell on the stranger, and his attitude was one of simple dignity when he turned to the little master. he saw the lad laughing and he smiled in sympathy. "he's one of us," said little crotchet, "and i wanted him to see you. he's my teacher. mr. hudspeth, this is aaron." mr. hudspeth grasped aaron's hand and shook it warmly, and they talked for some time, the son of ben ali sitting on the side of little crotchet's bed, holding the lad's hand in one of his. aaron told of his day's experiences, and his description of the affair in the swamp was so vivid and realistic that mr. hudspeth exclaimed:-"if that were put in print, the world would declare it to be pure fiction." "fiction," said little crotchet to aaron, with an air of great solemnity, "fiction is a story put in a book. a story is sometimes called a fib, but when it is printed it is called fiction." mr. hudspeth laughed and so did aaron, but aaron's laugh had a good deal of pride in it. "he's crippled here," remarked aaron, touching little crotchet's legs, "but not here,"--touching the boy's head. "but all this is not what i called you for," said little crotchet after a while. "timoleon tore his stable door down to-day and came near killing one of the hands. he is out now. father will be angry when he comes home and hears about it. can't you put him in his stable?" "me? i can lead the grandson of abdallah all around the plantation by a yarn string," aaron declared. [illustration: he stood as still as a statue] "well, if you had been here to-day you'd have found out different. you don't know that horse," little crotchet insisted. "he is certainly as vicious a creature as i ever saw," remarked the teacher, who had been an amazed witness of the horse's performances. "i'll show you," aaron declared. "oh, no!" protested little crotchet. "don't try any tricks on that horse. he's too mean and cruel. if you can get him in his stable, and fasten him in, i'll be glad. but don't go near him; he'll bite your head off." aaron laughed and then he seemed to be considering something. "i wish"--he paused and looked at little crotchet. "you wish what?" asked the lad. "i wish you might go with me. but it is dark. the moon is a day moon. i could tote you to the fence." "and then what?" asked little crotchet. "you could see a tame horse--the grandson of abdallah." "i'll go to the fence if you'll carry me," said little crotchet. "the air is not cold--no wind is blowing." "shall i go too?" asked mr. hudspeth. "i'd be glad," said aaron. so, although the night was not cold, aaron took a shawl from the bed and wrapped it about little crotchet, lifted the lad in his arms, and went softly down the stairway, mr. hudspeth following. the night was not so dark after all. once away from the light, various familiar objects began to materialize. the oaks ceased to be huge shadows. there was a thin, milk-white haze in the sky that seemed to shed a reflection of light on the earth below. a negro passed along the beaten way leading to the cabins, whistling a tune. it was randall. he heard the others and paused. "it's your turn to tote," said aaron. "who?" exclaimed randall. "the little master," replied aaron. randall laughed. who talked of turns where the little master was concerned? when it came to carrying that kind of burden, randall was the man to do it, and it was "don't le' me hurt you, honey. ef i squeeze too tight, des say de word;" and then, "whar we gwine, honey? a'on gwine in dar en put dat ar hoss up? well, 'fo' he go in dar less all shake han's wid 'im, kaze when we nex' lay eyes on 'im he won't hear us, not ef we stoop down and holler good-by in his year." but following aaron, they went toward the lot where the black stallion had shown his savage temper during the day. viii. the happenings of a night. when aaron and those who were with him reached the lot fence, which had been made high and strong to keep old jule, the jumping mule, within bounds, not a sound was heard on the other side. "you er takin' yo' life in yo' han', mon," said randall in a warning tone, as aaron placed one foot on the third rail and vaulted over. the warning would have come too late in any event, for by the time the words were off randall's tongue aaron was over the fence. those who were left behind waited in breathless suspense for some sound--some movement--from timoleon, or some word from the arab, to guide them. but for a little while (and it seemed to be a long, long while to little crotchet) nothing could be heard. then suddenly there fell on their strained ears the noise that is made by a rushing horse, followed by a sharp exclamation from aaron. "what a pity if he is hurt!" exclaimed the teacher. before anything else could be said, there came a whinnying sound from timoleon, such as horses make when they greet those they are fond of, or when they are hungry and see some one bringing their food. but timoleon's whinnying was more prolonged, and in the midst of it they could hear aaron talking. "ef horses could talk," remarked randall, "i'd up 'n' say dey wuz ca'n on a big confab in dar." little crotchet said nothing. he had often heard aaron say that he knew the language of animals, but the matter had never been pressed on the lad's attention as it was years afterwards on the attention of buster john and sweetest susan. finally aaron came to the fence, closely followed by the black stallion. "man, what you think?" said the son of ben ali to randall; "no water, no corn, no fodder since night before last." "de lord 'a' mercy!" exclaimed randall. "is anybody ever hear de beat er dat? no wonder he kotch dat ar nigger an' bit 'im! when de rascal git well i'm gwine ter ax marster ter le' me take 'im out an' gi' 'im a paddlin'--an' i'll do it right, mon." mr. hudspeth made a mental note of this speech, and resolved to find out if randall meant what he said, or was merely joking. "man, give me the little master," said aaron from the top of the fence, "and run and fetch two buckets of water from the spring." "dey's water in de lot dar," randall explained. "it is dirty," replied aaron. "the grandson of abdallah would die before he would drink it." he leaned down and took little crotchet in his arms. the muzzle of timoleon was so near that the lad could feel the hot breath from his nostrils. involuntarily the little master shuddered and shrank closer to aaron. "he'll not hurt you," said aaron. he made a queer sound with his lips, and the horse whinnied. "now you may put your hand on him--so." the arab took the little master's hand and placed it gently on the smooth, sensitive muzzle of the horse. the lad could feel the nervous working of timoleon's strong upper lip. then he stroked the horse's head and rubbed the velvety ears, and in less time than it takes to write it down he felt very much at home with the black stallion, and had no fear of him then or afterwards. randall soon returned with cool, fresh water from the spring. the black stallion drank all that was brought and wanted more, but aaron said no. he had placed the little master on randall's shoulder, and timoleon, when he finished drinking, was taken to his stable and fed, and the broken door propped in such a manner that it could not be forced open from the inside. this done, aaron returned to the others, relieved randall of little crotchet, though the frail body was not much of a burden, and the three started back to the big house. "you are still anxious to punish the poor man who was hurt by the horse?" asked the teacher, as randall bade them good-night. "i is dat, suh. i'm des ez sho ter raise welks on his hide ez de sun is ter shine--leas'ways ef breff stay in his body. ef i'd 'a' been dat ar hoss an' he'd done me dat away, i'd 'a' trompled de gizzard out 'n 'im. ef dey's anything dat i do 'spise, suh, it's a low-down, triflin', good-fer-nothin' nigger." mr. hudspeth knew enough about human nature to be able to catch the tone of downright sincerity in the negro's voice, and the fact not only amazed him at the time, but worried him no little when he recalled it afterward; for his memory seized upon it and made it more important than it really was. and he saw and noted other things on that plantation that puzzled him no little, and destroyed in his own mind the efficiency of some of his strongest anti-slavery arguments; but it did not, for it could not, reach the essence of the matter as he had conceived it, that human slavery, let it be national or sectional, or paternal and patriarchal, was an infliction on the master as well as an injustice to the negro. so far so good. but mr. hudspeth could not see then what he saw and acknowledged when american slavery was happily a thing of the past, namely: that in the beginning, the slaves who were brought here were redeemed from a slavery in their own country worse than the bondage of death; that though they came here as savages, they were brought in close and stimulating contact with christian civilization, and so lifted up that in two centuries they were able to bear the promotion to citizenship which awaited them; and that, although this end was reached in the midst of confusion and doubt, tumult and bloodshed, it was given to human intelligence to perceive in slavery, as well as in the freedom of the slaves, the hand of an all-wise providence, and to behold in their bondage here the scheme of a vast university in which they were prepared to enjoy the full benefits of all the blessings which have been conferred on them, and which, though they seem to have been long delayed, have come to them earlier than to any other branch of the human race. the teacher who played his little part in the adventures of aaron played a large part in national affairs at a later day. he saw slavery pass away, and he lived long enough after that event to put on record this declaration: "looking back on the history of the human race, let us hasten to acknowledge, while the acknowledgment may be worth making, that two hundred and odd years of slavery, as it existed in the american republic, is a small price to pay for participation in the inestimable blessings and benefits of american freedom and american citizenship." and as he spoke, the great audience he was addressing seemed to fade before his eyes, and he found himself wandering again on the old plantation with little crotchet, or walking under the starlit skies talking to aaron. and he heard again the genial voice of the gentleman whose guest he was, and lived again through the pleasures and perils of that wonderful year on the abercrombie place. but all this was twenty-five years in the future, and mr. hudspeth had not even a dream of what that future was to bring forth. indeed, as he followed aaron and little crotchet from the horse lot to the house he was less interested in what the years might hold for him than he was in one incident that occurred while aaron was preparing to take the black stallion back to his stall. he was puzzled and wanted information. how did aaron know that the horse had gone without water and food? he observed that neither little crotchet nor randall questioned the statement when it was made, but treated it as a declaration beyond dispute. and yet the runaway had been in the woods, and a part of the time was pursued by hounds. he had no means of knowing whether or not the black stallion had been attended to. the matter weighed on the teacher's mind to such an extent that when he and his companions were safe in little crotchet's room he put a question to aaron. "by what means did you know that the horse had been left without food and water?" aaron glanced at little crotchet and smiled. "well, sir, to tell you would be not to tell you. you wouldn't believe me." "oh, you go too far,--indeed you do. why should i doubt your word?" "it don't fit in with things you know." "try me." "the grandson of abdallah told me," replied aaron simply. the teacher looked from aaron to little crotchet. "you must be joking," he remarked. "oh, no, he isn't," protested little crotchet. "i know he can talk with the animals. he has promised to teach me, but i always forget it when i go to the swamp; there are so many other things to think about." "would you teach me?" mr. hudspeth asked. his face was solemn, and yet there was doubt in the tone of his voice. aaron shook his head. "too old," he explained. "too old, and know too much." "it's another case of having a child's faith," suggested the teacher. "most, but not quite," answered aaron. "it is like this: the why must be very big, or you must be touched." the teacher pondered over this reply for some moments, and then said: "there must be some real reason why i should desire to learn the language of animals. is that it?" "most, but not quite," aaron responded. "you must have the sure-enough feeling." "i see. but what is it to be touched? what does that mean?" "you must be touched by the people who live next door to the world." the teacher shook his head slowly and stroked his beard thoughtfully. he tried to treat the whole matter with due solemnity, so as to keep his footing, and he succeeded. "where is this country that is next door to the world?" he asked, turning to little crotchet. "under the spring," the lad replied promptly. "have you ever visited that country?" the teacher asked. his tone was serious enough now. "no," replied little crotchet, with a wistful sigh. "i'm crippled, you know, and walk only on my crutches. it is far to go, and i can't take my pony. but aaron has told me about it, and i have seen little mr. thimblefinger--once--and he told me about mrs. meadows and the rest and brought me a message from old mr. rabbit. they all live in the country next door to the world." for several minutes the teacher sat and gazed into the pale flame of the candle. the wax or tallow had run down on one side, and formed a figure in the semblance of a wee man hanging to the brass mouth of the candlestick with both hands. glazing thus, queer thoughts came to the teacher's mind. he tugged at his beard to see whether he was awake or dreaming. could it be that by some noiseless shifting of the scenery he was even now in the country next door to the world? he rose suddenly, shook hands with aaron, and, swayed by some sudden impulse, stooped and pressed his lips to the pale brow of the patient lad. then he went to his room, threw open the window, and sat for an hour, wondering what influence his strange experiences would have on his life. and his reflections were not amiss, for years afterwards his experiences of this night were responsible for his intimacy with the greatest american of our time,--abraham lincoln. it was in the early part of the war that mr. hudspeth, one of a group of congressmen in consultation with the president, let fall some chance remarks about the country next door to the world. mr. lincoln had been telling a humorous story, and was on the point of telling another, when mr. hudspeth's chance remark struck his ear. "whereabouts is that country?" he asked. "not far from georgia," replied mr. hudspeth. "who lives there?" "little crotchet, aaron the arab, little mr. thimblefinger, mrs. meadows, and old mr. rabbit." mr. hudspeth counted them off on his fingers in a humorous manner. mr. lincoln, who had been laughing before, suddenly grew serious--melancholy, indeed. he talked with the congressmen awhile longer, but they knew by his manner that they were dismissed. as they were leaving, the president remarked:-"wait till your hurry's over, hudspeth; i want to talk to you." and sitting before the fire in his private office, mr. lincoln recalled mr. hudspeth's chance remark, and questioned him with great particularity about aaron and little crotchet and all the rest. "of course you believed in the country next door to the world?" mr. lincoln suggested. "to tell you the truth, mr. president, i felt queerly that night. it seemed as real to me as anything i ever heard of and never saw." "get the feeling back, hudspeth; get it back. i can believe everything you told me about it." and after that, when mr. hudspeth called on the president, and found him in a mood between extreme mirth and downright melancholy, he would say: "i was with aaron last night," or "i'm just from the country next door to the world," or "i hope sherman won't get lost in the country that is next door to the world." but all this was in the future, and, as we all know, mr. hudspeth, sitting at his window and gazing at the stars that hung sparkling over the abercrombie place, could not read the future. if it was too late for him to learn the language of the animals, how could he hope to interpret the prophecies of the constellations? aaron sat with little crotchet until there was no danger that the red goblin, pain, would put in an appearance, and then he slipped through the window, and was soon at the foot of the oak, where rambler was taking a nap. he gave the dog some of the food that little crotchet had put by for him, ate heartily himself, and then went toward the swamp. on the hill he turned and looked back in the direction of little crotchet's window. as he paused he heard a voice cry "hello!" aaron was not startled, for the sound came from a distance, and fell but faintly on his ears. he listened and heard it again:-[illustration: it was the white-haired master] "hello! hello!" it seemed to come from the road, half a mile away, and aaron knew that there was no house in that direction for a traveler or a passer-by to hail. there was something in the tone that suggested distress. without waiting to listen again, the arab started for the road in a rapid trot. he thought he heard it again as he ran, and this caused him to run the faster. he climbed the fence that marked the line of the road, and sat there a moment; but all was silence, save the soft clamor of insects and frogs that is a feature of the first half of the night. aaron had now come to a point from which he could reach the swamp more conveniently by following the road for half a mile, though he would have another hill to climb. as he jumped from the fence into the road the cry came to his ears again, and this time with startling distinctness: "hello! hello! oh, isn't there some one to hear me?" it was so plainly the call of some one in distress that aaron shouted an answer of encouragement, and ran as fast as he could in the direction from which the sound came. the situation was so new to rambler that, instead of making ahead to investigate and report, he stuck to aaron, whining uneasily. as the son of ben ali ran he saw dimly outlined at the foot of the hill a short distance beyond him a huge something that refused to take a recognizable shape until he stood beside it, and even then it was startling enough. it was the gray mare, timoleon's sister, lying at full length by the side of the road, and underneath her the son of ben ali knew he would find the white-haired master. but it was not as bad as it might have been. "hurt much, master?" said aaron, leaning over mr. abercrombie and touching him on the shoulder. "not seriously," replied the white-haired master. "but the leg that is under the mare is numb." the gray mare, after falling, had done nothing more than whinny. if she had struggled to rise, the white-haired master's leg would have needed a doctor: and if she had risen to her feet and started home the doctor would have been unnecessary, for the imprisoned foot was caught in the stirrup. well for mr. abercrombie that aaron knew the gray mare, and that the gray mare knew aaron. she whinnied when the runaway spoke to her. she raised her head and gathered her forefeet under her, and then suddenly, at a word from aaron, lifted her weight from the leg, while the foot was taken from the stirrup. again the word was given and the gray mare rose easily to her feet and shook herself. "can you walk, master?" aaron asked. "i think so--certainly." yet it was not an easy thing to do. though the limb was not broken, owing to the fact that the ground was damp and soft where the gray mare fell, yet it had been imprisoned for some time, and it was both numb and bruised. the numbness was in evidence now, as the white-haired master rose to his feet and tried to walk; the bruises would speak for themselves to-morrow. "what is your name?" mr. abercrombie asked. "i am called aaron, master." "i thought so, and i'm glad of it. some day i'll thank you; but now--pins and needles!" the blood was beginning to circulate in the numb leg, and this was not by any means a pleasant experience. aaron shortened it somewhat by rubbing the limb vigorously. "are you still in the woods, aaron?" "yes, master." "well, i'm sorry. i wish you belonged to me." "i'm wishing harder than you, master." "what a pity--what a pity!" "don't get too sorry, master." "no; it would do no good." "and don't blame the gray mare for stumbling, master. the saddle too high on her shoulders, the belly-band too tight, and her shoes nailed on in the dark." aaron helped mr. abercrombie to mount. "good-night, master!" "good-night, aaron!" the arab watched the gray mare and her rider until the darkness hid them from view. and no wonder! he was the only man, living or dead, that the son of ben ali had ever called "master." why? aaron tried to make the matter clear to his own mind, and while he was doing his best to unravel the problem he heard buggy wheels rattle on the hilltop. the horse must have shied at something just then, for a harsh voice cried out, followed by the sound of a whip falling cruelly on the creature's back. the wheels rattled louder as the creature leaped frantically from under the whip. the harsh voice cried "whoa!" three times, twice in anger, and the third time in mortal fear. and then aaron knew that he had another adventure on his hands. ix. the upsetting of mr. gossett. if aaron had known it was mr. gossett's voice he heard and mr. gossett's hand that brought the buggy whip down on the poor horse's back with such cruel energy, the probability is that he would have taken to his heels; and yet it is impossible to say with certainty. the son of ben ali was such a curious compound that his actions depended entirely on the mood he chanced to be in. he was full of courage, and yet was terribly afraid at times. he was dignified and proud, and yet no stranger to humility. his whole nature resented the idea of serving as a slave, yet he would have asked nothing better than to be little crotchet's slave: and he was glad to call mr. abercrombie master. so that, after all, it may be that he would have stood his ground, knowing that the voice and hand were mr. gossett's when his ears told him, as they now did, that the horse, made furious by the cruel stroke of the whip, was running away, coming down the hill at breakneck speed. mr. gossett had been on a fruitless errand. when his son george reached home that morning and told him that mr. jim simmons's dogs had followed the trail to the river and there lost it, mr. gossett remarked that he was glad he did not go on a fool's errand, and he made various statements about mr. simmons and his dogs that were not at all polite. later in the day, however (though the hour was still early), when mr. gossett was making the customary round of his plantation, he fell in with a negro who had been hunting for some stray sheep. the negro, after giving an account of his movements, made this further remark:-"i sholy 'spected you'd be over yander wid mr. jim simmons, marster. his dogs done struck a track leadin' inter de swamp, an' dey sho went a callyhootin'." "when was that?" mr. gossett inquired. "not mo' dan two hours ago, ef dat," responded the negro. "i lis'n at um, i did, an' dey went right spang tor'ds de swamp. i know'd de dogs, kaze i done hear um soon' dis mornin'." giving the negro some instructions that would keep him busy the rest of the day if he carried them out, mr. gossett turned his horse's head in the direction of the swamp, and rode slowly thither. the blue falcon soared high in the air and paid no attention to mr. gossett. for various reasons that the swamp knew about the turkey buzzard was not in sight. the swamp itself was full of the reposeful silence that daylight usually brought to it. mr. gossett rode about and listened; but if all the dogs in the world had suddenly disappeared, the region round about could not have been freer of their barking and baying than it was at that moment. all that mr. gossett could do was to turn about and ride back home. but he was very much puzzled. if mr. simmons had trailed a runaway into the swamp and caught him, or if he had made two failures in one morning, mr. gossett would like very much to know it. in point of fact, he was such a practical business man that he felt it was mr. simmons's duty to make some sort of report to him. in matters of this kind mr. gossett was very precise. but after dinner he felt in a more jocular mood. he informed his son george that he thought he would go over and worry mr. simmons a little over his failure to catch aaron, and he had his horse put to the buggy, and rode six or seven miles to mr. simmons's home, smiling grimly as he went along. mr. simmons was at home, but was not feeling very well, as his wife informed mr. gossett. mrs. simmons herself was in no very amiable mood, as mr. gossett very soon observed. but she asked him in politely enough, and said she'd go and tell jimmy that company had come. she went to the garden gate not very far from the house and called out to her husband in a shrill voice:-"jimmy! oh, jimmy! that old buzzard of a gossett is in the house. come see what he wants. and do put on your coat before you come in the house. and wash your hands. they're dirtier than sin. and hit that shock of yours one lick with the comb and brush. come right on now. if i have to sit in there and talk to the old rascal long i'll have a fit. ain't you coming? i'll run back before he ransacks the whole house." mr. simmons came sauntering in after a while, and his wife made that the excuse for disappearing, though she went no further than the other side of the door, where she listened with all her ears, being filled with a consuming curiosity to know what business brought mr. gossett to that house. she had not long to wait, for the visitor plunged into the subject at once. "you may know i was anxious about you, simmons, or i wouldn't be here." ("the old hypocrite!" remarked mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door.) "you didn't come by when your hunt ended, and i allowed maybe that you had caught the nigger and either killed or crippled him, and--ahem!--felt a sort of backwardness in telling me about it. so i thought i would come over and see you, if only to say that whether you caught the nigger or killed him, he's responsible for it and not you." "no, colonel, i'm not in the practice of killing niggers nor crippling 'em. i've caught a many of 'em, but i've never hurt one yet. but, colonel! if you'd 'a' gone through with what i've been through this day, you'd 'a' done exactly what i done. you'd 'a' went right straight home without stopping to ask questions or to answer 'em--much less tell tales." thereupon mr. simmons told the story of his adventure in the swamp, varnishing up the facts as he thought he knew them, and adding some details calculated to make the episode much more interesting from his point of view. it will be remembered that mr. simmons was in total ignorance of what really happened in the swamp. he had conceived the theory that his dogs had hit upon the trail of a wildcat going from the river to its den in the swamp, and that, when the dogs had followed it there, they had been attacked, not by one wildcat, but by the whole "caboodle" of wildcats, to use mr. simmons's expression. having conceived this theory, mr. simmons not only stuck to it, but added various incidents that did credit to his imagination. for instance, he made this statement in reply to a question from mr. gossett:-"what did i think when i heard all the racket and saw sound come out mangled? well, i'll tell you, colonel, i didn't know what to think. i never heard such a terrible racket in all my born days. i says to myself, 'i'll just ride in and see what the trouble is, and if there ain't but one wildcat, why, i'll soon put an end to him.' so i spurred my hoss up, and started in; but before we went anyways, hardly, the hoss give a snort and tried to whirl around and run out. "it made me mad at the time," mr. simmons went on, his inventive faculty rising to the emergency, "but, colonel, it's a mighty good thing that hoss had more sense than i did, because if he hadn't i'd 'a' never been setting here telling you about it. i tried to make the hoss stand, but he wouldn't, and, just then, what should i see but two great big wildcats trying to sneak up on me? and all the time, colonel, the racket in the swamp was getting louder and louder. pluto was in there somewheres, and i know'd he was attending to his business, so i just give the hoss the reins and he went like he was shot out of a gun. "i pulled him in, and turned him around, and then i saw pluto trying to come out. now, colonel, you may know if it was too hot for him it was lots too warm for me. pluto tried to come, and he was a-fighting like fury; but it was no go. the two cats that had been sneaking up on me lit on him, and right then and there they tore him all to flinders! colonel, they didn't leave a piece of that dog's hide big enough to make a woman's glove if it had been tanned. and as if that wouldn't do 'em, they made another sally and come at me, tush and claw. and i just clapped spurs to the hoss and cleaned up from there. do you blame me, colonel?" [illustration: they tore him all to flinders] "as i understand it, simmons," remarked mr. gossett, after pulling his beard and reflecting a while, "you didn't catch the nigger." ("the nasty old buzzard!" remarked mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door. "if i was jimmy i'd hit him with a cheer.") "do you think you'd 'a' caught him, colonel, taking into account all the circumstances and things?" inquired mr. simmons, with his irritating drawl. "i didn't say i was going to catch him, did i?" replied mr. gossett. "i didn't say he couldn't get away from my dogs, did i?" "supposing you had," suggested mr. simmons, "would you 'a' done it? i ain't never heard of you walking in amongst a drove of wildcats to catch a nigger." "and so you didn't catch him; and your fine dogs are finer now than they ever were?" mr. gossett remarked. ("my goodness! if jimmy don't hit him, i'll go in and do it myself," said mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door.) "well, colonel, it's just like i tell you." mr. simmons would have said something else, but just then the door opened and mrs. simmons walked in, fire in her eye. "you've saved your $30, hain't you?" she said to mr. gossett. "why--er--yes'm--but"-"no buts about it," she snapped. "if you ain't changed mightily, you think a heap more of $30 in your pocket than you do of a nigger in the bushes. jimmy don't owe you nothin', does he?" "well--er--no'm." mr. gossett had been taken completely by surprise. "no, he don't, and if he did i'd quit him right now--this very minute," mrs. simmons declared, gesticulating ominously with her forefinger. "and what jimmy wants to go trolloping about the country trying to catch the niggers you drive to the woods is more'n i can tell to save my life. why, if he was to catch your runaway niggers they wouldn't stay at home no longer than the minute you took the ropes off 'em." mr. simmons cleared his throat, as if to say something, but his wife anticipated him. "oh, hush up, jimmy!" she cried. "you know i'm telling nothing but the truth. there ain't a living soul in this country that don't know a gossett nigger as far as they can see him." "what are the ear-marks, ma'am?" inquired mr. gossett, trying hard to be jocular. in a moment he was heartily sorry he had asked the question. "ear-marks? ear-marks? hide-marks, you better say. why, they've been abused and half fed till they are ashamed to look folks in the face, and i don't blame 'em. they go sneaking and shambling along and look meaner than sin. and 't ain't their own meanness that shows in 'em. no! not by a long sight. i'll say that much for the poor creeturs." there was something of a pause here, and mr. gossett promptly took advantage of it. he rose, bowed to mrs. simmons, who turned her back on him, and started for the door, saying:-"well, simmons, i just called to see what luck you'd had this morning. my time's up. i must be going." mr. simmons followed him to the door and out to the gate. before mr. gossett got in his buggy he turned and looked toward the house, remarking to mr. simmons in a confidential tone:-"i say, simmons! she's a scorcher, ain't she?" "a right warm one, colonel, if i do say it myself," replied mr. simmons, with a touch of pride. "but, colonel, before you get clean away, let's have a kind of understanding about this matter." "about what matter?" mr. gossett stood with one foot on his buggy step, ready to get in. "about this talk of jenny's," said mr. simmons, nodding his head toward the house. "i'll go this far--i'll say that i'm mighty sorry it wasn't somebody else that done the talkin', and in somebody else's house. but sence it was jenny, it can't be holp. if what she said makes you feel tired--sort of weary like--when you begin to think about it, jest bear in mind, colonel, that i hold myself both personally and individually responsible for everything jenny has said to-day, and everything she may say hereafter." mr. gossett lowered his eyebrows and looked through them at mr. simmons. "why, of course, simmons," he said a little stiffly, "we all have to stand by the women folks. i understand that. but blamed if i'd like to be in your shoes." "well, colonel, they fit me like a glove." mr. gossett seated himself in his buggy and drove away. mrs. simmons was standing in the door, her arms akimbo, when her husband returned to the house. "jimmy, you didn't go and apologize to that old buzzard for what i said, did you?" mr. simmons laughed heartily at the idea, and when he repeated what he had said to mr. gossett his wife jumped at him, and kissed him, and then ran into the next room and cried a little. it's the one way that all women have of "cooling down," as mr. simmons would have expressed it. but it need not be supposed that mr. gossett was in a good humor. he felt that mrs. simmons, in speaking as she did, was merely the mouthpiece of public opinion, and the idea galled him. he called on a neighbor, on his way back home, to discuss a business matter; and he was in such a bad humor, so entirely out of sorts, as he described it, that the neighbor hastened to get a jug of dram out of the cupboard, and, soothed and stimulated by the contents of the jug, mr. gossett thawed out. by degrees his good humor, such as it was, returned, and by degrees he took more of the dram than was good for him. so that when he started home, which was not until after sundown, his toddies had begun to tell on him. his eyes informed him that his horse had two heads, and he realized that he was not in a condition to present himself at home, where his son george could see him. the example would be too much for george, who had already on various occasions shown a fondness for the bottle. what, then, was to be done? a very brilliant idea struck mr. gossett. he would not drive straight home; that would never do in the world. he'd go up the road that led to town until he came to wesley chapel, and there he'd take the other road that led by the aikin plantation. this was a drive of about ten miles, and by that time the effects of the dram would be worn off. mr. gossett carried out this programme faithfully, and that was why the buggy was coming over the hill as aaron was going along the road on his way to the swamp. contrary to mr. gossett's expectations the dram did not exhaust itself. he still felt its influences, but he was no longer good-humored. instead, he was nervous and irritable. he began to brood over the unexpected tongue-lashing that mrs. simmons had given him, and succeeded in working himself into a very ugly frame of mind. when his horse came to the top of the hill, something the animal saw--a stray pig, or maybe a cow lying in the fence corner--caused it to swerve to one side. this was entirely too much for mr. gossett's unstrung nerves. he seized the whip and brought it down upon the animal's back with all his might. maddened by the sudden and undeserved blow, the horse made a terrific lunge forward, causing mr. gossett to drop the reins and nearly throwing him from the buggy. finding itself free, the excited horse plunged along the road. the grade of the hill was so heavy that the animal could not run at top speed, but made long jumps, flirting the buggy about as though it had been made of cork. the swinging and lurching of the buggy added to the animal's excitement, and the climax of its terror was reached when aaron loomed up in the dark before it. the horse made one wild swerve to the side of the road, but failed to elude aaron. the sudden swerve, however, threw mr. gossett out. he fell on the soft earth, and lay there limp, stunned, and frightened. aaron, holding to the horse, ran by its side a little way, and soon had the animal under control. he soothed it a moment, talked to it until it whinnied, fastened the lines to a fence corner, and then went back to see about the man who had fallen from the buggy, little dreaming that it was his owner, mr. gossett. but just as he leaned over the man, rambler told him the news; the keen nose of the dog had discovered it, though he stood some distance away. this caused aaron to straighten himself again, and as he did so he saw something gleam in the starlight. it was mr. gossett's pistol, which had fallen from his pocket as he fell. aaron picked up the weapon, handling it very gingerly, for he was unused to firearms, and placed it under the buggy seat. then he returned with an easier mind and gave his attention to mr. gossett. [illustration: the excited horse plunged along] "hurt much?" he asked curtly, shaking the prostrate man by the shoulder. "more scared than hurt, i reckon," replied mr. gossett. "what was that dog barking at just now?" "he ain't used to seeing white folks in the dirt," aaron explained. "who are you?" mr. gossett inquired. "one," answered aaron. "well, if i'd seen you a half hour ago i'd 'a' sworn you were two." mr. gossett made this joke at his own expense, but aaron did not understand it, and therefore could not appreciate it. so he said nothing. "put your hand under my shoulder here, and help me to sit up. i want to see if any bones are broken." aided by aaron mr. gossett assumed a sitting posture. while he was feeling of himself, searching for wounds and broken bones, he heard his horse snort. this reminded him (for he was still somewhat dazed) that he had started out with a horse and buggy. "that's your horse, i reckon. mine's at home by this time with two buggy shafts swinging to him. lord! what a fool a man can be!" "that's your horse," said aaron. "mine? who stopped him?" "me," aaron answered. "you? why, as near as i can remember, he was coming down this hill like the dogs were after him. who are you, anyhow?" "one." "well, you are worth a dozen common men. give me your hand." mr. gossett slowly raised himself to his feet, shook first one leg and then the other, and appeared to be much relieved to find that his body and all of its members were intact. he walked about a little, and then went close to aaron and peered in his face. "blamed if i don't believe you are my runaway nigger!" mr. gossett exclaimed. "i smell whiskey," said aaron. "confound the stuff! i never will get rid of it." mr. gossett put his hands in his pocket and walked around again. "your name is aaron," he suggested. receiving no reply, he said: "if your name is aaron you belong to me; if you belong to me get in the buggy and let's go home. you've been in the woods long enough." "too long," replied aaron. "that's a fact," mr. gossett assented. "come on and go home with me. if you're afeard of me you can put that idea out of your mind. i swear you shan't be hit a lick. you are the only nigger i ever had any respect for, and i'll be blamed if i know how i came to have any for you after the way you've treated me. but if you'll promise not to run off any more i'll treat you right. you're a good hand and a good man." mr. gossett paused and felt in his pockets, evidently searching for something. "have you seen a pistol lying loose anywhere around here?" he asked. "it's all safe," replied aaron. "you've got it. very well. i was just going to pull it out and hand it to you. come on; it's getting late." seeing that aaron made no movement, mr. gossett tried another scheme. "well, if you won't go home," he said, "and i think i can promise that you'll be sorry if you don't, get in the buggy and drive part of the way for me. i'm afraid of that horse after his caper to-night." "well, i'll do that," remarked aaron. he helped mr. gossett into the buggy, untied the lines, took his seat by his owner, and the two were soon on their way home. x. chunky riley sees a queer sight. there is no doubt that mr. gossett was sincere in what he said to aaron. there is no doubt that he fully intended to carry out the promises he had made in the hope of inducing the runaway to return home with him. nor can it be doubted that he had some sort of respect for a slave who, although a fugitive with a reward offered for his capture, was willing to go to the rescue of his owner at a very critical moment. mr. gossett was indeed a harsh, hard, calculating man, whose whole mind was bent on accumulating "prop'ty," as he called it, to the end that he might be looked up to as addison abercrombie and other planters were. but after all, he was a human being, and he admired strength, courage, audacity, and the suggestion of craftiness that he thought he discovered in aaron. moreover, he was not without a lurking fear of the runaway, for, at bottom, mr. gossett's was essentially a weak nature. this weakness constantly displayed itself in his hectoring, blustering, overbearing manner toward those over whom he had any authority. it was natural, therefore, that mr. gossett should have a secret dread of aaron, as well as a lively desire to conciliate him up to a certain point. more than this, mr. gossett had been impressed by the neighborhood talk about the queer runaway. as long as such talk was confined to the negroes he paid no attention to it; but when such a sage as mr. jonathan gadsby, a man of large experience and likewise a justice of the peace, was ready to agree to some of the most marvelous tales told about the agencies that aaron was able to call to his aid, the superstitious fears of mr. gossett began to give him an uneasy feeling. the first proposition that mr. gadsby laid down was that aaron was "not by no means a nigger, as anybody with eyes in their head could see." that fact was first to be considered. admit it, and everything else that was said would follow as a matter of course. mr. gadsby's argument, judicially delivered to whomsoever wanted to hear it, was this: it was plain to be seen that the runaway was no more like a nigger than a donkey is like a race-horse. now, if he wasn't a nigger what was he trying to play nigger for? what was he up to? why couldn't the track dogs catch him? when some one said mr. simmons's dogs hadn't tried, mr. gadsby would answer that when mr. simmons's dogs did try they'd make a worse muddle of it than ever. why? because the runaway had on him the marks of the men that called the elements to help them. mr. gadsby knew it, because he had seen their pictures in the books, and the runaway looked just like them. mr. gadsby's memory was exact. the pictures he had seen were in a book called the "arabian nights." mr. gossett thought of what mr. gadsby had said, as he sat with aaron in the buggy, and cold chills began to creep up his spine. he edged away as far as he could, but aaron paid no attention to his movement. once the horse turned its head sidewise and whinnied. aaron made some sort of reply that was unintelligible to mr. gossett. the horse stopped still, aaron jumped from the buggy, went to the animal's head, and presently came back with a part of the harness in his hand, which he threw on the bottom of the buggy. "what's that?" mr. gossett asked. "bridle. bit hurt horse's mouth." he then coolly pulled the reins in and placed them with the bridle. "why, confound it, don't you know this horse is as wild as a buck? are you fixing to have me killed? what are you doing now?" aaron had taken the whip from its thimble, laid the lash gently on the horse's back, and held it there. in response to his chirrup the horse whinnied gratefully and shook its head playfully. when mr. gossett saw that the horse was going easily and that it seemed to be completely under aaron's control, he remembered again what mr. gadsby had said about people who were able to call the elements to their aid, and it caused a big lump to rise in his throat. what was this going on right before his eyes? a runaway sitting by his side and driving a fractious and easily frightened horse without bit or bridle? and then another thought crossed mr. gossett's mind--a thought so direful that it caused a cold sweat to stand on his forehead. was it the runaway's intention to jump suddenly from the buggy and strike the horse with the whip? but aaron showed no such purpose or desire. once he leaned forward, peering into the darkness, and said something to the horse. [illustration: he edged away as far as he could] "what is it?" mr. gossett asked nervously. "some buggies coming along," replied aaron. "can you pass them here?" "if they give your wheels one inch to spare," replied aaron. "tell 'em to bear to the right." "hello, there!" cried mr. gossett. "hello, yourself!" answered a voice. "that you, terrell?" "yes, ain't that gossett?" "the same. bear to the right. where've you been?" "been to the lodge at harmony." the attic of the schoolhouse at harmony was used as a masonic lodge. "who's behind you?" mr. gossett inquired. "denham, aiken, griffin, and gatewood." there were, in fact, four buggies, mr. griffin being on horseback, and they were all close together. mr. gossett had but to seize aaron, yell for help, and his neighbors would soon have the runaway tied hard and fast with the reins in the bottom of the buggy. that is, if aaron couldn't call the elements to his aid--but suppose he could? what then? these thoughts passed through mr. gossett's mind, and he was strongly tempted to try the experiment; but he refrained. he said good-night, but mr. aiken hailed him. "you know that new school teacher at abercrombie's?" "i haven't seen him," said mr. gossett. "well, he's there. keep an eye on him. he's a rank abolitionist." "is that so?" exclaimed mr. gossett in a tone of amazement. "so i've heard. he'll bear watching." "well, well, well!" mr. gossett ejaculated. "what's that?" aaron asked in a low tone, as they passed the last of the four buggies. "what's what?" "abolitioner." "oh, that's one of these blamed new-fangled parties. you wouldn't know if i were to tell you." in a little while they began to draw near mr. gossett's home, and he renewed his efforts to prevail on aaron to go to the cabin that had been assigned to him, and to remain as one of the hands. finally as they came within hailing distance of the house, mr. gossett said:-"if you've made up your mind to stay, you may take the horse and put it up. if you won't stay, don't let the other niggers see you. stop the horse if you can." aaron pressed the whip on the horse's flank, and instantly the buggy came to a standstill. the runaway jumped from the buggy, placed the whip in its thimble, and stood a moment as if reflecting. then he raised his right arm in the air--a gesture that mr. gossett could not see, however--and said good-night. "wait!" exclaimed mr. gossett. "where's my pistol?" "inside the buggy seat," replied aaron, and disappeared in the darkness. mr. gossett called a negro to take the horse, and it seemed as if one sprang from the ground to answer the call, with "yes, marster!" on the end of his tongue. it was chunky riley. "how long have you been standing here?" asked mr. gossett suspiciously. "no time, marster. des come a-runnin' when i hear de buggy wheels scrunchin' on de gravel. i hear you talkin' to de hoss whiles i comin' froo de big gate down yander by de barn." "you're a mighty swift runner, then," remarked mr. gossett doubtfully. "yasser, i'm a right peart nigger. i'm short, but soon." thereupon chunky riley pretended to laugh. then he made a discovery, and became very serious. "marster, dey ain't no sign er no bridle on dish yer hoss. an' whar de lines? is anybody ever see de beat er dat? marster, how in de name er goodness kin you drive dish yer hoss widout bridle er lines?" "it's easy enough when you know how," replied mr. gossett complacently. he was flattered and soothed by the idea that chunky riley would believe him to be a greater man than ever. "give the horse a good feed," commanded mr. gossett. "he has traveled far to-night, and he and i have seen some queer sights." "well, suh!" exclaimed chunky riley, with well-affected amazement. he caught the horse by the forelock and led it carefully through the gate into the lot, thence to the buggy-shelter, where he proceeded to take off the harness. he shook his head and muttered to himself all the while, for he was wrestling with the most mysterious problem that had ever been presented to his mind. he had seen aaron in the buggy with his master; he had heard his master begging aaron not to stay in the woods; he had seen and heard these things with his own eyes and ears, and they were too mysterious for his simple mind to explain. didn't aaron belong to chunky riley's master? wasn't he a runaway? didn't his master try to catch him? didn't he have the simmons nigger-dogs after him that very day? well, then, why didn't his master keep aaron while he had him in the buggy? why did he sit still and allow the runaway to go back to the woods? this was much more mysterious to chunky riley than anything he had ever heard of. he could make neither head nor tail of it. he knew that aaron had some mysterious influence over the animals, both wild and tame. that could be accounted for on grounds that were entirely plausible and satisfactory to the suggestions of chunky riley's superstition. but did aaron have the same power over his own master? it certainly seemed so, for he rode in the buggy with him, and went off into the woods again right before mr. gossett's eyes. but wait a minute! if aaron really had any influence over his own master, why didn't he stay at home instead of going into the woods? this was a problem too complicated for chunky riley to work out. but it worried him so that he whispered it among the other negroes on the place, and so it spread through all that region. a fortnight afterwards it was nothing uncommon for negroes to come at night from plantations miles away so that they might hear from chunky riley's own lips what he had seen. the tale that chunky riley told was beyond belief, but it was all the more impressive on that account. and it was very fortunate for aaron, too, in one respect. after the story that chunky riley told became bruited about, there was not a negro to be found who could be bribed or frightened into spying on aaron's movements, or who could be induced to say that he had seen him. it was observed, too, by all the negroes, as well as by many of the white people, that mr. gossett seemed to lose interest in his fugitive slave. he made no more efforts to capture aaron, and, when twitted about it by some of his near neighbors, his invariable remark was, "oh, the nigger'll come home soon enough when cold weather sets in. a nigger can stand everything except cold weather." yet mr. gossett's neighbors all knew that nothing was easier than for a runaway to make a fire in the woods and keep himself fairly comfortable. they wondered, therefore, why the well-known energy of mr. gossett in capturing his runaway negroes--and he had a remarkable experience in the matter of runaways--should suddenly cool down with respect to aaron. but it must not be supposed that this made any real difference. on the contrary, as soon as george gossett found that his father was willing to allow matters to take their course as far as aaron was concerned, he took upon himself the task of capturing the fugitive, and in this business he was able to enlist the interest of the young men of the neighborhood, who, without asking anybody's advice, constituted themselves the patrol. george gossett's explanation to his companions, in engaging their assistance, was, "pap is getting old, and he ain't got time to be setting up late at night and galloping about all day trying to catch a runaway nigger." these young fellows were quite willing to pledge themselves to george gossett's plans. they had arrived at the age when the vigor of youth seeks an outlet, and it was merely in the nature of a frolic for them to ride half the night patrolling, and sit out the other half watching for aaron. but there was one peculiarity about the vigils that were kept on account of aaron. they were carried on, for the most part, within tasting distance of the stillhouse run by mr. fullalove, which was on a small watercourse not far from the abercrombie place. mr. fullalove was employed simply to superintend the distilling of peach and apple brandy and corn whiskey; and although it was his duty to taste of the low wines as they trickled from the spout of the "worm," he could truthfully boast, as he frequently did, that not a drop of liquor had gone down his throat for "forty year." being a temperance man, and feeling himself responsible for the "stuff" at the still, he was inclined to resent the freedom with which the young men conducted themselves. sometimes they paid for what they drank, but more often they didn't, and at such times mr. fullalove would limp about attending to his business (he had what he called a "game leg") with tight-shut lips, refusing to respond to the most civil question. but usually the young men were very good company, and, occasionally, when mr. fullalove was suffering from pains in his "game leg," they would keep up his fires for him. and that was no light task, for the still was of large capacity. take it all in all, however, one night with another, mr. fullalove was perfectly willing to dispense with both the services and the presence of the roystering young men. but one night when they came the old man had something interesting to tell them. "you fellers ought to 'a' been here awhile ago," he said. "i reckon you'd 'a' seed somethin' that'd 'a' made you open your eyes. i was settin' in my cheer over thar, some'rs betwixt a nod an' a dream, when it seems like i heard a dog a-whinin' in the bushes. then i heard a stick crack, an' when i opened my eyes who should i see but the biggest, strappin'est buck nigger that ever trod shoe leather. i say 'nigger,'" mr. fullalove explained, "bekaze i dunner what else to say, but ef that man's a nigger i'm mighty much mistaken. he's dark enough for to be a nigger, but he ain't got the right color, an' he ain't got the right countenance, an' he ain't got the right kind of ha'r, an' he ain't got the right king of twang to his tongue." mr. fullalove paused a moment to see what effect this would have on the young men. then he went on:-"i heard a dog whinin' out thar in the bushes, but i didn't pay no attention to it. then i stoops down for to git a splinter for to light my pipe, an' when i look up thar was this big, tall--well, you can call him 'nigger' ef you want to. i come mighty nigh jumpin' out'n my skin. i drapt splinter, pipe, hat, an' eve'ything else you can think of, an' ef the man hadn't 'a' retched down an' picked 'em up i dunno as i'd 'a' found 'em by now. i ain't had sech a turn,--well, not sence that night when the 'worm' got chugged up an' the cap of the still blow'd off. "'hello,' says i, 'when did you git in? you might 'a' knocked at the door,' says i. i tried for to make out i wern't skeer'd, but 't wa'n't no go. the man--nigger or ha'nt, whichsomever it might 'a' been--know'd e'en about as well as i did that he'd skeered me. says he, 'will you please, sir, give me as much as a spoonful of low-wines for to rub on my legs?' says he. 'i've been on my feet so long that my limbs are sore,' says he. "'why, tooby shore i will,' says i, 'ef you'll make affydavy that you'll not creep up on me an' skeer me out'n two years' growth,' says i. you may not believe me," mr. fullalove continued solemnly, "but that man stood up thar an' never cracked a smile. i got one of them half-pint ticklers an' let the low-wines run in it hot from the worm. he taken it an' set right on that log thar an' poured it in his han' an' rubbed it on his legs. now, ef that'd 'a' been one of you boys, you'd 'a' swaller'd the low-wines an' rubbed your legs wi' the bottle." george gossett knew that the man mr. fullalove had seen was no other than aaron, the runaway. "which way did he go, uncle jake?" george inquired. "make inquirements of the wind, child! the wind knows lot more about it than me. the man bowed, raised his right han' in the a'r, taken a couple of steps, an'--_fwiff_--he was gone! whether he floated or flew, i'll never tell you, but he done uther one er t' other, maybe both." "i'd give a twenty-dollar bill if i could have been here!" exclaimed george gossett. "on what bank, gossett?" asked one of his companions. "on a sandbank," remarked mr. fullalove sarcastically. "and i'll give a five-dollar bill to know which way he went," said young gossett, paying no attention to gibe or sarcasm. "plank down your money!" exclaimed mr. fullalove. the young man pulled a bill from his pocket, unrolled it, and held it in his hand. "he went the way the wind blow'd! gi' me the money," said mr. fullalove solemnly. whereat the young men laughed loudly, but not louder than mr. fullalove. "some of your low-wines must have slipped down your goozle," remarked george gossett somewhat resentfully. later, when the young men were patrolling the plantations in a vain search for aaron, their leader remarked:-"the nigger that old fullalove saw was pap's runaway." "but," said one, "the old man says he wasn't a nigger." "shucks! fallalove's so old he couldn't tell a mulatto from a white man at night. you needn't tell me; that nigger hangs around the abercrombie place, and if we'll hang around there we'll catch him." so they agreed then and there to lay siege, at it were, to the abercrombie place every night, until they succeeded either in capturing aaron or in finding out something definite about his movements. this siege was to go on in all sorts of weather and under all sorts of conditions. xi. the problem that timoleon presented. when mr. abercrombie heard of the capers of the black stallion, he determined to place the horse in quarters that were more secure. but where? there was but one building on the place that could be regarded as perfectly secure--the crib in the five-acre lot. this crib was built of logs hewn square and mortised together at the ends. it had been built to hold corn and other grain, and logs were used instead of planks because the nearest sawmill was some distance away, and the logs were cheaper and handier. moreover, as they were hewn from the hearts of the pines they would last longer than sawn lumber. this building was therefore selected as the black stallion's stable, and it was made ready. a trough was fitted up and the edges trimmed with hoop iron to prevent the horse from gnawing it to pieces. the floor was taken away and a new door made, a thick, heavy affair. to guard against all accidents a hole, which could be opened or closed from the outside, was cut through the logs over the trough, so that when the black stallion was in one of his tantrums he could be fed and watered without risk to life or limb. when everything was ready, the question arose, how was the horse to be removed to his new quarters? mr. abercrombie considered the matter an entire afternoon, and then decided to postpone it until the next day. he said something about it at supper, and this caused mrs. abercrombie to remark that she hoped he would get rid of such a savage creature. she said she should never feel safe while the horse remained on the place. but mr. abercrombie laughed at this excess of fear, and so did little crotchet, who made bold to say that if his father would permit him, he would have timoleon put in his stable that very night, and it would be done so quietly that nobody on the place would know how or when it happened. mr. abercrombie regarded his son with tender and smiling eyes. "and what wonderful person will do this for you, my boy?" "a friend of mine," replied little crotchet seriously. "well, you have so many friends that i'll never guess the name," remarked his father. "oh, but this is one of the most particular, particularest of my friends," the lad explained. "i suppose you know he is getting up a great reputation among the servants," said mrs. abercrombie to her husband, half in jest and half in earnest. "i know they are all very fond of him, my dear." "of course they are--how can they help themselves?" the lad's mother cried. "but this is 'a most particular, particularest' reputation." she quizzically quoted little crotchet's phrase, and he laughed when he heard it fall from her lips. "it is something quite wonderful. since the time that he issued orders for no one to bother him after nine o'clock at night, the servants say that he talks with 'ha'nts.' they say he has become so familiar with bogies and such things that he can be heard talking with them at all hours of the night." "your mother has been counting the candles on you, my boy" remarked mr. abercrombie jokingly. "why, father! how can you put such an idea in the child's mind?" protested mrs. abercrombie. "he's only teasing you, mama," said little crotchet. "i heard him talking to a bogie the other night," remarked mr. hudspeth, the teacher. "oh, i don't think you're a bogie," cried little crotchet. "you would have been one, though, if you had kept me in those awful books." the teacher had mischievously thrown out this hint about aaron to see what effect it would have. he was amazed at the lad's self-possession, and at the deft manner in which he had turned the hint aside. "oh, have you been admitted to the sanctum?" inquired the lad's mother, laughing. "i paused at the door to say good-night and remained until i learned a lesson i never shall forget," said mr. hudspeth. "ah, you're finding our boy out, eh?" exclaimed mr. abercrombie with a show of pride. "he possesses already the highest culture the mind of man is capable of," mr. hudspeth declared. his tone was so solemn and his manner so earnest that little crotchet blushed. "he is cultured in the humanities. that is apart from scholarship," the teacher explained, "but without it all knowledge is cold and dark and unfruitful." "i know he is very humane," suggested mr. abercrombie. "oh, it is more than that," said mr. hudspeth; "far more than that. all sensitive people are tender-hearted. one may read a book and yet not catch the message it conveys. but this lad"--he paused and suddenly changed the subject. "he said he could have timoleon carried to the new stable, and you are inclined to be doubtful. but he can do more than that: he can have the horse removed without bridle or halter." "then you know our boy better than we do!" mrs. abercrombie's tone was almost reproachful. "i found him out quite by accident," replied mr. hudspeth. little crotchet in his quaint way called attention to the fact that he was blushing again. "you've made me blush twice," he said, "and i can't stay after that." at a sign, jemimy, the house girl, who was waiting on the table--the same jemimy who afterward had a daughter named drusilla--turned the lad's chair about. he balanced himself on his crutches, and without touching his feet to the floor walked across the room to the hall, and so up the stairway. on the landing he paused. "shall i have timoleon put in the new stable to-night?" he asked. "by all means, my boy--if you can," answered mr. abercrombie. "if you succeed i'll give you a handsome present." little crotchet always paused on the stair landing to say something, but never to say good-night. after a while his mother would go up and sit with him a few minutes, by way of kissing him good-night, and, later, his father would make the same little journey for the same purpose. on this particular night, those whom little crotchet had left at the table remained conversing longer than usual. mr. hudspeth had something more to say about humanity-culture; and although he employed "the concord dialect," as mr. abercrombie called it, his discourse was both interesting and stimulating. in the midst of it jemimy dropped a plate and broke it. the crash of the piece of china put a temporary end to the conversation, and the silence that ensued had its humorous side. jemimy's eyes, big as saucers and as white, were turned toward a door that led to the sitting-room. the door softly opened, and a portly negro woman, with a bunch of keys hanging at her waist, came into the dining-room. this was mammy lucy, the housekeeper. she never once glanced toward her master and mistress. "white er blue?" she inquired in a low voice. "blue," replied jemimy. "dat counts fer two," mammy lucy remarked. "you've done broke five. one mo', en you'll go whar you b'long. i done say mo' dan once you ain't got no business in dis house. de fiel' 's whar you b'long at." jemimy couldn't help that. she couldn't help anything. she knew how the little master would have the black stallion moved from one stable to the other. she knew, and she never would tell. they might send her to the field, they might drown her or strangle her, they might cut off her ears or gouge her eyes out, they might send her to town to the calaboose, they might do anything they pleased, but she never would tell. not while her name was jemimy, and she'd be named that until after she was put under the ground and covered up; and even then she wouldn't tell. later when mr. abercrombie went upstairs to say good-night to little crotchet, the lad asked if he might have timoleon trained. he had heard his father talking of getting a trainer from mobile, and so he made the suggestion that, instead of going to that expense, it might be well to have the horse trained by his "friend," as he called aaron. mr. abercrombie guessed who little crotchet's friend was, but, to please the lad, feigned ignorance. he told his son that the training of such a horse as timoleon was a very delicate piece of business, and should be undertaken by no one but an expert. now, if little crotchet's "friend" was an expert, which was not likely, well and good; if not, he might ruin a good horse. still, if little crotchet was sure that everything would be all right, why, there would be no objection. at any rate, the horse was now old enough to be broken to the saddle, and little crotchet's "friend" could do that if no more. so it was settled, and the lad was very happy. he made his signal for aaron early and often, but, somehow, the son of ben ali was long in coming that night. the reason was plain enough when he did come, but little crotchet was very impatient. the moon was shining, and as george gossett and his companions had refused to raise the siege a single night since mr. fullalove had seen the runaway at the stillhouse, aaron found it difficult to respond promptly when the little master signaled him to come. it is not an easy matter to pass a picket line of patrollers when the moon is shining as it shines in georgia at the beginning of autumn, and as it shone on the abercrombie place the night that little crotchet was so anxious to see aaron. rambler was very busy that night trying to find a place where aaron might pass the patrollers without attracting attention, but he had to give it up for a time. at last, however, three of them, george gossett among the number, concluded to pay another visit to mr. fullalove, and this left the way clear. aaron was prompt to take advantage of it. going half bent, he kept in the shadow of the fence, slipped through the small jungle of black-jacks, ran swiftly across an open space to the negro cabins, flitted to the garden fence, and in the shadow of that fled to the front yard, and so up the friendly oak. oh, but little crotchet was impatient! he was almost ready to frown when aaron made his appearance; but when the runaway told him of the big moon and the patrollers, he grew uneasy; and after telling aaron about the black stallion, how the horse must be removed to the new stable, and how he must be broken to saddle and bridle, little crotchet declared that he was sorry he had signaled to aaron. "they'll catch you to-night, sure," he said. but aaron shook his head. "no, little master, not to-night. not while i'm with the grandson of abdallah." "oh, i see!" laughed little crotchet; "you'll stay in his stable. good! i'll bring you your breakfast in the morning." aaron smiled, shaking his head and looking at the basket of victuals that little crotchet always had ready for him when he came. "no, little master! this will do. i'll not take the basket to-night. i'll put the victuals in my wallet." this was a bag suspended from his shoulder by a strap, being made after the manner of the satchels in which the children used to carry their books to school. aaron had another idea in his head, but he gave no hint of it to little crotchet, for he didn't know how it would succeed. so he sat by the lad's bedside and drove away the red goblin, pain, and waited until george gossett and his companions had time to make another visit to the stillhouse. then he took the big key of the new stable from the mantel, slipped it on his belt,--a leathern thong that he always wore around his body,--placed in his wallet the substantial lunch that the little master had saved for him, and prepared to take his leave. this time he did not snuff out the light, but placed the candlestick on the hearth. when aaron went out at the window, little crotchet was sound asleep, and seemed to be smiling. the son of ben ali was smiling too, and continued to smile even as he descended the oak. [illustration: aaron and little crotchet] rambler was waiting for him, and, instead of being asleep, was wide awake and very much disturbed. one of the patrollers, no less a person than george gossett,--young grizzly, as rambler named him,--had been to the spring for water. this was what disturbed the dog, and it was somewhat disturbing to aaron; for the high wines or low wines, or whatever it was that was dealt out to them at the stillhouse, might make young gossett and his companions bold enough to search the premises, even though mr. abercrombie had warned them that he could take care of his own place and wanted none of their interference in any way, shape, or form. if aaron could get to the stable, where the black stallion had his temporary quarters, all would be well. he could then proceed to carry out the idea he had in his mind, which was a very bold one, so bold that it might be said to depend on accident for its success. the moon was shining brightly, even brilliantly, as aaron stood at the corner of the great house and looked toward the horse lot. he could easily reach the negro quarters, he could even reach the black-jack thicket beyond, but he would be farther from the lot than ever, and still have an acre of moonlight to wade through. what he did was both bold and simple, and its very boldness made it successful. he stepped back to the garden gate, threw it wide open, and slammed it to again. the noise was loud enough to be heard all over the place. george gossett heard it and was sure the noise was made by mr. abercrombie. aaron walked from the house straight toward the horse lot, whistling loudly and melodiously some catchy air he had heard the negroes sing. rambler was whistling too, but the sound came through his nose, and it was not a tune, but a complaint and a warning. aaron paid no heed to the warning and cared nothing for the complaint. he went through the moonlight, whistling, and there was a swagger about his gait such as the negroes assume when they are feeling particularly happy. behind a tree, not twenty-five yards away, george gossett stood. rambler caught his scent in the air and announced the fact by a low growl. but this announcement only made aaron whistle the louder. there was no need for him to whistle, if he had but known it; for when young gossett heard the garden gate slammed to and saw what seemed to be a negro come away from the house whistling, he at once decided that some one of the hands had been receiving his orders from mr. abercrombie. thus deciding, george gossett paid no further attention to aaron, but kept himself more closely concealed behind the tree that sheltered him. he looked at aaron, and that more than once; but though the moonlight was brilliant, it was only moonlight after all. aaron disappeared in the deep shadows that fell about the horse lot, and george gossett forgot in a few minutes that any one had waded through the pond of moonlight that lay shimmering between the garden gate and the lot where timoleon held sway. indeed, there was nothing about the incident to attract attention. as he stood leaning against the tree, young gossett could see the negroes constantly passing to and fro about their cabins. there was no lack of movement. some of the negroes carried torches of "fat" pine in spite of the fact that the moon was shining, and so made themselves more conspicuous. but this peculiarity was so familiar to the young man's experience that it never occurred to him to remark it. he could even hear parts of their conversation, for they made not the slightest effort to suppress their voices or subdue their laughter, which was loud and long and frequent. it was especially vociferous when turin came to the door of one of the cabins and cried to uncle fountain, who had just gone out:-"nigger man! you better not try to slip off to spivey's dis night." "how come, i like ter know?" said uncle fountain. "patterollers on de hill yander," replied turin. "how you know?" uncle fountain asked. "i done seed um." "what dey doin' out dar?" "ketchin' grasshoppers, i speck!" from every cabin came a roar of laughter, and the whole plantation seemed to enjoy the joke. the calves in the ginhouse lot bleated, the dogs barked, the geese cackled, and the guinea hens shrieked "potrack! run here! go back!" as loud as they could, and a peafowl, roosting on the pinnacle of the roof of the great house, joined in with a wailing cry that could be heard for miles. [illustration: behind a tree stood george gossett] the lack of respect shown by the abercrombie negroes for the patrollers irritated george gossett, but it was a relief to him to know that if the negroes on his "pap's" place were to make any reference to the patrollers they would bow their heads and speak in subdued whispers. from one of the cabins came the sound of "patting" and dancing, and the noise made by the feet of the dancer was so responsive to that made by the hands of the man who was patting that only an expert ear could distinguish the difference. the dance was followed by a friendly tussle, and a negro suddenly ran out at the door, pursued by another. the pursuer halted, however, and cried out:-"ef you fool wid me, nigger, i'll make marster sen' you in de lot dar an' move dat ar' wil' hoss to his new stable." "marster was made 'fo' you wuz de maker," answered the pursued, who had now stopped running. "ding 'em!" said young gossett in a low tone to himself, "they're always and eternally frolicking on this place. no wonder they ain't able to do no more work in the daytime!" fretting inwardly, the young man changed his position, and continued to watch for the runaway. how long he stood there young gossett could not say. whether the spirits he had swallowed at the stillhouse benumbed his faculties so that he fell into a doze, he did not know. he could only remember that he was aroused from apparent unconsciousness by a tremendous clamor that seemed to come from the hill where he had left the most of his companions. it was a noise of rushing and running, squealing horses, and the exclamations of frightened men. young gossett did not pause to interpret the clamor that came to his ears, but ran back toward the hill as hard as he could go. xii. what the patrollers saw and heard. the scheme which aaron had conceived, and which he proposed to carry out without delay, was bold, and yet very simple,--simple, that is to say, from his point of view. it came into his mind while he was in little crotchet's room, and fashioned itself as he went whistling to the horse lot in full view of george gossett. he swung himself over the fence, and made directly for timoleon's stable. the black stallion heard some one fumbling about the door, and breathed hard through his nostrils, making a low, fluttering sound, as high-spirited horses do when they are suspicious or angry. it was a fair warning to any and all who might dare to open the door and enter that stable. "so!" said aaron; "that is the welcome you give to all who may come to make you comfortable." at the sound of that voice, timoleon snorted cheerfully and whinnied, saying: "change places with me, son of ben ali, and then see who will warn all comers. why, the ox has better treatment, and the plow mule is pampered. what am i that my food should be thrown at me through the cracks? the man that fed me comes no more." "he is where your teeth and your temper put him, grandson of abdallah. but there is to be a change. this night you go to your new house, where everything is fresh and clean and comfortable. and you are to learn to hold a bit in your mouth and a man on your back, as abdallah before you did." "that is nothing, son of ben ali. then i can gallop, and smell the fresh air from the fields. what man am i to carry, son of ben ali?" "let the white-haired master settle that, grandson of abdallah. this night, before you go to your new house, you are to have a run with me." timoleon snorted with delight. he was ready, and more than ready. he was stiff and sore from standing in the stable. "but before we start, grandson of abdallah, this must be said: no noise before i give the word; none of the loud screaming that men call whickering. you know my hand. you are to have a frolic, and a fine one, but before you begin it, wait for the word. now, then, we will go." with his hand on the horse's withers, aaron guided timoleon to the gate. they went through the lot in which the black stallion's new stable stood, out at the gate through which buster john and sweetest susan rode years afterward, and into the lane that led to the public road. but instead of going toward the road, they followed the lane back into the plantation, until they came to what was called "the double gates." going through these, they found themselves in the pasture that sloped gradually upward to the hill from which aaron was in the habit of watching the light in little crotchet's window. the hoofs of the black stallion hardly made a sound on the soft turf. guided by aaron, he ascended the hill until they were on a level with and not far from the fence on which mr. gossett, his son george, and jim simmons had carried on their controversy about addison abercrombie. here aaron brought timoleon to a halt, while rambler went forward to see what discovery he could make. he soon found where the horses of the patrollers were stationed. there were five. three had evidently been trained to "stand without tying," as the saying is, while one of the patrollers was sitting against a tree, holding the other two. all this rambler knew, for he went so near that the patroller saw him, and hurled a pine burr at him. it was a harmless enough missile, but it had not left rambler in a good humor. then it was that aaron spoke to the horse, and gave him the word. "grandson of abdallah, the horses and the man are yonder. give them a taste of your playfulness. show them what a frolic is, but cover your teeth with your lips,--no blood to-night. spare the horses. they have gone hungry for hours, but they must obey the bit. spare the man, too, but if you can strip him of his coat as he flees, well and good. you will see other men come running. they will be filled with fear. give them also a taste of your playfulness. let them see the grandson of abdallah when he is frolicsome. but mind! no blood to-night,--no broken bones!" the situation promised to be so exciting that timoleon snorted loudly and fiercely, whereupon one of the horses held by the patroller answered with a questioning neigh, which was cut short by a cruel jerk of the bridle rein by the man who held it. the man was dozing under the influence of mr. fullalove's low-wines, and the sudden neighing of the horse startled and irritated him. but in the twinkling of an eye terror took the place of irritation, for the black stallion, pretending to himself that the neigh was a challenge, screamed fiercely in reply and went charging upon the group with open mouth and eyes that glowed in the dark. the horses knew well what that scream meant. those that were not held by the patroller ran away panic-stricken, snorting, and whickering. the two that were held by the patroller cared nothing for bits now, but broke away from the man, after dragging him several yards (for he had the reins wrapped about his wrist) and joined the others. they dragged the man right in the black stallion's path, and there left him straggling to his hands and knees, with his right arm so severely wrenched that he could hardly use it. but, fortunately for the patroller, timoleon's eyes were keen, and he saw the man in time to leap over him, screaming wildly as he did so. the man fell over on his side at that instant. glancing upward he saw the huge hulk of the horse flying over him, and his reason nearly left him. was it really a horse, or was it that arch-fiend beelzebub that he had read about in the books, and whose name he had heard thundered from the pulpit at the camp meeting? "beelzebub is abroad in the land to-day!" the preacher had cried. was it indeed true? the black stallion drove the crazed horses before him hither and yonder, but always turning them back to the point where they had been standing. the stampede was presently joined by three or four mules that had been turned in the pasture. the patrollers, who had been watching and guarding the approaches to the abercrombie place, came running to see what the trouble was. george gossett, being farther away from the pasture than the rest, was the last to reach the scene, but he arrived soon enough to see the black stallion seize one of his companions by the coat-tails and literally strip him of the garment. [illustration: the black stallion] the terror-stricken horses, when they found an opportunity, ran toward the double gates where they had entered the pasture. aaron, expecting this, had opened the gates, and the five horses, crowding on one another's heels, went through like a whirlwind, having left the mules far behind. aaron closed the gates again, and went running to where he heard the black stallion still plunging about. by this time the mules were huddled together in a far corner of the field; but timoleon had paid no attention to them. he could have caught and killed them over and over again. he was now in pursuit of the patrollers. george gossett, running toward the fence, tripped and fell, and narrowly escaped the black stallion's hoofs. he was not far from the fence when he fell, and he rolled and scrambled and crawled fast enough to elude timoleon, who turned and ran at him again. in one way and another all the patrollers escaped with their lives, and, once the fence was between them and the snorting demon, they made haste to visit mr. fullalove's stillhouse, and relate to him the story of their marvelous adventure, consoling themselves, meanwhile, with copious draughts of the warm low-wines. "i believe the thing had wings," said one of the patrollers, "and if i didn't see smoke coming out of his mouth when he ran at me, i'm mighty much mistaken. i never shall believe it wasn't beelzebub." this was the man who had been set upon so suddenly while watching the horses and dozing. some of the others were inclined to agree with this view of the case; but george gossett was sure it was a horse. "i was right at him," he said, "when he pulled off monk's coat, and it was a horse, even to the mane and tail. i was looking at him when he turned and made for me. then i tripped and fell, and just did get to the fence in time to save my neck." "you hear that, don't you, mr. fullalove?" remarked the man who had been holding the horses. "it pulled monk's coat off, and then gossett just had time to get to the fence to save his neck! why, it's as natchul as pig-tracks. every hoss you meet tries to pull your coat off, and you have to run for a fence if you want to save your neck. that's gossett's idee. if that thing was a hoss, i don't want to see no more hosses. i'll tell you that." "well," said mr. fullalove, "there are times and occasions-more espeshually occasions, as you may say--when a hoss mought take a notion for to cut up some such rippit as that. you take that black hoss of colonel abercrombie's--not a fortnight ago he got out of his pen and ketched a nigger and like to 'a' killed him." "maybe it's that same hoss in the field yonder," suggested george gossett. "no," replied mr. fullalove. "that hoss is penned up so he can't git out of his stable--much less the lot--if so be some un ain't took and gone and turned him out and led him to the field. and if that had 'a' been done you could 'a' heard him squealin' every foot of the way." "if anybody wants to call the old boy a hoss," said the man who had been first attacked, "they are more than welcome." "boys," remarked mr. fullalove, "if any of you have got the idee that the old boy was after you, you'd better stay as fur from this stillhouse as you can, and try to act as if you had souls for to save. what have you done with your hosses?" "we couldn't tote 'em, and so we had to leave 'em," gossett answered, making a poor effort to laugh. "what i hate about it is that i took a fool notion and rode pap's horse to-night. he'll be hot as pepper." "ain't you going for to make some sorter effort to git your hosses out of the field?" inquired mr. fullalove. "he can have my hoss and welcome," said the man who insisted on the beelzebub theory. "i wouldn't go in that field, not for forty horses," another patroller protested. "i might go there for forty horses," said george gossett, "but i'll not go back for one, even though it's pap's." "well, it's mighty quiet and serene up there now," suggested mr. fullalove, listening with his hand to his ear. "he's caught 'em and now he's skinning 'em," said the man who believed beelzebub was abroad that night. the patrollers stayed at the stillhouse until the low-wines gave them courage, and then they went home with george gossett. they were bold enough to go by the double gates, to see if they had been opened, but the gates were closed tight. they listened a few moments, but not a sound could be heard, save the loud, wailing cry of the peafowl that rested on the abercrombie house. as they went along the road they found and caught four of the horses. the horse that george gossett had ridden was safe at home. the young men agreed on one thing, namely: that they would give the abercrombie place the go-by for some time to come; while the man that thought he had seen beelzebub said that he was sick of the whole business and would have no more of it, being more firmly convinced than ever that the scenes they had witnessed were supernatural. even george gossett declared that he intended to advise "pap" to sell the runaway, "if he could find anybody fool enough to buy him." it must not be forgotten that though gossett and his companions were the only ones that witnessed the terrifying spectacle presented by the black stallion as he ran screaming about the pasture, they were not the only ones that heard the uproar that accompanied it. the negroes heard it, and every ear was bent to listen. randall had his hand raised over his head and held it there, as he paused to catch the drift and meaning of the fuss. big sal was reaching in a corner for her frying-pan. she paused, half bent, her arm reaching out, while she listened. turin was singing, but the song was suddenly cut short. mr. abercrombie heard it, but his thoughts were far afield, and so he paid little attention to it. the geese, the guinea hens, and the peafowl heard it and joined heartily in with a loud and lusty chorus. mammy lucy heard it and came noiselessly to the library door and looked in inquiringly. "what is the noise about, lucy?" inquired mr. abercrombie. "dat what i wanter know, marster. it soun' ter me like dat ar hoss done got loose agin." then the white-haired master, remembering that he had consented for little crotchet's "friend" to remove the black stallion to his new quarters, regretted that he had been so heedless. it was all his own fault, he thought, as he rose hastily and went out into the moonlight bare-headed. he called randall and turin, and both came running. "go out to the pasture there, and see what the trouble is." "yasser, yasser!" they cried, and both went rapidly toward the field. they ran until they got out of sight of their master, and then they paused to listen. they started again, but not so swiftly as before. "i know mighty well dat marster don't want us ter run up dar where we might git hurted," said turin. "dat he don't!" exclaimed randall. consoled by this view of the case, which was indeed the correct one, they moved slower and slower as they came close to the pasture fence. there they stopped and listened, and while they listened the uproar came to a sudden end--to such a sudden end that randall remarked under his breath that it was like putting out a candle. for a few brief seconds not a sound fell on the ears of the two negroes. then they heard a faint noise of some one running through the bushes in the direction of the stillhouse. "ef i could git de notion in my head dat marster don't keer whedder we gits hurted er no," suggested turin, "i'd mount dis fence an' go in dar an' see who been kilt an' who done got away." "i speck we better not go," remarked randall, "kaze ef we wuz ter rush in dar an' git mangled, marster'd sholy feel mighty bad, an' fer one, i don't want ter be de 'casion er makin' 'im feel bad." by this time mr. abercrombie had become impatient, and concluded to find out the cause of the uproar for himself. randall and turin heard him coming, and they could see that he was accompanied by some of the negroes. the two cautiously climbed the fence and went over into the field, moving slowly and holding themselves in readiness for instant flight. a cow bug, flying blindly, struck turin on the head. he jumped as if he had heard the report of a gun, and cried out in a tone of alarm:-"who flung dat rock? you better watch out. marster comin', an' he got his hoss pistol 'long wid 'im." "'twa'n't nothing but a bug," said randall. "it de fust bug what ever raised a knot on my head," turin declared. "what was the trouble, randall?" inquired mr. abercrombie from the fence. his cool, decisive voice restored the courage of the negroes at once. "we des tryin' fer ter fin' out, suh. whatsomever de racket wuz, it stop, suh, time we got here--an' it seem like we kin hear sump'n er somebody runnin' to'rds de branch over yander," replied randall heartily. "some of the mules were in the pasture to-day. see if they are safe." "yasser!" responded randall, but his tone was not so hearty. nevertheless, he and turin cautiously followed the line of the fence until they found the mules in the corner in which they had taken refuge. and the mules showed they were very glad to see the negroes, following them back to the point where the path crossed the fence. "de mules all safe an' soun', suh," explained randall when they came to where the master was. "dey er safe an' soun', but dey er swyeatin' mightily, suh." "what do you suppose the trouble was?" inquired mr. abercrombie. turin and randall had not the least idea, but susy's sam declared that he heard "dat ar hoss a-squealin'!" "what horse?" inquired mr. abercrombie. "dat ar sir moleon hoss, suh," replied susy's sam. "that's what lucy said," remarked mr. abercrombie. "marster, ef dat ar hoss had er been in dar, me an' turin wouldn't er stayed in dar long, an' dese yer mules wouldn't er been stan'in' in de fence corner up yander." but mr. abercrombie shook his head. he remembered that he had given little crotchet permission to have the horse removed to his new quarters. "some of you boys see if he is in his stable," he said. they all went running, and before mr. abercrombie could get there, though he walked fast, he met them all coming back. "he ain't dar, marster!" they exclaimed in chorus. "see if he is in his new stable," said mr. abercrombie. again they all went running, mr. abercrombie following more leisurely, but somewhat disturbed, nevertheless. and again they came running to meet him, crying out, "yasser! yasser! he in dar, marster; he sho is. he in dar an' eatin' away same like he been dar dis long time." "see if the key is in the lock," said mr. abercrombie to randall. randall ran back to the stable and presently called out:-"dey ain't no key in de lock, marster." mr. abercrombie paused as if to consider the matter, and during that pause he and randall and turin and susy's sam heard a voice saying: "look on the little master's mantelpiece!" the voice sounded faint and far away, but every word was clear and distinct. "where did the voice come from?" asked mr. abercrombie. the negroes shook their heads. they didn't know. it might have come from the air above, or the earth beneath, or from any point of the compass. "ask where the key is," said mr. abercrombie to turin. his curiosity was aroused. turin cried out: "heyo, dar! whar you say de key is?" but no reply came, not even so much as a whisper. the negroes looked at one another, and shook their heads. when mr. abercrombie went back to the house he put on his slippers and crept to little crotchet's room. shading the candle he carried, the father saw that his son was fast asleep. and on the mantel was the key of the stable. xiii. the apparition the fox hunters saw. as the fall came on, the young men (and some of the older ones, too) began to indulge in the sport of fox hunting. they used no guns, but pursued reynard with horse and hound in the english fashion. the foxes in that region were mostly gray, but the red ones had begun to come in, and as they came the grays began to pack up their belongings (as the saying is) and seek homes elsewhere. the turner old fields, not far from the abercrombie place, and still closer to the swamp, were famous for their foxes--first for the grays and afterward for the reds. there seemed to be some attraction for them in these old fields. the scrub pines, growing thickly together, and not higher than a man's waist, and the brier patches scattered about, afforded a fine covert for mr. fox, gray or red, being shady and cool in summer time, and sheltered from the cold winter winds. and if it was fine for mr. fox, it was finer for the birds; for here mrs. partridge could lead her brood in safety out of sight of man, and here the sparrows and smaller birds were safe from the blue falcon, she of the keen eye and swift wing. and mr. fox was as cunning as his nose was sharp. he knew that the bird that made its home in the turner old fields must roost low; and what could be more convenient for mr. fox than that--especially at the dead hours of night when he went creeping around as noiselessly as a shadow, pretending that he wanted to whisper a secret in their ears? indeed, that was the main reason why mr. fox lived in the turner old fields, or went there at night, for he was no tree climber. and so it came to pass that when those who were fond of fox hunting wanted to indulge in that sport, they rose before dawn and went straight to the turner old fields. now, when george gossett and his patrolling companions ceased for a time to go frolicking about the country at night, on the plea that they were looking after the safety of the plantations, they concluded that it would be good for their health and spirits to go fox hunting occasionally. each had two or three hounds to brag on, so that when all the dogs were brought together they made a pack of more than respectable size. [illustration: it was fine for mr. fox] one sunday, when the fall was fairly advanced, the air being crisp and bracing and the mornings frosty, these young men met at a church and arranged to inaugurate the fox hunting season the next morning. they were to go home, get their dogs, and meet at gossett's, his plantation lying nearest to the turner old fields. this programme was duly carried out. the young men stayed all night with george gossett, ate breakfast before daybreak, and started for the turner old fields. as they set out, a question arose whether they should go through the abercrombie place--the nearest way--or whether they should go around by the road. the darkness of night was still over wood and field, but there was a suggestion of gray in the east. if the hunting party had been composed only of those who had been in the habit of patrolling with george gossett, prompt choice would have been made of the public road; but young gossett had invited an acquaintance from another settlement to join them--a gentleman who had reached the years of maturity, but who was vigorous enough to enjoy a cross-country ride to hounds. this gentleman had been told of the strange experience of the patrollers in mr. abercrombie's pasture lot. some of the details had been suppressed. for one thing, the young men had not confessed to him how badly they had been frightened. they simply told him enough to arouse his curiosity. when, therefore, the choice of routes lay between the public road and the short cut through the abercrombie pasture, the gentleman was eager to go by way of the pasture where his young friends had beheld the wonderful vision that had already been described. when they displayed some hesitation in the matter, he rallied them smartly on their lack of nerve, and in this way shamed them into going the nearest way. george gossett, who had no lack of mere physical courage, consented to lead the way if the others would "keep close behind him." but none of them except the gentleman who was moved by curiosity, and who attributed the mystery of the affair to frequent visits to mr. fullalove's still house, had any stomach for the journey through the pasture, for not even george gossett desired to invite a repetition of the paralyzing scenes through which they had passed on that memorable night. as they came to the double gates, the young man who had insisted that timoleon was beelzebub concluded to leave an avenue by which to escape if the necessity arose. so he rode forward, dismounted, and opened the gates. then he made a great pretense of shutting them, but allowed them to remain open instead. this operation left him somewhat behind his companions, as he intended it should, for he had made up his mind to wheel his horse and run for it if he heard any commotion ahead of him. in that event the delay he purposely made would leave him nearest the gates. seeing that the young man did not come up as quickly as he should have done, george gossett, in whom the spirit of mischief had no long periods of repose, suggested that they touch up their horses and give their companion a scare. this suggestion was promptly acted on. the commotion his companions made caused the young man to pause a moment before putting spur to his horses to rejoin them. this delay placed several hundred yards between him and the party with gossett. he realized this as he rode after them, but was consoled by the fact that, in the event of any trouble, he had a better opportunity to escape than they did. but he had hardly gone fifty yards from the double gates before he heard some sort of noise in that direction. he half turned in his saddle and looked behind him. the vague gray of the morning had become so inextricably mixed and mingled with the darkness of the night that such light as there was seemed to blur the vision rather than aid it. but when the young man turned in his saddle he saw enough to convince him that he was likely to have company in his ride after his companions. he hesitated a moment before urging his horse into a more rapid gait. he wanted to see what it might be that was now so vaguely outlined. he strained his eyes, but could see nothing but a black and shapeless mass, which seemed to be following him. he could see that it was moving rapidly, whatever it was, but the gray light was so dim, and gave such shadowy shape even to objects close at hand, that he found it impossible either to gratify his curiosity or satisfy his fears. so he settled himself firmly in the saddle, clapped spurs to his horse, and rode headlong after his companions. he looked around occasionally, but the black mass was always nearer. the faster his horse went, the faster came the thing. [illustration: the phantom horseman] each time he looked back his alarm rose higher, for the thing was closer whenever he looked. at last his alarm grew to such proportions that he ceased to look back, but addressed himself entirely to the work of urging his horse to higher speed. presently he heard quick, fierce snorts on his right, and his eye caught sight of the thing. its course was parallel with his own, and it was not more than twenty yards away. he saw enough for his alarm to rise to the height of terror. he saw something that had the head and feet of a black horse, but the body was wanting. no! there was a body, and a rider, but the rider wore a long, pale gray robe, and he was headless! if this was the black demon that the young man had seen in this pasture on a former occasion, he was now more terrible than ever, for he was guided by a headless rider! the young man would have checked his horse, but the effort was in vain. the horse had eyes. he also had seen the thing, and had swerved away from it, but he was too frightened to pay any attention to bit or rein. the black thing was going faster than the frightened horse, and it soon drew away, the pale gray robe of the rider fluttering about like a fierce signal of warning. the young man's horse was soon under control, and in a few minutes he came up with his companions. he found them huddled together like so many sheep, this manoeuvre having been instinctively made by the horses. the dogs, too, were acting queerly. the men appeared to be somewhat surprised to see their companion come galloping up to them. after riding away from the young man who had taken it upon himself to leave the double gates open, the huntsmen had concluded to wait for him when they came to the bars that opened on the public road. but the gallop of their horses had subsided into a walk when they were still some distance from that point. they were conversing about the merits of their favorite dogs when suddenly they heard from behind them the sound of a galloping horse. they saw, as the young man had seen, a dark, moving mass gradually assume the shape of a black horse, with a headless rider wearing a long, pale gray robe. the apparition was somewhat farther from them when it passed than it had been from their companion, whom, in a spirit of mischief, they had deserted; but the black thing threatened to come closer, for when it had gone beyond them it changed its course, described a half circle, and vanished from sight on the side of the pasture opposite to that on which it had first appeared. "what do you think now?" said george gossett, speaking in a low tone to the gentleman who had been inclined to grow merry when the former experience of the patrollers was mentioned. "what do i think? why, i think it's right queer if the chap we left at the double gates isn't trying to get even with us by riding around like a wild indian and waving his saddle blanket," replied the doubting gentleman. "why, man, he's riding a gray horse!" one of the others explained. this put another face on the matter, and the gentleman made no further remark. in fact, before anything else could be said, the young man in question came galloping up. "did you fellows see it?" he inquired. but he had no need to inquire. their attitude and the uneasy movements of their horses showed unmistakably that they had seen it. "which way did it go?" was the next question. there was no need to make reply. the direction in which the huntsmen glanced every second showed unmistakably which way it went. "let's get out of here," said the young man in the next breath. and there was no need to make even this simple proposition, for by common consent, and as by one impulse, horses and men started for the bars at a rapid trot. when the bars were taken down they were not left down. each one was put carefully back in its proper place, for though this was but a slight barrier to interpose between themselves and the terrible black thing, yet it was something. once in the road they felt more at ease--not because they were safer there, but because it seemed that the night had suddenly trailed its dark mantle westward. "did you notice," said the young man who was first to see the apparition, "that the thing that was riding the thing had no head?" "it certainly had that appearance," replied the doubtful gentleman, "but"-"no 'buts' nor 'ifs' about it," insisted the young man. "it came so close to me that i could 'a' put my hand on it, and i noticed particular that the thing on the back of the thing didn't have no sign of head, no more than my big toe has got a head." the exaggeration of the young man was unblushing. if the thing had come within ten yards of him he would have fallen from his horse in a fit. "and what was you doing all that time?" george gossett inquired. his tone implied a grave doubt. "trying to get away from that part of the country," replied the other frankly. "it was the same hoss that got after us that night," the young man continued. "i knowed it by the blaze in his eyes and the red on the inside of his nose. why, it looked to me like you could 'a' lit a cigar by holding it close to his eyes." "i know how skeery you are," said george gossett disdainfully, "and i don't believe you took time to notice all these things." "skeer'd!" exclaimed the other; "why, that ain't no name for it--no name at all. but it was my mind that was skeered and not my eyes. you can't help seeing what's right at you, can you?" this frankness took the edge off any criticism that george gossett might have made, seeing which the young man gave loose reins to his invention, which was happy enough in this instance to fit the suggestions that fear had made a place for in the minds of his companions. but it was all the simplest thing in the world. the apparition the fox hunters saw was aaron and the black stallion. the son of ben ali had decided that the interval between the first faint glimpse of dawn and daylight was the most convenient time to give timoleon his exercise, and to fit him in some sort for the vigorous work he was expected to do some day on the race track. aaron had hit upon that particular morning to begin the training of the black stallion, and had selected the pasture as the training-ground. it was purely a coincidence that he rode in at the double gates behind the fox hunters, but it was such a queer one that little crotchet laughed until the tears came into his eyes when he heard about it. aaron's version of the incident was so entirely different from that of the fox hunters that those who heard both would be unable to recognize in them an account of the same affair from different points of view. as aaron saw it and knew it, the incident was as simple as it could be. as he was riding the horse along the lane leading to the double gates (having left rambler behind at the stable), timoleon gave a snort and lifted his head higher than usual. "son of ben ali," he said, "i smell strange men and strange horses. their scent is hot on the air. some of them are the men that went tumbling about the pasture the night you bade me play with them." "not at this hour, grandson of abdallah," replied aaron. "i am not smelling the hour, son of ben ali, but the men. if we find them, shall i use my teeth?" "we'll not see the men, grandson of abdallah. this is not their hour." "but if we find them, son of ben ali?" persisted the black stallion. "save your teeth for your corn, grandson of abdallah," was the response. as they entered the double gates, which aaron was surprised to find open, timoleon gave a series of fierce snorts, which was the same as saying, "what did i tell you, son of ben ali? look yonder! there is one; the others are galloping farther on." "i am wrong and you are right, grandson of abdallah." as much for the horse's comfort as his own, aaron had folded a large blanket he found hanging in the stable, and was using it in place of a saddle. he lifted himself back toward timoleon's croup, seized the blanket with his left hand, and, holding it by one corner, shook out the folds. he had no intention whatever of frightening any one, his sole idea being to use the blanket to screen himself from observation. he would have turned back, but in the event of pursuit he would be compelled to lead his pursuers into the abercrombie place, or along the public road, and either course would have been embarrassing. if he was to be pursued at all, he preferred to take the risk of capture in the wide pasture. as a last resort he could slip from timoleon's back and give the horse the word to use both teeth and heels. [illustration: aaron and timoleon] and this was why the fox hunters saw the apparition of a black horse and a headless rider. "shall i ride him down, son of ben ali?" snorted the black stallion. "bear to the right, bear to the right, grandson of abdallah," was the reply. and so the apparition flitted past the young man who had left the double-gates open, and past his companions who were waiting for him near the bars that opened on the big road; flitted past them and disappeared. finding that there was no effort made to pursue him, aaron checked the black stallion and listened. he heard the men let down the bars and put them up again, and by that sign he knew they were not patrollers. later on in the day, the doubting gentleman, returning from the fox hunt, called by the abercrombie place and stopped long enough to tell the white-haired master of the queer sight he saw in the pasture at dawn. "the boys were badly scared," he explained to mr. abercrombie, "and i tell you it gave me a strange feeling--a feeling that i can best describe by saying that if the earth had opened at my feet and a red flame shot up, it wouldn't have added one whit to my amazement. that's the honest truth." mr. abercrombie could give him no satisfaction, though he might have made a shrewd guess, and little crotchet, who could have solved the mystery, had to make an excuse to get out of the way, so that he might have a hearty laugh. and aaron, when he came to see the little master that night, knew for the first time that he had scared the fox hunters nearly out of their wits. xiv. the little master says good-night. after george gossett's two experiences in the pasture, he came to the conclusion that it would not be profitable to do any more patrolling on the abercrombie place, but this did not add to his good humor. he had his father's surly temper, and, with it, a vindictive spirit that was entirely lacking in the elder gossett. moreover, age had not moderated nor impaired his energies, as it had his father's. the fact that he had failed to capture aaron struck him as a personal affront. he was stung by it. he felt that he and his father had been wronged by some one, he couldn't say who, but not by the runaway, for what was a "nigger," anyhow? after a while the idea was borne in upon him that somehow he and his family had been "insulted" by the abercrombies. he arrived at this conclusion by a very circuitous route. the abercrombies were harboring a yankee in their house; and if they had the stomach to do that, why wasn't it just as easy for them to harbor "pap's" runaway nigger, especially when they were so keen to buy him? another thing that stung him, though he never mentioned it, was the sudden and unexplainable attitude of his father toward aaron. young gossett had observed that his father appeared to lose interest in the runaway after mr. jim simmons failed to catch him, but the fact was not impressed upon the young man's mind until the day he told the elder gossett about the queer sight he saw in abercrombie's pasture. "were you hunting the runaway?" his father asked, with some impatience. "why, no, pap. we weren't doing a thing in the world, but crossing the pasture on our way to the turner old fields." "very well, then. do as i do; let him alone. if you don't you'll get hurt. i know what i'm talking about." this fairly took george's breath away. "why, pap!" he cried; "ain't he your nigger? didn't you buy him and pay your money down for him? don't you want him out of the woods? and who's going to hurt me, pap?" "you mind what i tell you," snapped the elder gossett. "i'm older than you, and when i know a thing i know it. let the runaway alone." "if i'm going to be hurt," responded george doggedly, "i'd like to know who'll do it." it would have been better for both if mr. gossett had told his son of his experience with aaron. as it was, george was in danger of losing the little respect he had for his father. when he was warned that he would be hurt if he kept on trying to capture aaron, he suspected at once that the warning related to mr. abercrombie. who else would dare to hurt him, or even threaten to hurt him? certainly not the runaway. who, then, but abercrombie? the suggestion was enough. it made george gossett so furious that he never thought to reflect that he himself had invented it. once invented, however, every circumstance seemed to fit it. his father had suddenly lost interest in the runaway, though he had paid out money for him, and had hardly received a week's work in return. why? because mr. abercrombie had overawed his father in a crowd, just as he did the day aaron was sold from the block. the young man had not forgotten that episode, and his resentment was rekindled and grew hotter than ever, for it was now reinforced by inward shame and disgust at the way his father had allowed himself to be overcome--and that, too, in regard to his own property. the first result of george gossett's resentment was his nearly successful effort to make the teacher, richard hudspeth, the victim of the violent and natural prejudice that existed at that time against abolitionists; an event that has been related in "the story of aaron." the rescue of the teacher by mr. abercrombie, and the fact that george gossett was knocked flat by the black stallion, caused his resentment to rise to a white heat. he brooded over the matter until, at last, a desire to injure mr. abercrombie became an uncontrollable mania, and it went so far that one night, inflamed by whiskey, he set fire to the dwelling-house of the man he believed to be his father's enemy. then it was that aaron rescued little crotchet and free polly, and fell fainting to the ground. and then it was that mr. gossett seized the first plausible opportunity that had presented itself to sell aaron to mr. abercrombie. it is true, he drove a sharp bargain, suspecting that the runaway had seriously injured himself; but he would have sold aaron in any event, being anxious to get rid of him. george gossett disappeared that night and was seen no more in that region. years afterward, a homesick georgian returning from texas brought word that george gossett had made a name for himself in that state, being known as a tough and a terror. it's an ill wind that blows no good to any one. george gossett little knew, when he applied the torch to the abercrombie dwelling, that the light of it would call aaron from the wildwoods and show him the way to a home where he was to live, happy in the love of little crotchet and of children as yet unborn, and happy in the respect and confidence of those whose interest he served. perhaps if george gossett could have looked into the future, the blaze that produced these results would never have been kindled, and in that event the story of aaron in the wildwoods could have been spun out at greater length, but the conclusion would not have been different. richard hudspeth remained long enough to see aaron duly installed in his new home, for the abercrombie mansion was at once rebuilt on a larger scale than ever, and to see him serve as the major-domo of the establishment. but the departure of the teacher was not delayed for many months after his experience with the reckless and irresponsible young men who had placed themselves under the leadership of george gossett. duties more pressing and more important than those he had assumed in georgia called him to his northern home, where a larger career awaited him--a career that made him famous. he became the most intimate adviser of abraham lincoln, and that great man found in him what, at the outset, he found in few new england men, the deepest sympathy and highest appreciation. it was characteristic of richard hudspeth that the treatment he received at the hands of george gossett and his night riders bred no resentment against the southern people, and the trait of character that shut the door of his mind against all petty prejudices and rancorous judgments was precisely the trait that attracted first the notice and finally the friendship of mr. lincoln. aaron was as much of a mystery to the negroes on the abercrombie place when he came to move about among them as he was when he roamed in the wildwoods. he was as much of a mystery to them years afterwards, when buster john and sweetest susan came upon the scene, as he was when he first made his appearance on the place, but by that time the mystery he presented was a familiar one. the negroes had not solved it, but they were used to it. at first it seemed that they would never cease to wonder. they watched his every movement, and always with increasing awe and respect. he went about among them freely, but not familiarly. he was not of them, and they knew it. he was kind and considerate, especially where the women and children were concerned, but always reserved, always dignified, always serious. yet he never lost his temper, never frowned, and was never known to utter an angry word or make a gesture of irritation. he had the remarkable gift of patience, that seemed to be so highly developed in some animals. it was uncle fountain who drew the parallel between the patience displayed by aaron and that of the animals, and added this, after turning the matter over in his mind: "mo' speshually de creeturs what kin see in de dark." on rare occasions aaron would go into one of the cabins where the negroes were enjoying themselves, and there would be a mighty hustling around in that cabin until he had the most comfortable chair, or stool, or bench, or tub turned bottom-side up. at such times he would say, "sing!" and then, after some display of shyness, randall or turin would strike into a quaint plantation melody, and carry it along; and as their voices died away the powerful and thrilling tenor of susy's sam, and jemimy's quavering soprano would take up the refrain, all the singers joining in at the close. no matter what melody was sung, or what words were employed, the instinct and emotions of the negroes gave to their performance the form and essence of true balladry,--the burden, the refrain, the culmination, and the farewell; or, as the writers of pretty verse now call it, the envoi. often on such occasions aaron would enter the negro cabin bearing the little master in his arms. and then the negroes were better pleased, for the little master somehow seemed to stand between them and the awesome being they knew as aaron. at such times the arms of big sal ached to hold little crotchet, the lad seemed to be so pale and frail. once she made bold to say to aaron:-"i kin hol' 'im some ef you tired." "i won't be tired of that till i'm dead," responded aaron. "i know mighty well how dat is," responded big sal humbly. "i des wanted ter hol' 'im. i _has_ helt him." "she wants to hold you," said aaron to the little master. and the reply was, "well, why not?" whereupon big sal took the lad in her arms, and when the rest began to sing she swayed her strong body back and forth, and joined in the song with a voice so low and soft and sweet that it seemed to be the undertone of melody itself; and the effect of it was so soothing that when the song was ended the little master was fast asleep and smiling, and big sal leaned over him with such a yearning at her heart that only a word or a look would have been necessary to set her to weeping. neither then nor ever afterwards did she know the reason why or seek to discover it. enough for her that it was so. something in her attitude told the rest of the negroes that the little master was asleep, and so when they sang another song they pitched their voices low,--so low that the melody seemed to come drifting through the air and in at the door from far away. when it was ended nothing would do but each negro must come forward on tiptoe and take a look at the little master, who was still asleep and smiling. when aaron rose to go big sal was somewhat embarrassed. she didn't want the little master awakened, and yet she didn't know how he could be transferred to aaron's arms without arousing him. but the son of ben ali solved that problem. he nodded to big sal and motioned toward the door, and she, carrying the little master in her strong arms, went out into the dark. aaron paused at the threshold, raised his right hand above his head, and followed big sal. this gesture he always made by way of salutation and farewell on the threshold of every door he entered or went out of, whether the room was full of people or empty. whether it was the door of his master's house or of timoleon's stable, he paused and raised his right hand. [illustration: big sal holds the little master] the negroes noted it, and, simple as it was, it served to deepen the mystery in which aaron seemed to be enveloped; and among themselves they shook their heads and whispered that he must be a "cunjur" man. but aaron was not troubled by whisperings that never reached his ears, nor by the strange imaginings of the negroes. he had other things to think of--one thing in particular that seemed to him to be most serious. he could see that little crotchet was gradually growing weaker and weaker. it was some time before he discovered this. we know that the trunks of trees slowly expand, but we do not see the process going on. little crotchet seemed to be growing weaker day by day, and yet the process was so gradual that only the most careful observation could detect it. the burning of the house was something of a shock to him. he was not frightened by that event, and never for a moment lost his self-possession; but the spectacle of the fierce red flames mounting high in the air, their red tongues darting out and lapping about in space, and then, having found nothing to feed on, curling back and devouring the house, roaring and growling, and snapping and hissing,--this spectacle was so unexpected and so impossible in that place that the energy little crotchet lost in trying to fit the awful affair to his experience never came back to him. he never lost the feeling of numbness that came over him as he saw the house disappear in smoke and flame. but it was weeks--months--after that before aaron made his discovery, a discovery that could only be confirmed by the keenest and most patient watchfulness. for little crotchet was never more cheerful. and he was restless, too; always eager to be going. but aaron soon saw that if the lad went galloping about on the gray pony as often as before, he did not go so far. nor did he use his crutches so freely,--the crutches on which he had displayed such marvelous nimbleness. and so from day to day aaron saw that the little master was slowly failing. the lad found the nights longer, and aaron had great trouble to drive away the red goblin, pain. thus the days slipped by, and the weeks ran into months, and the months counted up a year lacking a fortnight. this fortnight found the little master in bed both day and night, still happy and cheerful, but weak and pale. always at night aaron was sitting by the bed, and sometimes the lad would send for big sal. he was so cheerful that he deceived everybody except the doctor and aaron as to his condition. but one day the doctor came and sat by the little master's bedside longer than usual. the lad was cheerful as ever, but the doctor knew. as he was going away he gave some information to the father and mother that caused them to turn pale. the mother, indeed, would have rushed weeping to her son. was it for this,--for this,--her darling child had been born? the doctor stayed her. it was indeed for this her darling child had been born. would she hasten it? why not let the mystery come to him as a friend and comforter,--as the friend of friends,--as a messenger from our dear lord, the prince of peace and joy? and so the poor mother dried her eyes as best she could and took her place by the little master's bedside. the lad was cheerful and his eyes were as bright as a bird's. doctors do not know everything, the mother thought, and, taking heart of hope, smiled as little crotchet prattled away. nothing would do but he must have a look at the toys that used to amuse him when he was a little bit of a boy; and in getting out the old toys the mother found a shoe he had worn when he first began to walk,--a little shoe out at the toe and worn at the heel. this interested the lad more than all the toys. he held it in his hand and measured it with his thumb. and was it truly true that he had ever worn a shoe as small as that? the shoe reminded him of something else he had been thinking of. he had dreamed that when he got well he would need his crutches no more, and he wondered how it would feel to walk with his feet on the ground. and there was the old popgun, too, still smelling of chinaberries. if aaron only but knew it, that popgun had been a wonderful gun. yes, siree! the bird that didn't want to get hurt when that popgun was in working order had to run mighty fast or fly mighty high. but, heigh-ho! he was too old and too large for popguns now, and when he got well, which would be pretty soon, he would have a sure-enough gun, and then he would get a powder flask and a shot bag and mount the gray pony and shoot--well, let's see what he would shoot: not the gray squirrels, they were too pretty; not the shy partridges, they might have nests or young ones somewhere; not the rabbits--they were too funny with their pop eyes and big ears. well, he could shoot at a mark, and that's just what he would do. and when night fell, the little master wanted to hear the negroes sing. and he wanted mother and father and sister to hear them too--not the loud songs, but the soft and sweet ones. but the negroes wouldn't feel like singing at all if everybody was in the room with them, and mother and father and sister could sit in the next room and pretend they were not listening. and so it was arranged. when the negroes arrived and were ushered into the room by mammy lucy, they were so embarrassed and felt so much out of place they hardly knew what to do, or say, or how to begin. aaron was carrying the little master in his arms, walking up and down, up and down, and his long strides and supple knees gave a swinging motion to his body that was infinitely soothing and restful to the little master. swinging back and forth, up and down, the son of ben ali paid no attention to the negroes, and they stood confused for a moment, but only for a moment. suddenly there came streaming into the room the strain of a heart-breaking melody, rising and falling, falling and rising, as the leaves of a weeping willow are blown by the wind; drifting away and floating back, as the foam of the wave is swayed by the sea. little crotchet lay still in aaron's arms for ever so long. was he listening? who knows? he was almost within hearing of the songs of the angels. suddenly he raised his head in the pause of the song-"tell them all good-night. tell mother"-aaron stopped his swinging walk and placed the little master on the bed and stood beside it, his right hand raised above his head. it might have been a benediction, it might have been a prayer. the negroes interpreted it as a signal of dismissal. one by one they went softly to the bedside and gazed on the little master. he might have been asleep, for he was smiling. each negro looked inquiringly at aaron, and to each he nodded, his right hand still lifted above his head. [illustration: the death of the little master] big sal had waited till the last, and she was the only one that said a word. "he look des like he did when he drapt asleep in deze arms," she cried, sobbing as though her heart would break, "an' i thank my god fer dat much! but oh, man, what a pity! what a pity!" and she went out of the house into the yard, and through the yard into the lot, and through the lot to the negro cabins, crying, "_oh, what a pity! what a pity!_" not for the little master, for he was smiling at the glorious vision of peace and rest that he saw when he said good-night. not pity for the lad, but for those he had left behind him, for all who loved him; for all who had depended on his thoughtfulness; for all the weary and sorrowful ones. _oh, what a pity!_ over and over again, _what a pity!_ and the wind flowing softly about the world took up the poor negro's wailing cry and sent it over the hill and beyond, and the outlying messengers of the swamp took it up--_what a pity!_ and the willis-whistlers piped low, and the mysteries, swaying and slipping through the canes and tall grass, heard the whispered echo and sighed, _oh, what a pity!_ * * * * * transcriber's notes italic text is denoted by _underscores_. a number of words in this book had both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants; for those words the variant more frequently used was retained. this book also contains dialect and vernacular conversation. obvious punctuation errors were fixed. other printing errors, which were not detected during the revision of the printing process of the original book, have been corrected. it was unclear if in the expression "simple as a-b ab", in page 67, the second "ab" should be hyphenated. it was decided to keep the text unchanged. in touch with nature tales and sketches from the life by gordon stables published by society for promoting christian knowledge. this edition dated 1888. in touch with nature, by gordon stables. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ in touch with nature, by gordon stables. chapter one. rowan-tree cottage. "the merry homes of england! around their hearths by night, what gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light! there, woman's voice flows forth in song or childhood's tale is told, or lips move tunefully along some glorious page of old." mrs hemans. "you're my maggie may, aren't you?" there was a murmured "yes," and a tired and weary wee head was laid to rest on my shoulder. we were all sitting round the log fire that burned on our low hearth, one wild night in winter. outside such a storm was raging as seldom visits the southern part of these islands. it had been hard frost for days before, with a bright and cloudless sky; but on the morning of this particular day the blue had given place to a uniform leaden grey. the cloud canopy lowered, the horizon neared, then little pellets of snow began to fall no larger than millet-seeds, till they covered all the hard ground, and powdered the lawn, and lay on the laurel-leaves, and on the ivy that the sparrows so love. gradually these pellets gave place to broad dry flakes of snow. "how beautiful it was, falling so silently all day long, all night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead." yes, silently it had come down, and by sunset it was some inches deep on every tree; and very lovely were the austrian pines and spruce-firs on the lawn, with their branches bending earthwards under their burdens of snow. but later in the evening a change had come over the spirit of the scene, and a wild wind had begun to blow from the east. it blew first with a moaning, mournful sound, that saddened one's heart to listen to; but soon it gathered force, and shrieked around the cottage, and tore through the leafless branches of the tall lime-trees with a noise that made both frank and me think of gales and storms in the wide atlantic. little ida, our youngest tottie, was sitting on the hearth painting impossible birds of impossible colours, and using sir john the grahame's back as an easel. she shook her paint-brush at me as she remarked seriously, "she is my maggie may, and ma's maggie may, and uncle flank's maggie may, and sil john the glahame's maggie may." my wife looked up smiling from her sewing. "quite right, child," she said, "she is all our maggie mays." "o! ma," remonstrated ida, "that's not dood glammer. there touldn't be two maggie mays, tould there, pa?" "quite impossible," i replied; "but how would _you_ say it?" "i would say--`she is _all of us's maggie may_.'" having put our grammar to rights, ida went quietly on painting. maggie may, it will be gathered from the above, was a pet in the family circle: she certainly was at present, though not the baby either. the facts of the case are as follows: maggie may was an invalid. not very long before this she had been lying on a bed of pain and illness, from which none of us had expected to see her rise. she was but a fragile flower at the best, but as her recent indisposition had been partly attributable to me, i had tenfold interest in getting her well and strong again. it happened thus: our bonnie black mare jeannie has been allowed to have a deal of her own way, and never starts anywhere till she has had a couple of lunch biscuits and a caress. after this she will do anything. i had driven the two girls over to a farm about eight miles from our cottage, and on the way back had occasion to call on a friend. "stand quiet," i said; "jeannie, i won't be long, and i'll bring you a biscuit." jeannie tossed her tail and moved her ears knowingly as much as to say, "all right, master. don't forget. a bargain is a bargain." but woe is me! i did forget, completely; and when i jumped into the phaeton jeannie refused to budge. well, i suppose i lost my temper. i flicked her with the whip. then the mare lost hers. she screamed with rage, and next moment she was tearing along the road with the bit in her teeth at a fearful speed. all my efforts to control the speed of the runaway were in vain. little ida clung in terror to me; maggie may sat firm, but pale. on we rushed, luckily meeting nothing on the road. a whole mile was speedily pat behind us. but half a mile further on was the dismal dell called millers' dene, with the descent to it dangerous even at a walking pace. to attempt to take it, at the rate we were now moving, would be certain destruction. could i check the mare before we reached the brow of the hill? i tried my utmost, but utterly failed. then my mind was made up. there were broad hedges at each side of the road, and no ditch between. summoning all my calmness and strength then, for a supreme effort, and just as we had reached the end of the level road, and the dreadful dene [a glen or ravine] lay deep down before us, with a sudden wrench i swerved the mare off the road and put her at the hedge. it was a desperate remedy, but so far successful, and the only one really hurt was poor maggie may. it was one of those adventures one never forgets. the child had received a terrible shock, and for weeks hovered 'twixt death and life. no wonder then that we made much of her, now we had her back amongst us once again; and that each of us did our best to nurse back the life and joy she had been almost bereft of for ever. this needed all the more care, in that the shock had been purely nervous, and her mind, always sensitive, sympathised with her body. very pleasant, quiet, and delightful were the evenings we now spent at rowan-tree cottage. we cared very little to-night, for instance, for the wild wind that was raging without, albeit we sometimes thought--not without a kind of shudder--of sailors far at sea, or of travellers belated in crossing the moors. uncle frank--as we all called him--and i had constituted ourselves the story-tellers at these little fireside reunions. a right jolly, jovial sailor was frank, with a big rough beard, tinged with grey, a weather-beaten face as brown as the back of a fiddle, and blue eyes that swam in fun and genuine good nature. frank had been everywhere by sea and land, and i myself have seen a bit of the world. it would have been strange indeed, then, if we could not have told stories and described scenes and events, from our experience, that were bound to interest all who listened. sometimes these experiences would be related in the form of conversations; at other times, either frank or i had written our stories, and read them to our little audience. stories were interspersed with songs and the music of the fiddle. frank was our sweet singer for the most part; he was also our musician. flaying, however, on his part was never what you might call premeditated; something in the air, you might say, or in the state of our feelings, rendered music at times a necessity; then frank would take up his instrument as quietly and mechanically as if it had been that meerschaum of his which, being a sailor, he was allowed to smoke. now, in the evenings, with his fiddle in his hand, uncle frank was simply complete. "an accomplished player?" did you ask. perhaps not; certainly not what is called a trick-player. but the fiddle--o! call it not a violin--the fiddle when in frank's hand spoke and _sang_. they say that a good rider ought to appear part and parcel of the horse he bestrides. frank seemed part and parcel of the instrument in his grasp. bending lovingly over it, his brown beard floatingly on its breast, while he played, the fiddle verily seemed inspired with frank's own feelings and genius. and while you listened to the melting notes of some old irish melody, the green hills of erin would rise up before your mind's eye, and the fiddle sang to you of the sorrows of that unhappy isle. or the strains carried you away back through the half-forgotten past, to the days of chivalry and romance, when- "the harp that once through tara's halls the soul of music shed." but in a moment the scene was changed, and frank was playing a wild irish jig which at once transported you to donnybrook fair. paddy in all his glory is there; you think you can see him dancing on the village green, as he twirls his shilelagh or smokes his dudheen. but anon frank's fiddle, like the wand of a fairy, wafts us away to scotland, and the tears come to our eyes as we listen to some plaintive wail of the days of auld lang syne, some sweet sad "lilt o' dool and sorrow." or we are transported to the times of the jacobite rebellions, and as that spirited march or that wild thrilling pibroch falls on our ears we cannot help thinking that, had we lived in those old days, and heard such music then, we too might have fought for "bonnie prince charlie." it would be difficult to give the reader any very definite idea of the appearance of our cottage outside or inside. though not very far from the village, it was so buried in trees of every sort--elms, oaks, lindens, chestnuts, pines, and poplars--that no photographer, or artist either, could ever sketch it. much less can i. but just imagine to yourself all kinds of pretty shrubberies, and half-wild lawns, and rustic rose-clad arches, and quaint old gables, and verandahs over which the sweet-scented mauve wistaria fell in clusters in spring, when the yellow laburnum and the lilacs were in bloom. let flowers peep out from every corner and nook--the snowdrop, the crocus, daffodil and primrose in april, with wild flowers on the lawns in summer, and syringas and roses even in the hedges; and people the whole place with birds of every size, from the modest wee wren or little tit to the speckled mavis and orange-billed blackbird, that sang every morning to welcome the sunrise; let wild pigeons croodle among the ivy that creeps around the poplar-trees, and nightingales make spring nights melodious; and imagine also all kind of coaxing walks, that seemed to lead everywhere, but never land one anywhere in particular; and you will have some faint notion what rowan-tree cottage was like. to be sure our place was most lovely in spring and summer, but it had a beauty of its own even in winter, when the snow lay thick on the lawns and terraces, and seemed to turn the trees into coral. we had pets out of doors as well as pets inside--wild pets as well as tame ones. the former were chiefly the birds, but there were splendid great brown squirrels also, that used to run about the lawn with their immensities of tails trailing over the daisies, and that, if they heard a footstep, simply got up on one end the better to see who was coming: if it was any of us, they were in no hurry to disappear; but if a stranger hove in sight, then they fled up a neighbouring elm-tree with a celerity that was surprising. there were tame dormice too, that peeped out from among the withered leaves or climbed about on the may-trees close beside our garden hammocks. they easily knew the shape of a stranger, or the voice of one either, and used to slide slily away if any person unfamiliar to them appeared on the scene. -----------------------------------------------------------------------"listen to the wind," said mamma; "why it seems to shake the very house!" "it sounds like wild wolves howling round the door," said frank. "but see how brightly the fire is glowing," i remarked, in order to give a less dismal tinge to the situation. frank got up and went to the door to look out, but speedily returned. "why," he said, "it is almost impossible to breathe outside. it puts me in mind of some nights i spent during the winter of 187-, in the polar regions." "tell us all about it, frank; but first and foremost just put a few more logs on the fire." frank quietly did as he was told, and presently such a glorious gleam was shed abroad as banished every feeling of gloom from our hearts. sir john the grahame, our great wolfhound, who had been dreaming on the hearth and doing duty as ida's easel, begged leave to withdraw, and ida herself drew her footstool back. frank took his fiddle and sat for some time gazing thoughtfully at the fire, with a smile on his face, playing meanwhile a low dreamy melody that we could have listened to long enough. the air he was playing we had never heard before, but it seemed to refresh his memory and bring back the half-forgotten scenes of long ago. "if," he began at last, still looking at the fire as if talking to that, "if you will take a map of the world--" but stay. frank's story deserves a chapter all to itself, and it shall have it too. chapter two. a christmas in the arctic ocean. "here winter holds his unrejoicing court, here arms his winds with all-subduing frost, moulds his fierce hail, and treasures up his snows, throned in his palace of cerulean ice." thomson. "if you will take a map of the world," began frank, "and with a pin or a needle to direct you, follow one of the lines of longitude running south and north through england, up towards the mysterious regions round the pole, you will find that this line will run right away through scotland, through the distant orkney and shetland, past the lonely faroe isles till, with iceland far on the left, you cross the arctic circle. go north still, and still go north, and presently you will find yourself near to a little island called jan mayen, that stands all by itself--oh! so desolate-looking--right in the centre of the polar ocean. in that lonely isle of the sea i spent my christmas many years ago. "what took me there, you ask me, ida? i will tell you. i was one of the officers of a strongly built but beautiful steam yacht, and we had spent nearly all the summer cruising in the arctic seas. for about three weeks we sojourned near an island on the very confines of the no-man's land around the pole, and nearly as far to the nor'ard as any soul has ever yet reached. "we named this island the skua, after our good yacht--a wild mountainous island it was, with never a trace of living vegetable life on it, but, marvellous to relate, the fossil remains of sub-tropical trees. "i say we sojourned there, but this need not give you the idea that we stopped there of our own free will, for the truth is we were caught in a trap--a large one sure enough, but still a trap. we found ourselves one morning in the midst of an ocean lake, or piece of open water in the ice-field, as nearly circular as anything, and about four miles in width. we wanted to get out, but everywhere around us was a barrier of mountainous icebergs. so, baffled and disappointed, we took up a position in the centre of the lake, blew off steam, banked our fires, and waited patiently for a turn in events. "in three weeks' time a dark bank of mist came rolling down upon us, and so completely enveloped our vessel that a man could not see his comrade from mast to mast. "that same night a swell rose up in the lake, and the yacht rocked from side to side as if she had been becalmed in the rolling seas of the tropics, while the roar of the icebergs dashing their sides together, fell upon our ears like the sound of a battle fought with heavy artillery. "but next day the swell went down, the motion had ceased, and we found to our joy that the great bergs had separated sufficiently to allow us to force a passage southwards through the midst of them. a very precarious kind of a passage it was, however, with those terrible ice-blocks, broader than the pyramids, taller than churches, at every side of us. "south and south we now steamed, and the bergs got smaller and smaller, and beautifully less, till we came into the open sea, and so headed away more to the west. "`boys,' said our good captain one day, `this is a splendid breakfast.' and a splendid breakfast it was. we had all sorts of nice things, beefsteaks and game pasties, fresh fish, and sea-birds' eggs--the latter so beautiful in shape and colour that you hesitated a moment before you broke the shell, to say nothing of fragrant tea and coffee, and guava jam and marmalade to finish up with. "`boys,' said the captain again, as he helped himself to an immense piece of loon pie, `it is far too soon to go back to england yet, isn't it?' "`yes, much too soon.' "`well, i've got an idea. let us bear still more to the westward, and have a look at the island of jan mayen. we'll get some fun there, i'll be bound; it used to be quite uninhabited, you know, but i was told before leaving our own country that the yankees--enterprising fellows-had resolved to build a walrus station there for summer months. now, wherever you find yanks in these seas, you find yacks [a tribe of innuits, of somewhat migratory tendencies]. and between the two of them we ought to enjoy ourselves. shall we go?' "`by all means,' cried everybody. "well, we made the island easily enough, in about ten days' time, and after sailing about halfway round it without seeing anything at all except immense cliffs of snow-capped rocks, against which the waves were beating with a noise like distant thunder, we found a kind of bay, with a beach on which boats could land. into this we steamed boldly enough, and presently the noise of the anchor cable rattling over the bows seemed suddenly to awaken--it was early morning--the inhabitants of a curious little village that stood near the head of the bay. there was only one long low wooden hut, all the rest of the buildings being primitive in the extreme; indeed, they looked far more like gigantic mole-heaps than the residences of human beings. "but forth the inhabitants all swarmed; at all events, to the number, i should think, of 'twixt thirty and forty, and a stranger-looking group of individuals it has never been my lot to witness. "i guessed then, and i found afterwards i was right, that they consisted of men, women, and children; but the fun of the thing was that they were all dressed perfectly alike and looked alike, differing only in size. the dress of the men was composed of skins entirely; they were about five feet high, and broad in proportion. the dress of the women was identical; they were six inches shorter: and the children were all dressed just like their papas and mammas, so they looked like tiny old men and women. and when we landed and stood on the beach among these strange but harmless creatures we found them funnier-looking still; for they all had round, brown faces, all flat noses, and all little beads of eyes that seemed to twinkle with merriment, although nearly hidden by brown cheeks that seemed to shake every time they spoke. "amongst these strange people there was one tall figure who stood aside, all by himself, and didn't laugh in the least. a yankee he was, six feet four in his boots, if an inch. he was dressed from top to toe in the skin of a polar bear. "`gentlemen,' he said, presently, `if you're quite done guffawing, perhaps you'll permit me to welcome you to the island of jan mayen.' "we were serious in a moment, took off our caps and apologised, and ten minutes afterwards we were rowing the yankee off to breakfast. "he told us, in the course of conversation, that he was head of the walrus station; that during his stay in the island they had got no end of ivory and blubber; that there was capital sport; and ended by saying: "`and now that ye're come, gentlemen, i hope ye'll stop and spend next christmas with me.' "we laughed at the very idea of spending christmas in such a place; but little we knew. "the yankee was right, the sport was glorious; all sorts of arctic birds and beasts fell to our guns, and weeks went by, and still we postponed our departure; but at last, one day, we determined to start. "when we awoke, however, on the following morning, it was to find that during the night an immense shoal of heavy icebergs had floated in from the sea and entirely hemmed us in. the same day the frost set in. "the captain first pulled a long face, then he laughed. "`boys,' he said, `we must make the best of a bad job. we are bound to stop here till spring.' "october flew past, november died away, and before we knew where we were christmas week came round. you see the time had gone quickly because we really had been enjoying ourselves. "yet i, for one, could not help contrasting my present position with what it would have been at home in old england. how different it was here! yet the very difference made it quite charming. suppose that you had stood on the deck of our brave yacht and looked around; you would have seen that the whole bay was frozen over with thick black ice. no need for boats now, we could skate to the shore. behind us, seaward, across the month of the bay, stretched a rugged wall of serrated icebergs; on each side of the bay were the ice-clad rocks; shoreward, as you turned your eye, there was first the innuit village, then the land rose gradually upwards, a snow-clad valley rock-bound, till, in the far distance, behold a vast, towering mountain of ice. "now remember that we never saw the sun at this time; we had no day at all, nor had had for a whole month. but who can picture the glory of that arctic night? my pen seems to quiver in my hand when i attempt to describe it to you. during this christmas week we had no moon. we did not miss the moon any more than we missed the sun. but we had the stars; and somehow, away up in these regions of the pole, we seemed nearer to the heavens; anyhow, those stars appeared as large as saucers and as bright as suns, and the sky's blue between them _was_ blue. "we had the stars, then, but we had something else; we had the aurora borealis, in all its splendour of colour and shape. at home we see the aurora on clear frosty nights only, as a bow of white scintillating lights above the northern horizon. here we were dwelling in the very home of the aurora; it stretched from east to west above us, a broad belt of radiant coloured lights. it was a gorgeous scene. "i have said that the bay in which our yacht lay was _all_ frozen over; but this is not strictly true, because there was one portion of it, about half an acre in extent, and lying close under the barrier of icebergs, which was always kept open. this piece of open water was not only our fishing-ground, but it was a breathing-spot for many sea-mammals. "during this happy but strange christmas week we had all sorts of fun on board, and all kinds of games on the ice. skating under the aurora! why, you should have seen us; a merrier party you never looked upon. "`boys,' said the captain one morning, `i'm going to give those innuits a christmas dinner.' "`hurrah!' we all cried. `what fun it will be!' "christmas came at last, and preparations had been made to spend it cheerfully for more than a week beforehand. "after service--and how impressive the service was, held on the deck of that aurora-lighted ship, i shall never forget--after service, we all rushed down to dinner. we were to have ours early, because the yacks' entertainment was to be the great event of the twenty-four hours. "after our dinner we had songs and pleasant talk--the pleasantest of talk; for we chatted of the dear ones at home, who probably at that very moment were fondly thinking of us. the men forward enjoyed themselves in like manner. then the cry was `hurrah! for the shore.' "a large marquee, which we had on board, had been erected, and in this tent we found all the male and female yacks assembled. expectant captain bob, who commanded the innuits, and was the merriest of them all, sat at the head of the great deal table, and on one side of him was his wife, oily, on the other his pet sister, shiny. both shiny and oily were all on the titter with joy. "when the great pudding was carried in on a hand-barrow and placed in front of captain bob, the astonishment on the faces of these funny little folk was extreme; but when the brandy was ignited on the top of the pudding, then up started captain bob and every yack in the room, and a wild rush was made for the door. but peace was soon restored, and this king of puddings served. it was well it was a large one; it was well there were two more of the same size to follow, and i do believe if there had been half a dozen they would have found room for them. no wonder that when they had eaten and drunk until more than satisfied they rose up to dance. as they danced, too, they chanted a wild, unearthly kind of a song, each verse ending in `ee-ay-ee,' from the women, and `oh! ah! oh!' from the men. "at last there was a dead silence, and all the yacks flocked together, and presently out from their midst came captain bob--not willingly, for oily and shiny were shoving him along, yard by yard, with many a slap on his sheepish shoulders. "`go 'long wid you,' they were saying; `de capitan man not eat ye. plenty quick go.' "`what is it, bob?' said the captain. "`they want more pudding,' said shy bob. "`ah!' cried captain browning, laughing; `i thought that would be the cry. steward, bring up the last two puddings, positively the last.' "the puddings were cold--they were frozen; and this is how they were served: they were simply rolled like bowling balls into the midst of them. "and here i drop the curtain. we went away and left them scrambling over their frozen fare. "when spring returned, with many a blessing following us, we steamed away south, and in due time reached dear old england once again; but no one who was on board the saucy _skua_ is likely to forget that christmas we spent in the arctic sea." "so now good-night, maggie may, and good-night all," said uncle frank, getting up and laying his fiddle as carefully aside as if it had been a living, breathing thing. "i'll sleep soundly to-night," he added. "the wind in the trees won't keep _you_ awake," i said, laughing. "quite the reverse, lad," replied frank; "i shall take it for the sound of the waves, and dream i am far away at sea." and after he had gone aloft, as he called it, we could hear that deep manly voice of his, trolling forth a verse of that grand old hymn: "rocked in the cradle of the deep, i lay me down in peace to sleep; secure i rest upon the wave, for thou, o lord! hast power to save." chapter three. birds and beasts in winter.--the owl and the weasel. "o! nature, a' thy shows and forms to feeling pensive hearts have charms, whether the summer kindly warms wi' life and light, or winter howls in gusty storms the lang dark night." burns. our birds out of doors had all a pitiful tale to tell next morning. not that they had any reason to complain of the boisterousness of the weather, for the wind, after blowing the snow into the most fantastic of wreaths that blocked the roads and walks, and shut us quite up and away from the village, had retired to the cave of its slumber, wherever that may be. the sun, moreover, was shining from a sky of brightest blue, and the trees were like trees of coral, yet the frost was intense. so while buttons proceeded to feed the dogs--always an interesting operation--and i stood by looking on, the birds came round us in flocks. the robin, of course, was the tamest; he would almost eat from my hand: later on he did. this was our own particular robin, who had come backwards and forwards for years, and knew every one of us, i verily believe, by name. "it is terrible weather, isn't it," he said to me confidentially; "there is nothing to eat; everything is covered up, and the worms have all gone down a yard beneath the earth to keep themselves cosy. my feet are almost frozen!" "that is right," he added; "i cannot live without a little animal food, and this shredded morsel of sheep's-head is delicious. some feed their birds in winter on crumbs alone. they ought to study their habits, and add a bit of meat now and then. there, don't go away till i finish my breakfast, because, the moment you are off, down comes mr thrush and gobbles up the lot." "but," i said, "you're not afraid of the sparrows." "i'm not afraid of a few of them, though five is more than i can fight, and often ten come. they are cowardly creatures in the main." "now, buttons," i said, "as soon as you have fed the dogs give them all a romp in the snow; then set up the birds' sheaf." i alluded to a custom we have at our place of giving the birds a christmas-tree, whenever there is snow on the ground. it is a plan taught us by the norwegians, and i would rejoice to think it was universally adopted; for surely we ought to feed well in winter the birds that amuse and delight us when summer days are fine. the christmas-tree is simply a little sheaf of oats or wheat tied to the top of a small spruce-fir. it is positively a treat to see with what delight they cluster round it. another good plan--which gives much amusement, as witnessed from the dining-room window--is to tie up a little sheaf of oats by a string to the branch of a tree. tie also up some scraps of meat, and, if you have it, a few poppy-heads for the tits. the poppy-heads must be gathered and garnered in autumn, being cut down before they are too ripe, and with long stalks attached to them. i am not sure that the seeds are not almost capable of intoxicating the birds, but they do so luxuriate in them, that i have not the heart to deny them the delight. here is an excerpt from my diary of this winter before the snowstorm came on: "december 19.--it is a bright beautiful day. the garden-paths are hard. the grass on lawns and borders is crisp and white with the hoar-frost that has fallen during the night. though it is past midday, the sun makes no impression on it. there isn't the slightest breath of wind, nor is there a leaf left on the lofty trees to stir if it did blow. a still, quiet, lovely winter's day. "but i do not think the birds are at all unhappy yet. the blackbirds and the thrushes are still wild. _they_ have not come near the door yet to beg for food. but the sparrows have, and eke cock-robin. the latter has just eaten about a yard of cold boiled macaroni, and now sits on an apple-tree and sings loud and clearly a ringing joyous song of thanksgiving. i cannot help believing that he looks upon poor me as only an instrument in the hands of the kind providence, who seeth even the sparrow fall. "perhaps even the sparrows are thankful, though music is not much in their line. these gentry are not particular what they eat, and it is surprising how soon they make away with a soaked dog's biscuit, if one be left in their way, or a pound or two of the boiled liver that hurricane bob is so very fond of. the old nests of these birds are still up in the wistaria-trees that cover the front, or one of the fronts, of the cottage. those nests are crowded with the birds at night. they have used them now for two seasons, simply re-lining them. _memo_: to pull them all down as soon as the days get warmer; laziness should not be encouraged even in sparrows. "december 21.--the weather is still hard and calm. cock-robin had a sad story to tell me this morning. he looked all wet and draggled and wretched, quite a little mop of a robin. "`whatever have you been doing, cockie?' i asked. `have you had an accident?' "`accident, indeed!' replied cockie. `no, it was no accident, but a daring premeditated attempt at parricide.' "`parricide,' i cried, `you don't mean to say that your son--' "`o! but i do though,' interrupted cockie. `you know, sir, that he follows me to the door, and attempts to take the bit out of my mouth, and you've seen me fling him a piece of meat.' "`yes,' i replied, `and then try to chase him away, and the young rascal runs backwards, and sings defiance in your face.' "`true, sir; and to-day, when i tried to reason with him, he flew right at me--at his father, sir--and toppled me heels over head into the water-vat, and i'm sure i've caught a frightful cold already.' "`there's a fire in my study, cockie, if you care to go in.' "`no, thank you, sir, i'll sit in the sun.' "december 22.--the weather gets colder and colder. i interviewed a speckle-breasted thrush to-day, who had come to the garden-room-door to be fed. "`on winter nights,' i asked, `do you not suffer very much from the cold?' "the bird looked at me for a moment with one big bright eye and said: "`no, not as a rule. you see we retire early, always seeking shelter at sunset, and generally going to the self-same spot night after night, for weeks or months; for all the winter through we can do with quite a deal of sleep. yes, as you say, we make up for it in spring and early summer, when we sing all the livelong day and seldom have more than four hours of rest. we rest in winter under the shelter of a hedge or tree, or eave, away from the prevailing wind. "`in winter we are more warmly feathered all over, though our garments are less gay than in summer, when we have to appear on the stage, as it were. even our heads are well clad, and when perched on a bough our toes are covered, and we hardly feel the cold a bit. "`but at times in winter it is bad enough, for when the snow covers the frozen ground we get but little warmth-giving food. this alone prevents us from sleeping soundly; and sometimes the wind gets high and rages through the trees, and we get blown right off our perches. then, as it is all dark, we are glad to huddle in anywhere, and many of us get snowed up, and never see the glad sunshine any more. "`wet is even worse than snow, and if there is wind as well as wet we are very numbed and wretched. then the night seems so long, and we are _so_ glad when day breaks at last, and the warm sunshine streams in through the bushes.'" -----------------------------------------------------------------------our little village was so truly small and so unsophisticated, that with the exception of the clergyman and doctor it could boast of nothing at all in the shape of society, while the families in the country districts were mostly honest farmer-folk, who had seen but little of the outside world, and only heard of it by reading the weekly paper. their talk was chiefly about growing crops and live stock, so that, interesting though this might be, neither my friend frank nor myself had much temptation to leave home on winter evenings. but we had plenty to talk about nevertheless, and i cannot help saying that it would be a blessing to themselves if the thousands of country families, situated as we were, would cultivate the art of instructive conversation and story-telling. science gossip is infinitely to be preferred to fireside tattle about one's neighbours, to say nothing of its being free from ill-nature, and elevating to the mind instead of depressing. about a week before christmas, my wife was busy one evening trimming an opera-cloak for maggie may--would she ever wear it, i wonder--with some kind of grebe. "is it grebe?" "yes, it is the skin of a grebe of some kind," was the reply; "but there are so many different kinds, in this country find america." "a kind of duck, isn't it?" "or a kind of gull?" "betwixt and between, one might say. grebes are nearly allied to the great northern diver, but their feet are not, like his, quite webbed. they frequent the seashore and rivers by the sea, and live on fish, frogs, and molluscs of any sort. their nests are often built to float among the reeds, and to rise and fall with the tide." "when i get an opela-cloak," said ida, "i'll have it tlimmed with elmine." "why with ermine, ida?" "because the queen had elmine on, in the waxwork." "yes; and the ermine is only a weasel after all, and all summer it wears a dress of red-brown fur, which speedily gets bleached to white, when the thermometer stands below zero." "no, frank, i haven't seen my weasel for some time. he is dozing in some snug corner, you may be sure; and really, frank, i believe the subject of hibernation is but very imperfectly understood. i don't want to go into the matter at present physiologically, except to say that it seems to be a provision of nature for the protection of species; and that a variety of animals and creatures of all kinds that we little wot of, hibernate, more or less completely. we see sometimes, in the dead of winter, a beautiful butterfly--a red admiral, perhaps--suddenly appear and dance about on a pane of glass. we wonder at it. it is not a butterfly's ghost at all, but a real butterfly, who had gone to sleep in a snug corner of the room, and has now awakened probably only to die. "i found an immense knot of garden worms, the other day, deep down in garden mould. they were sleeping away the cold season. "but, talking about weasels, i'll tell you a story, ida." -----------------------------------------------------------------------the owl and the weasel. "from yonder ivy-mantled tower, the moping owl doth to the moon complain, of such as, wandering near her secret bower, molest her ancient solitary reign." "by what you tell me," i said, "i can now guess where all my wild rabbits have gone." i was talking to a weasel. and indeed the weasel seemed talking to me, for he stood upon his hind-legs, on the balcony, staring in at me through the french window that opens from my study on to the long shady lawn. as i did not move, he had a good look at me, and i think he felt satisfied that i was not likely to harm him. "yes," i continued; "under that verandah, under the wooden balcony where you now stand, used to dwell six wild rabbits, and did i not delight to see them gambolling on the grass on the early summer mornings, the while the blackbirds, the thrush, and the mavis enjoyed the bath placed on purpose for them under the shade of the scented syringas." "well," replied the weasel, with a little toss of the head, "_i_ dwell there now, and very comfortable i find the quarters." "and the rabbits?" i inquired. "good morning!" said the weasel, and it departed. the weasel often came to see me in this fashion, and sometimes, when i took my chair outside of an evening, he would suddenly appear at the far end of the balcony. "_o, you're_ there, are you?" he would seem to say, quite saucily. "well, don't trouble yourself getting up; i sha'n't stop." i had often wished to have a tame weasel; but though my present visitor was not afraid of me, and i know it took the milk i used to put down for it in a small bit of broken basin, i could never make a real pet of it. but one bright lovely day i was passing along in the country on my tricycle. it was a lonesome upland, where i was travelling, with neither hedge nor ditch on either side of the road, only green grass and trees, with here and there a bush of golden furze. i was going along at no extra speed, but thoroughly enjoying myself; still, i put on all the power i could after a time, and seemed to fly towards what appeared to be an immense black snake hurrying across the broad pathway. this snake, however, on a nearer inspection, resolved itself into one mother weasel and five young ones, all in a row. seeing me dismount, the old mother hurriedly snatched up one of her little ones, perhaps her favourite, and in a few moments they were out of sight, far away in the thicket. nay, not all of them, for here was one entangled in the rank grass by the pathway. what should i do with it? if its mother did not return it would very likely be left to perish. "ah! i have it," i thought, "i will take it home and tame it and keep it as a pet." it needed some taming, too, young as it was; this i soon found when i commenced to capture it, but not without considerable risk to my fingers; but at last i had it secure in my tricycle basket. i must at once confess that i was not successful in my endeavours to domesticate this poor wee weasel. as far as a cage could be, its abode was palatial; it had the warmest and softest of nests, and everything to tempt its palate that i could think of; but although it came to know and not fear me in a very few weeks, yet it never seemed perfectly content, and seemed to long for the wild woods--and its mother. and at last the poor little mite died, and i buried it in a tiny box under a bush, and vowed to myself as i did so that i would never take any wild thing away from its mother again. some people would tell you that you ought to destroy stoats and weasels whenever you see them. i myself think you ought not, because, although they do sometimes treat themselves to a young leveret, or even a duckling or chicken, they should be forgiven for this when we consider the amount of good they do, by destroying such grain-eating animals as rats and mice, to say nothing of our garden-pests, the moles. even the owl is a very useful bird of prey, because he works by night, when hawks have gone to sleep. like many human thieves and robbers, mice like to ply their pilfering avocation after nightfall, and they might do so with impunity were it not for those members of the feathered vigilance committee--the owls. now, so long as an owl does his duty, i think he has a right to live, and even to be protected; but even an owl may forget himself sometimes, and be guilty of indiscretion. when he does so, he has only himself to blame if evil follow. there was once a particularly well-to-do and overweeningly ambitious owl, who lived in an old castle, not far from the lovely village of fern dene. "oh!" he said to himself one bright moonlight night, as he sat gazing down on the drowsy woodland and the little village with its twinkling lights; "i _should_ like a repetition of last night's feast--a tasty young weasel. oh! i would never eat mouse again, if i could always have weasel." and he half closed his old eyes with delight as he spoke. "and why not?" he continued, brightening up; "there were five of them, and i only had one. so here i go." and away flew the owl out of the topmost window of the tower, and flapping his great lazy wings in the air, made directly over the trees to the spot where the weasel had her nest. "i shouldn't wonder," said one bat to another, "if our friend mr owl finds more than his match to-night." farmer hodge, plodding wearily homewards through the moonlight, about half an hour after, was startled by a prolonged and mournful shriek that seemed close to his ear, while at the same time he saw something dark rising slowly into the sky. he watched it for many minutes; there was another scream, but a fainter one higher up in the air; then the something dark grew darker and larger, and presently fell at his feet with a dull thud. "what could it be?" he wondered as he stooped to examine it. why a great barn-owl with a weasel fast to its neck. were they dead? yes, both were dead; but one had died bravely doing its duty and defending its homestead; the other was a victim to unlawful ambition. chapter four. away in the woods. "come to the woods, in whose mossy dells, a light all made for the poet dwells; a light, coloured softly by tender leaves, whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. "the stock-dove is there in the beechen tree, and the lulling tone of the honey-bee; and the voice of cool waters, 'midst feathery fern, shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn." "i went up with the dogs this morning," i said one evening, "to see how my woodland study looked in winter." "you did not do any work?" "i did indeed. it was so warm under my great oak-tree, that i could not resist the temptation of sitting down and writing fully half a chapter of a new tale." it is a clear sunny day, with the ground flint-hard with the frost. the leaves are still on the bramble-bushes, so dear to school-children when autumn days ripen the big luscious-looking black and bronze berries. the leaves also closely cover yonder little beech-trees. the furze is of a dark olive-green colour, covered here and there with patches of white, where the hoar-frost lodges, and with spots of brightest yellow when the blossoms still flourish. there are buds on the leafless twiglets of the oak, though the tree still soundly sleeps, and the ground is everywhere covered with moss and broken mast. not a sound is there to break the stillness of the winter's morning, save now and then the peevish twitter of a bird among the thorns, or the cry of a startled blackbird, while now and then a rabbit goes scurrying across the glade, stopping when at a safe distance to eye me wonderingly. how different it all is from nature here in her summer garb. -----------------------------------------------------------------------my woodland study in summer. it is an open glade in the middle of a pine-wood. not all green and level is this glade, with trees standing round in a circle, like the clearings in forests of the far west, which i used to read of in the novels of cooper and that so bewitched me when a boy. no, for judging from the rough and rutty pathway that leads up to it, and from the numerous banks and hillocks in it, there can be no doubt that, in far distant days of the past, gravel must have been dug and carted hence. the wood itself--glade and all--stands on a hill. at any time of the day i have but to ascend one of these furze-clad banks to catch a view the beauty of which can hardly be surpassed by any other scene in bonnie berkshire. it is warm to-day--'tis the 1st of august--and there lies a greyish-purple haze over all the landscape, that tones and softens it. the nearer trees, just beyond the field down there where the sheep are feeding, the stately ashes, the spreading elms and planes, and the towering poplars, stand out green and clear in the sunshine; but the hills beyond the valley of the thames and the trees along its banks have a blotted, blurred, and unfinished look about them, but are very charming to behold nevertheless, all the more in that, here and there, you catch glimpses of the silvery river itself, reflecting the glorious sunshine. down yonder is the road that leads past my pine-wood. you could not help noticing that it is very beautiful. it is a road of yellow gravel, bounded on each side, first by broad grassy banks on which rich white clover blooms and yellow celandines are conspicuous, and next by a wild indescribable tangle of a hedge. it had been originally blackthorn, but has been so cut back that many other bushes and weeds far less easily offended have asserted their independence, and tower over it or swamp it. yes, but, taken as a whole, it must be confessed they swamp it in beauty. yonder are patches of dark-leaved nettles, yonder clumps of orange-brown seedling docks, side by side with lofty spreading pink-eyed iron-weed. yonder is a canopy of that marvellous creeper the white briony: very small are their little greenish-white flowerets, but what a show their myriads make, and the clusters of its berries, green and crimson, rival in beauty those of the blue-petalled woody nightshade that are growing there as well. high over the hedgerow stands the yellow tansy and the wild parsley, while in it, under it, and scattered hero and there are the crimson glow of field poppies, the orange gleam of leopard's bane, and starry lights from ox-eyed daisies. the banks or hillocks in my woodland study--among which you may wander as in a labyrinth, lose your way, and finally perhaps, much to your surprise, find yourself back again at the very place whence you started--are clothed with tall furze-bushes; their yellow blossoms have faded and fallen, and downy seed-pods that crackle in the sunshine, as they split and scatter their seeds, have taken their place, but the beauty of these blossoms is hardly missed, for over and through the dark-green furze the brambles creep and trail, dotting them over with clusters of pink-white bloom. if you went close to these trailing brambles, you would find that each cluster of bloom had a bee or two at work on it. there are plenty of the bees of commerce there, dressed in homespun garb of unassuming grey or brown, quite suitable for the work they have to do--make honey for the humble cottagers that dwell in the village nestling among the trees down yonder. but besides these, there are great gaudy bees that go droning from blossom to blossom, clad in velvet, with stripes of orange, white, or red, each arrayed in his own tartan, one might say, each belonging to his own clan or ilk. here is a great towering thistle-emblem of scotland, pride of her sons. how beautiful the broad mauve-coloured, thorn-protected flowers are, and on each of them is one of the aforesaid big tartan bees, and on some there are two revelling in the nectar there distilled! now _do_ those scottish thistles exude a kind of whisky, i wonder, or rather a kind of athole brose [a mixture of honey and whisky]. whether they do or not, one thing must be patent to the eyes of all observers--those tartan bees do positively become intoxicated on those scottish thistle-tops; from other flowers they gather honey in quite a business sort of a way, but once they alight upon the thistle they are down for the day. they soon become so drowsy that they don't care to move, and if you go near them they hold up their forelegs and shako them at you in a deprecating sort of a way. "for goodness' sake," they seem to say, "don't come here to disturb us; go away and look after your business, if you happen to have any, only don't come here." if you are an early bird, you may find some of those bees asleep on the thistle-tops at six o'clock in the morning, the down on their backs all bedraggled, and dew on their wings, evidence enough that they have not been home at all, and mean to make another day of it. shrub-like oaks, stunted willows, and dark-berried elders also grow on the banks among the furze and the bramble, and here and there a patch of purple heath. between the little hills the ground is level, but carpeted over with grass and moss, and a profusion of dwarfed wild flowers of every tint and colour under the sun. the wood itself is of fir and larch pine, with here and there a gigantic and widely spreading oak. there are dark spruce thickets too, much frequented by wood-pigeons--i can hear their mournful croodling now--and there are darker thickets still, where the brown owl sits blinking and nodding all day long, till gloaming and starlight send him out, with the bat, to see after supper. it is under the shadow of a splendid oak-tree, which overhangs a portion of my glade, that i mostly write, and under it my little tent is pitched, the shelter of which i only court when a shower comes on, being, like every other wild creature, a thorough believer in the benefits of a life spent in the fresh open air. yonder hangs a hammock in which, when tired, i may lounge with a book, or, soothed by the sweet breath of the pine-trees, and lulled by the whisper of wind and leaf, sleep. but when work is done, hammock, tent and all are packed upon or behind my tricycle, which, like a patient steed, stands there waiting to bear me to my home in the valley. my woodland study is fully five-hundred feet above the level of the sea, and yet it is easy to see from the size, shape and surface of the pebbles all around me, that this glade was once upon a time a portion of the ocean's bed; that glass-green waves once rippled over those banks where the furze now grows; that congers and flat fish once wriggled over the gravel where those thistles are blooming; and that thorny-backed crabs used to lie perdu in the holes where dormice now sleep in winter. i pick up one of those pebbles and throw it--well, just in yonder among the whins; where the stone has alighted a wild old fox has a den, and she has cubs too in spring-time; so i am not the only wild creature that frequents these solitudes. oh no; for apart from the birds, who all know me, and do pretty much as they please, there are mice and moles in the grass, and high aloft orange-brown squirrels that leap from tree to tree, besides rabbits in dozens that scurry around the hillocks and play at hide-and-seek. at this very moment up on yonder bank sits a hare; his ears are very much pricked, and he is looking towards me, but as he is chewing something, in a reflective kind of way, he cannot be very much alarmed. and only last evening i saw a large hedgehog trotting across my glade, dragging behind him a long green snake, a proof, methinks, that innocent hoggie is fond of something more solid than black beetles and juicy slugs as a change of diet. with the exception of an occasional keeper, wandering in pursuit of game, no human being ever disturbs the sanctity of my woodland study; and no sound falls on my ears, except the distant roar of a passing train, the song of linnets, and croodle of turtle-dove and cushat. sometimes, in blackberry season, far down in yonder copse, i can hear the laughing voices of children at work among the brambles. just under a furze-bush, not five yards from the spot where i am now reclining, a pheasant some time ago brought forth a brood of young. she never used to move when i went close to her, only looked up in my face, as much as to say, "i don't think you are likely to disturb me, but i mean to stick to my nest whatever happens." there is something new to be seen and studied in this woodland haunt of mine all the year through. what a wondrous volume is this book of nature! i honestly declare that if i thought i had any chance of living for, say a couple of thousands of years, i would go in for the study of natural history in downright earnest, and at the end of even that time, i daresay, i should feel just as ignorant as i do now. but i don't come to my woodland study to laze, be assured; a good deal of honest work is done in this sylvan retreat, as many a london editor can testify. only, there are half-hours on some days when a drowsy, dreamy sensation steals over me, and i pitch my pen away and lie on the moss and chew the white ends of rushes, and think. it is, say, a beautiful day in mid-july. there are wondrous clouds up yonder, piled mass on mass, with rifts of bright blue between, through which the sun shines whenever he gets a chance. there is a strip of sunshine, even now, glittering on those feathery seedling grasses, and varnishing them as it were. it is gone, and a deal of beauty goes with it. it is close and sultry and silent, and with half-shut eyes i take to studying the liliputians that alight with fairy feet on my manuscript, or creep and crawl across it. here is a gnat--the _culm communis_--a vast deal too _communis_ in these wilds, especially at eventide, but my hands have long ago been rendered proof against their bites _a la pasteur_. this is a new-born _culex_; he hardly knows what the world is all about yet. but how fragile his limbs, how delicate his wings! these last are apt to get out of order, a breath of wind may do damage, a raindrop were fatal. this gnat has lost a leg, but that does not seem to interfere in the least degree with his enjoyment of life. he is a philosopher, five legs are fun enough; so away he flies. here are some small spiders--crimson ones. there are other tiny ones, too tiny yet to build a web, so they stalk for wee unwary flies. here comes a great mother spider, quite a jumbo among the others; she walks quickly across the sheet, but, strange to say, half a dozen pin-head young ones are clinging to her, and now and then she drops one, and it quite unconcernedly goes to work to make its own living. fancy human parents getting rid of their offspring in this way! no such luck, many will add. skipjacks go jumping about on my paper, clicking like little watches; the very clowns of insect-life are these. _elateridae_ is the long name they go by in history. here is a little scoundrel no bigger than the dot of the letter "i," but when i touch him with the point of a blade of grass, hey! presto! he has jumped high in air and clean over twenty lines of my ruled foolscap--_i.e._, more than a hundred times the length of himself. how i envy him the ability and agility to jump so! here is a wee _anobium_, as big as a comma; he can't jump, but he knows his way about, and when i touch him he shams dead. he has a big brother, called the death-watch, and he does the same. but here comes a bigger jumper, and here another; one is yellow and the other brown. in a day or two the yellow one will be as dark as the other. they are _aphrophorae_. they were born in a spittle, for so the country folks term the frothy morsels of secretion we see clinging to such herbs as sour-dock. let them hop; i am not going to take their lives on this lovely day, albeit they do much harm to my garden crops. but here is a bigger arrival, a _saltatorial gryllide_, a lovely large sea-green grasshopper; his immense ornamental hinder legs put you in mind of steam propellers. he is on my blotting-paper, watching me with his brown wise-looking eyes, ready for a leap at a moment's notice. i lift my hand to brush a gnat from my ear: whirr! he is off again and out of sight. he doesn't care where he flies to, and when he does spring away into infinity he can't have the slightest notion where he will land. what a happy-go-lucky kind of life! what a merry one! he toils not, neither does he spin; he travels where and when he pleases; there is food for him wherever he goes, and nothing to pay for it. a short life, you say? there is no one can prove that, for one hour may seem as long to him as a year to you or to me. to be sure a bird may bolt him, but then he dies in the sunshine and it is all over in a moment. here is a tiny elongated _coleopterite_ who, as soon as he alights for a rest, folds away his wings under his tippet (elytra). he does not bite them off as some silly she-ants do. for as soon as the sun blinks out again this insect will unfold his wings and be off once more, and he may perhaps alight in some human being's eye before evening and be drowned in a tear. there are some of an allied species, but so very _very_ tiny that when they get on to my manuscript while i am writing, they are as bewildered as i have been before now on an arctic ice-field. perhaps they get a kind of snow-blind. at all events they feel their way about, and if they chance to come to a word i have just written, they dare not cross it for fear of getting drowned--every stroke of my pen is to one of these wee mites a blue rolling river of ink. so they've got to walk round. here is a new-born _aphis_ (green-fly). it is still green. it has not been bronzed yet, and its wings are the most delicate gauze. it does not seem to know a bit what to do, or where to go, or what it has been put into the world for, any more than a human philosopher. this wee thing takes advantage of a glint of sunshine and essays to fly, but a puff of wind catches him, and, as "the wind bloweth where it listeth," he has to go with it. he will be blown away and away, thousands and thousands of midges' miles away. he will never come back to this part of the wood, never see any of his relations--if he has any--again. away and away, to the back of the north wind perhaps; he may be swallowed by a bat or a sand-marten; he may be impaled on a thorn or drowned in a dewdrop, or alight on the top of a pond and get gobbled up by a minnow; but, on the other hand, he may be blown safe and sound to some far-off land beyond the thames, settle down, get married, and live happy for ever afterwards. clack--clack--clack--clack! a great wild pigeon has alighted on the pine-tree above me. i have been so quiet, she does not know i am here. i cough, and click--clack--click go her wings, and off she flies sideways, making a noise for all the world like the sound of that whirling toy children call "a thunder-spell." but she has knocked down a cone. it is still green, but somehow the sight of it takes me far away north to bonnie scotland, and i am roaming, a boy once more, on a wild moorland, where grow, here and there, tiny pine-trees--seedlings, that owe their habitat, if not existence, to the rooks, who have carried cones like these from the forests. like byron, "i rove a young highlander o'er the dark heath." "i arise with the dawn, with my dog as my guide, from mountain to mountain i'm bounding along, i am breasting the billows of dee's rushing tide, and hear at a distance the highlander's song." i close my eyes, and it all comes back, that wild and desolate but dearly-loved scene; the banks where lizards bask; the "pots" and the ponds in that broad moor, where teal-ducks swim, and near which the laughing snipe has her nest; i hear the wild whistle of the whaup or curlew, and the checker of the stone-hatch in the cairn. i am wading among crimson heath and purple heather, where the crowberry and cranberry grow in patches of green. and now i have wandered away to the deep, dark forest itself; and near to a kelpie's pool, by the banks of a stream, i lay me down to rest. there are myriads of bees in the lime-trees above, through which the sunshine shimmers, lighting up the leaves to a tenderer green, but the bees begin to talk, and the murmuring stream begins to sing, and presently i find myself in elfin-land, in the very midst of a fairy revel. the "midsummer night's dream" is a masterpiece of art, but nothing to this. _that_ was a mere phantasy; _this_ is a reality. this is-"pa! papa!" i start up. i am still in my woodland study. but a sweet young face is bending over me, and tender eyes are looking into mine. "pa, dear, how sound you have been asleep! do you know it is nearly sunset?" "have i? is it?" i reply, smiling. "i thought, ida, you were queen of elfin-land." it is my tiny daughter who has come toddling up to the wood to seek for me. three minutes after this, we are tooling down the hill homewards, and ida--my own little queen of the elves--is seated on the cycle beside me. chapter five. summer life in norland seas. "to the ocean now i fly and those norland climes that lie where day never shuts his eye." "and nought around, howe'er so bright, could win his stay, or stop his flight from where he saw the pole-star's light shine o'er the north." it was no wonder that, with the snow lying deep around our dwelling, and the storm-wind rattling our windows of a night, and howling and "howthering" around the chimnies, both frank's thoughts and my own should be carried away to the wild regions of the pole, where both of us had spent some years of our lives; or that i should have been asked one night to relate some of my experiences of greenland seas and their strange animal inhabitants, seals and bears among the rest. i related, among other things------------------------------------------------------------------------how seals are caught in greenland. "that sealing trip," i said, "i shall never forget. my particular friend the scotch doctor, myself, and brick the dog, were nearly always hungry; many a midnight supper we went in for, cooked and eaten under the rose and forecastle." friday night was sea-pie night, by the universal custom of the service. the memory of that delicious sea-pie makes my month water even now, when i think of it. the captain came down one morning from the crow's-nest--a barrel placed up by the main truck, the highest position in the ship from which to take observations--and entered the saloon, having apparently just taken leave of his senses. he was "daft" with excitement; his face was wreathed in smiles, and the tears of joy were standing in his eyes. "on deck, my boys, on deck with you, and see the seals!" the scene we witnessed on running aloft into the rigging was peculiarly greenlandish. the sun had all the bright blue sky to himself--not the great dazzling orb that you are accustomed to in warmer countries, but a shining disc of molten silver hue, that you can look into and count the spots with naked eye. about a quarter of a mile to windward was the main icepack, along the edge of which we were sailing under a gentle topsail breeze. between and around us lay the sea, as black as a basin of ink. but everywhere about, as far as the eye could see from the quarter-deck, the surface of the water was covered with large beautiful heads, with brilliant earnest eyes, and noses all turned in one direction--that in which our vessel was steering, about south-west and by south. nay, but i must not forget to mention one peculiar feature in the scene, without which no seascape in greenland would be complete. away on our lee-bow, under easy canvas, was the _green dutchman_. this isn't a phantom ship, you must know, but the most successful of all ships that ever sailed the northern ocean. her captain--and owner--has been over twenty years in the came trade, and well deserves the fortune that he has made by his own skill and industry. if other proof were wanting that we were among the main body of seals, the presence of that _green dutchman_ afforded it; besides, yonder on the ice were several bears strolling up and down, great yellow monsters, with the ease and self-possession of gentlemen waiting for the sound of the last dinner gong or bugle. skippers of ships might err in their judgment, the great _green dutchman_ himself might be at fault, but the knowledge and the instinct of bruin is infallible. we were now in the latitude of jan mayen; the tall mountain cone of that strange island we could distinctly see, raised like an immense shining sugar-loaf against the sky's blue. to this lonely spot come every year, through storm and tempest, in vessels but little bigger or better than herring-boats, hardy norsemen, to hunt the walrus for its skin and ivory, but by other human feet it is seldom trodden. it is the throne of king winter, and the abode of desolation, save for the great bear that finds shelter in its icy caves, or the monster seals and strange sea-birds that rest on its snow-clad rocks. at this latitude the sealer endeavours to fall in with the seals, coming in their thousands from the more rigorous north, and seeking the southern ice, on which to bring forth their young. they here find a climate which is slightly more mild, and never fail to choose ice which is low and flat, and usually protected from the south-east swell by a barrier of larger bergs. the breeding takes place as soon as the seals take the ice, the males in the meantime removing in a body to some distant spot, where they remain for three weeks or so, looking very foolish--just, in truth, as human gentlemen would under like circumstances--until joined by the ladies. the seal-mothers are, i need hardly say, exceedingly fond of their young. at all other times timid in the extreme, they will at this season defend them with all the ferocity of bears. the food of the seals in nursing season consists, i believe, of the small shrimps with which the sea is sometimes stained for miles, like the muddy waters of the bristol channel, and also, no doubt, of the numerous small fishes to be found burrowing, like bees in a honeycomb, on the under surface of the pieces of ice. the wise sealer "dodges" outside, or lies aback, watching and wary, for a fortnight at least, until the young seals are lumpy and fat, then the work of death begins. i fear i am digressing, but these remarks may be new to some readers. "the _green dutchman_ has filled her fore-yard, sir, and is making for the ice;" thus said the first mate to the captain one morning. "let the watch make sail," was the order, "and take the ice to windward of her." the ship is being "rove" in through the icebergs, as far and fast as sail will take her. meanwhile, fore and aft, everybody is busy on board, and the general bustle is very exciting. the steward is serving out the rum, the cook's coppers are filled with hams, the hands not on deck are busy cleaning their guns, sharpening their knives, getting out their "lowrie tows" (dragging-ropes), and trying the strength of their seal-club shafts by attempts to break them over their hardy knees. the doctor's medical preparations are soon finished; he merely pockets a calico bandage and dossel of lint, and straps a tourniquet around his waist, then devotes his attention exclusively to his accoutrements. having thus arranged everything to his entire satisfaction, he fills a sandwich-case, then a brandy-flask and baccy-pouch, and afterwards eats and drinks as long as he can--to pass the time, he says--then, when he can't eat a morsel more, he sits and waits and listens impatiently, beating the devil's tattoo with his boot on the fender. presently it is "clew up," and soon after, "all hands over the side." the day was clear and bright and frosty, and the snow crisp and hard. there was no sinking up to the knees in it. you might have walked on it with wooden legs. besides, there was but little swell on, so the movement of the bergs was slow, and leaping easy. our march to the sealing-ground was enlivened by a little logomachy, or wordy war, between the first mate and the doctor. the latter began it: "harpooneers and clubmen," he cried, "close up behind me, here; i'm gaun to mak' a speech; but keep movin' a' the time--that's richt. well, first and foremost, i tell ye, i'm captain and commander on the ice; d'ye hear?" "_you_ commander!" exclaimed the mate; "i'll let ye ken, my lad, that i'm first officer o' the ship." "look here, mate," said the doctor, "i'll no lose my temper wi' ye, but if ye interrupt me again, by ma sang, ye'll ha' to fecht me, and ye ken ye havena the biceps o' a daddy-lang-legs, nor the courage o' a cockney weaver, so keep a calm sough.--now, men," he continued, "i, your lawfully constituted commander, tell ye this: there is to be nae cruelty, this day, to the innocent lambs we're here to kill. mind ye, god made and cares for a' his creatures. but i'm neither going to preach or pray, but i'll put it to ye in this fashion. if i see one man jack of ye put a knife in a seal that he hasna previously clubbed and killed, i'll simply ca' that man's harns oot [dash his brains out] to begin wi', and if he does it again, i'll stop his 'bacca for the entire voyage, and his grog besides." probably the last threat was more awful to a sailor than actual braining. at all events, it had the desired effect, for during the whole of that day i saw nothing among our men but slaughter as humane as slaughter could be made. even then, however, there was much to harrow the feelings of any one at all sensitive. for the young greenland seal is such an innocent little thing, so beautiful, so tender-eyed, and so altogether like a baby in a blanket, that killing it is revolting to human nature. besides, they are so extremely confiding. raise one in your arms--it will give a little petted grumble, like a newfoundland puppy, and suck your fingers; not finding its natural sustenance in that performance, it will open its mouth, and give vent to a plaintive scream for its ma, which will never fail in bringing that lady from the depths beneath, eager-eyed and thirsting for your life. towards the middle of the day i strolled among the crew of the _p--e_. the men were wildly excited, half-drunk with rum, and wholly with spilling blood, singing and shouting and blaspheming, striking home each blow with a terrible oath, flinching before the blood had ceased to flow, and sometimes, horrible to say, flinching the unhappy innocents alive. all sorts of shocking cruelties were perpetrated, in order to make puppies scream, and thus entice the mother to the surface to be shot or clubbed. i saw one fellow--pah! i can't go on. blood shows to advantage on ice. here there were oceans of it. the snow was pure and white and dazzling in the morning--i leave it to the imagination of the sentimental to guess its appearance at eventide. the stout shetlandmen, with their lowrie tows, dragged the skins to the ship. there were no regular meals any day during sealing. the crew fed and drank alike, _when_ they could and _what_ they could. there was but little sport in all this--a certain wild excitement, to be sure, quite natural under the circumstances, for were we not engaged in one of the lawful pursuits of commerce and making money? the bears were having fine times of it, for there was but little inclination on our part to pursue them, while there were seals to slay; and bruin seemed to know this, and was correspondingly bold and impertinent, although never decidedly aggressive; for compared to seals men are merely skin and bone, and bruin has a _penchant_ for adiposity. in ten days there was not a seal left, for ships had collected from all quarters--like war-horses scenting the battle from afar, or like sea-gulls on "making-off" days--to assist in the slaughter. by-the-by, what peculiar instinct or what sense is it that enables those sea-gulls to determine the presence of carrion in the water at almost incredible distances? on making-off days--that is, idle days at sea--when, there being nothing else to do, the hands are employed in separating the blubber from the skins, putting them in different tanks and casting the offal overboard, there shall not be a single gull in sight from the crow's-nest, even within ken of the telescope; but when, twenty minutes afterwards, the work is well begun, the sea shall be white with those gulls, singly or in clusters fighting for the dainty morsels of flesh and blubber. we got frozen in after this, and in a fortnight's time we found ourselves forsaken by the bears, and even by the birds, both of which always follow the seals. what a lonely time we had of it for the next month, in the centre of that silent, solitary icepack! but for the ships that lay here and there, frozen in like ourselves, it might have been mistaken for some snow-clad moorland in the dead of winter. and all the time there never was a cloud in the blue sky, even as big as a man's hand; the sun shone there day and night but gave no heat, and the silence was like the silence of space--we could have heard a snow-flake fall. once a week, at least, a gale of wind might be blowing, hundreds of miles away from where we were--it was always calm in the pack--then the great waves would come rolling in beneath the ice, though of course we could not see them, lifting up the giant bergs, packing and pitching the light bay-ice over the heavy, and grinding one against the other or against our seemingly doomed ship with a shrieking, deafening noise, that is quite indescribable. we thus lived in a constant state of suspense, with our traps always packed and ready to leave the vessel if she were "nipped." one ship had gone down before our very eyes, and another lay on the top of the ice on her beam ends, with the keel exposed. but clouds and thaw came at last, and we managed, by the aid of ice-saws and gunpowder, to cut a canal and so get free and away into the blue water once more. "were you not glad?" said maggie may. "yes, glad we all were, yet i do not regret my experience, for in that solitary ice-field we were indeed alone with nature. and, maggie may, being alone with nature is being alone with god." "ah! frank," i added, "it is amid such scenes as these, and while surrounded with danger, that one learns to pray." "true, lad, true," said uncle frank solemnly, "and strange and many are the wonders seen by those who go down to the sea in ships." chapter six. face to face with ice-bears. "why, ye tenants of the lake, for me your wat'ry haunts forsake? tell me, fellow-creatures, why at my presence thus you fly? conscious, blushing for our race, soon, too soon, your fears i trace; man, your proud usurping foe, would be lord of all below, plumes himself in freedom's pride, tyrant stern to all beside." burns. "if ever a true lover of nature lived," said frank one winter's evening, as we all sat round the fire as usual, "it was your scottish bard, the immortal burns." "yes," i said, "no one was ever more sensible than he that a great gulf is fixed between our lower fellow-creatures and us--a gulf formed and deepened by ages of cruelty towards them. we fain--some of us at least--would cross that gulf and make friends with the denizens of field and forest, but ah! frank, they will not trust us. i can fancy the gentle burns walking through the woods, silently, on tiptoe almost, lest he should disturb any portion of the life and love he saw all about him, or cause distress to any one of god's little birds or beasts. see the wounded hare limp past him!--poor wee wanderer of the wood and field-look at the tears streaming over the ploughman's cheeks as he says: "`seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest- no more of rest, but now thy dying bed! the sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, the cold earth with thy bleeding body prest.'" "and what," said frank, "can equal the pitiful pathos and simplicity of his address to the mouse whose nest in autumn has been turned up by the ploughshare? "`thy wee bit housie too in ruin, it's silly wa's, the winds are strewin', an' naething, now to big a new ane o' foggage green, an bleak december's winds ensuin', both snell and keen.'" [big means build; snell means keen.] "yes, frank, and he says in that same sweet and tender poem: "`i'm truly sorry man's dominion, has broken nature's social union, an' justifies that ill-opinion which makes thee startle at me, thy poor earth-born companion, an' fellow-mortal!'" "well," replied frank, "i'm very much of burns's way of thinking; i would like to be friends with all my fellow-mortals, and have reason to believe it is really man's cruelty that has broken the spell that should bind us. "why, away up in the north, the biggest beast in the sea is the simplest and the best-natured. i mean the whale. the birds are so tame you can almost catch them alive, and even bears will pass you by if you do not seek to molest them." "tell us some bear stories, frank." frank accordingly cleared his throat. "what i tell you, then, about polar bears," he said, "you may believe. my facts are true facts, not ordinary facts, and i gained my experience myself, and neither from books nor from imagination. but talking about books," he continued, pulling one down from the shelf and spreading it open before him, "here is one on natural history, and as there are pictures in it, it will be sure to please you. the book is not an old one, and is a reputed authority. well, look at _that_. that is supposed to be a polar bear just come out of a cave, and having a sniff round. it is more the shape of a dormouse that has lost its tail in a trap. "here again is the picture of a dismantled barque, apparently stranded on the top of mount ararat, and in the foreground a lot of very ordinary looking men with billycock hats and very ordinary looking axes and spades, making an ice-canal to the water, at the edge of which another bear or dormouse is standing up quietly to be shot. "one more illustration. glance at this! three bears close under the bows of a ship among the ice; one lies dead beside a spit-kid; another is sitting thinking; and a third is walking on his hind-legs towards a group of men, who are evidently poised to receive cavalry, with duck-guns and old-fashioned battle-axes. "the text is quite on a keeping with the illustrations--that is, hardly in accordance with nature. "we read in travellers' tales wonderful accounts of the size, strength, cunning, and extreme ferocity of the polar bear. i used to believe all i read, even _jack the giant-killer_. but nevertheless, as to ferocity and strength, there is no doubt that our arctic friend is king of the ursine race. it took me a whole year to settle in my own mind whether this bear was actually a bold, brave beast or the reverse. from all i have seen and heard he undoubtedly possesses bravery, but it is tempered with a deal of discretion. he is not like the old norse kings; he does not kill men for the mere sake of making a record. he fights for food and not for glory. if a man and seal were both lying asleep on the ice, i believe a hungry bear would prefer his customary diet, and leave the man in peaceful possession of his dreams. but if the man awoke while the bear was having his mouthful or two--he does not eat much of a seal--then i guess the consequences would be rather serious for one of the party. yet i came upon a bear once behind a hummock of ice that, i am sure, had been fast asleep till i fired my rifle at something else quite close to him. he might have killed me then easily, but i assure you he did not. he emitted a sound as if he had swallowed about three yards of trombone and was trying to cough it up again. then he ran away. "but another day _i_ ran away. i was two miles from my ship and burst my gun. i wasn't going to stop and fight that bear with the butt-end-not likely; but he followed me nearly halfway. our spectioneer, dear old man, saw the race from the crow's-nest, and sent men out to meet us. he said at dinner that he had saved my life; but according to him, he saved my life more than once and in more ways than one. he must have been always saving my life, i suppose; but then i was young and headstrong. that spectioneer of ours, although he must have been nearly fifty years of age, was a kind of donald dinnie in strength. he fought an arctic bear once single-handed and with no other weapon save a seal-club. the man is still alive; the bear isn't. "the spectioneer did not force the fighting, remember. he rounded the corner of a large hummock of ice, and came upon the foe quite unexpectedly. one lucky but fearful blow pierced the upper part of the brute's neck close behind the ear, and he fell dead. a seal-club is a terrible weapon in the hands of a strong man. it is in shape somewhat like a pole-axe, only the iron or steel portion is sharp, and not blunt. our spectioneer was one of the best and bravest seamen ever i sailed with, and one of the most modest of men. i remember laughing once when he told me that he would as soon fight a bear with a seal-club as a bladder-nosed seal. i did not know much about this species of seal then. i believe there is some irish blood in the brute, for at any time, whether in the water or out of it, he will as soon fight as not, and woe be to you when he cocks his crest if you have only a club, and no rifle wherewith to defend yourself! "ever hear tell of the mad surgeon who fought the polar bear? i'll tell you the story, then, as it was told to me, and i have no reason to doubt its accuracy in the main details. "dr c--was a young medical man, just newly passed. he was to have been married very shortly after the capping and gowning ceremony, but had a few hasty words with his affianced, bade her an angry farewell, and took steamer to lerwick some weeks before the arrival of the greenland fleet at that ancient place, in the hopes of finding a ship that was in want of a surgeon. he was not disappointed; one of the doctors wished to go back; the voyage from hull to lerwick had been quite enough for him, so dr c--took his place. "now dr c--was reckless; he confessed that he cared very little what he did, or what became of him; he had loved the girl that he had meant to make his wife very dearly, and now that he had lost her he didn't mind, he said, although a whale swallowed him, and he thought he could sleep as comfortably, and far more soundly, in davy jones's locker than anywhere else. "he showed he was reckless even before he left lerwick. it was usual in those days for the youthful surgeons of the fleet to assemble for the purpose of eating, drinking, and carousing at the only respectable hotel in the town, and having well primed themselves, to march in a body through the narrow streets. this used to lead to cruel fights, in which the medicos were very often worsted. but on this particular year dr c--went in for organisation, as he called it. he armed and drilled the fleet surgeons, and in person he used to lead them out to fight, and in consequence the riots lasted often long into the night, despite the efforts of the police and military--five men and a sergeant--to quell them. "after his ship sailed, dr c--took to vinous imbibition--in plain english, he drank rum to excess. the ship got frozen in about a week after arrival `in the country,' and by this time the surgeon was so ill that he was confined to bed. literally speaking, confined to bed, for he had to be strapped to it. one day he heard the captain and first mate talking about the large number of bears that were about, and so quiet did he become after this that restraint was thought no longer necessary. it was early in the season, and the sun still set, and the night, or rather dusk, was of about two hours' duration. when a ship is beset in the ice the commander naturally enough is anxious in mind, and spends a good deal of his time in the crow's-nest with his eye at the glass. the commander of dr c--'s ship was in the crow's-nest very early one morning, and, somewhat to his surprise, saw what he took to be a seal lying on a hummock about half a mile off. it lay very still and motionless, and was very black. it was not long before he noticed something else--an immense bear coming stalking down towards the dark object on the ice. "so intently was he watching the movements of the bear that he did not notice the trap-door of the nest move. it was the steward that had run up to tell him that the doctor was not to be found anywhere in the ship. "in a moment the truth flashed upon the captain's mind. he hailed the deck below, and in less than a minute a party of ten men, rifle-armed, were over the side and away to the surgeon's assistance. "there was nothing further for the captain to do but watch proceedings through the glass. i was not there, of course, so can only imagine what an exciting scene it must have been, for the captain in his crow's-nest to witness that man and bear fight. "the doctor it seems was neither tall nor strong--a thin wiry little fellow, more fit to contend with a badger than a bear. he had armed himself with his longest amputating knife, which he had tied to his wrist and hand, in such a way that it could neither slip nor be dropped. the captain saw the bear spring upon the man and rise with him, and fall again and roll with him, and he saw the doctor plunge the knife again and again into the brute's body; then both fell and both lay still. when the men arrived it was to find bruin dead enough, and the surgeon just breathing. he was fearfully lacerated in the back and legs, but, strange to say, he survived, and before the ship returned to lerwick he was clothed and in his right mind. "i have a great respect for my friend the arctic bear; i cannot help admiring his immensity, his power of endurance, his wonderful swimming capabilities, and his great sagacity, which latter he shows in a hundred different ways, known only to those who have thoroughly studied the tricks and the manners of the monster. "a polar bear has all the cunning of a fox, all the agility of an otter, and more than the strength of the largest lion. "the she-bear is remarkably fond of her young, but not more so, i think, than the seal is of her offspring. a seal, indeed, is at most times one of the most timid and wary animals in creation, but she will, and often does, lay down her life for her young ones. if young seals are on a piece of ice with their dams, the latter will naturally take to the water on the approach of men on the ice or in boats; but if a young one cries, or is made to cry on purpose, the mother will appear again, and, defying all danger, make towards it, paying the penalty of death for this exhibition of her maternal instinct. "i do not think that bears actually hibernate in a dormant state; but in very bad weather they no doubt take long spells of sleep in holes under the snow, and a capital way of passing the time it must be; if mankind could only do the same, then sleep would be the poor man's best friend. but your arctic bear is fond of a good nap in the sunshine, even in summer; i was beset for nearly two months once, some little way south and west of the island of jan mayen. one day, with dana's `two years before the mast' in my hand, and my binocular slung across my shoulder, i wandered away from the ship. i had neither rifle nor club, not expecting to need either. i found myself at last by the foot of a very tall hummock, composed, i daresay, of bay-ice squeezed up at some time or other and finally snowed over. i like to get on tops of eminences, and this hummock looked like a small tower of babel in the midst of the flat and wide expanse of snow-clad ice; so up i went, and sat down to read. on looking around me presently, i noticed a yellow mark or spot on the snow some hundred or hundred and fifty yards off. on bringing my glasses to bear on it, i found it was a bear; and he was moving or wriggling. he evidently had not seen me yet, nor scented me. i had no more heart to read dana just then. i thought the best thing i could do would be to sit still, and keep semaphoring with my right arm and dana towards the brute; the mate was in the crow's-nest, i thought, and would be sure to notice me soon, and know something was wrong. but the mate did not notice me. the truth is the steward had taken him some coffee, with a dose of rum in it, a drink of which he was inordinately fond, and he was smacking his lips over that. i semaphored with my right hand until it was temporarily paralysed; then i turned quietly round and semaphored with my left. this change of position necessitated my looking over my shoulder to the ship. on again turning round i was horrified to find that bruin was up, and evidently wondering who or what i was, and what i meant. he came closer, and stood again to look, for bears are inquisitive. i kept up my motions--there was nothing else to be done, and my heart felt as big as a bullock's. presently the bear commenced gyrating his great head and neck, the better to scent me, i suppose; only it looked as if he was mimicking my actions. so there the pair of us kept it up for what seemed to me about five hours, though it might not have been a minute. then bruin quietly turned stern and shambled off. "an old authority describes the pace of a polar bear as equal to that of the sharp gallop of a horse. i believe a bear can spring as far as a horse can jump, or nearly, but his pace is not even half as fast, nor anything like it. "i have eaten a great many strange things in my time, but i should be sorry indeed to have to dine off arctic bear in the seal season. everybody is not so particular, however, and the norwegians make many a hearty meal off bear-beef. i was in the cabin of a norwegian once when they had bear for dinner. there was the captain and first and second mate at table. in the centre stood a dish with an immense hunk of boiled bear on it; by the side of it was placed a large plate of potatoes, cooked in their skins. nobody used a fork, only the knife; so on the whole it was a pretty sight to see them. i was asked to partake. i begged to be excused, and to escape from the odour of the fishy-fleshy steam, i ran on deck, and lit a cigar." chapter seven. "spring is coming:--the storm.--the fairy forest: a tale." "the brown buds thicken on the trees, unbound the free streams sing, as march leads forth across the leas the wild and windy spring. "when in the fields the melted snow leaves hollows warm and wet, ere many days will sweetly blow the first blue violet." "i have all my life possessed such a love for nomadic adventure, that i often wondered if i have any real gipsy blood in me." this was a remark i made an evening or two after frank had told us all about his friends the arctic bears. i was looking at the fire as i spoke, as one does who is in deep thought. "what do you see in the fire?" asked frank. "i see," i replied, without removing my eyes from the crackling logs and melting sea-coal, "i see a beautifully fitted caravan, drawn by two nice horses, jogging merrily along a lovely road, among green trees, rose-clad hedgerows and trailing wild flowers. it is a beautiful evening, the clouds in the west are all aglow with the sunset-rays. i see figures on the broad _coupe_--female figures, one, two, three; and i can almost hear the jingle of the silver bells on the horses' harness." "who are the ladies--can you distinguish them?" asked frank. "not quite." "o! i know, it's me and ma and maggie may." this from little ida. "ida," i said, "your language is alliterative, but hardly grammatical." "never mind about the grammar," said frank, laughing. "you've got an idea of some sort in your head, so just let us have it." "i have it already," cried maggie may, springing towards me with a joy-look in her eyes, and a glad flush on her cheek. "i dreamt it," she added. "the caravan is already built, and you are going to take us all gipsying when summer comes." i am not good at equivocation, so i confessed at once that maggie may was right, and from the amount of pleasurable excitement the announcement gave her, i augured well. indeed, we all felt sure that from our romantic trip, maggie may would return home as well as ever she had been in all her little life. there is nothing to be compared to the joy of anticipating pleasure to come. and from the very day our beautiful caravan rolled into the yard and was drawn up on the lawn, everybody set about doing what he or she could towards the completion of the fittings, of the already luxuriously furnished saloon of the house upon wheels. [note 1.] this was indeed a labour of love. there were so many little things to be thought about, to say nothing of decorations, neat and pretty curtains, a lovely little library of tiny but nicely bound books, mirrors, flower vases, etc. the cooking department had its head centre in the after-cabin; here, however, no bulky open and dusty stove burned, but a pretty little oil range, and the kitchen fittings and pantry fixings would have compared favourably even with those of lady brassey's yacht, the _sunbeam_. frank and i, being both old campaigners, saw to everything else. we had a good coachman, two splendid horses, besides an extra smaller covered cart in which frank himself, who was to be both valet and cook, could sleep at night. to make sure of not being robbed on the road we had good revolvers, and, better than all, our noble newfoundland, hurricane bob. when everything was complete and ready for the road, we had nothing to do but sit down and long for spring to come. "i really believe," said honest frank to me one bright beautiful morning in march, "that the child is better already with the thoughts of going on this romantic tour of yours." and so indeed it seemed, and that forenoon, when my friend and i prepared to go out for a ramble, maggie may was by our side, fully equipped and in marching order. "it really does seem," she said joyfully, "that spring is coming." -----------------------------------------------------------------------spring is coming. the birds and the buds were saying it, and the winds were whispering the glad news to the almost leafless trees. the early primroses that snuggled in under the laurels, and the modest blue violets half hidden among their round leaves, were saying "spring is coming." and the bonnie bell-like snowdrops nodded their heads to the passing breeze and murmured "spring is coming." cock-robin, who sang to us and _at_ us now whenever we came into the garden, told the tale to the thrush, and the thrush told it to the blackbird, and the blackbird hurried away to build his nest in the thick yew hedge; he would not sing, he said, until his work was finished. but the mad merry thrush sang enough for ten, and mocked every sound he heard. the lark, who pretended that he had already built his nest among the tender-leaved wheat, just beginning to shimmer green over the brown earth, sang high in air. you could just see him fluttering against a white cloud, and looking no bigger than the head of a carpet tack. he sang of nothing but spring--such a long song, such a strong song, such a wild melodious ringing lilt, that you could not have helped envying him, nor even sharing some of his joy. "oh, skylark! for thy wing! thou bird of joy and light, that i might soar and sing, at heaven's empyreal height! with the heathery hills beneath me, whence the streams in glory spring, and the pearly clouds to wreathe me, oh, skylark! on thy wing!" "spring is coming:" every rippling rill, every sparkling brook, were singing or saying it. the hedgerows put forth tiny white-green budlets, the elders and the honeysuckles expanded early leaves, those on the former looking like birds' claws, those on the latter like wee olive-green hands. we saw to-day, in the woods, early butterflies and early bees, and many a little insect friend creeping gaily over the green moss. and high aloft, among some gigantic elms, the rooks were cawing lustily, as they swang on the branches near their nests. we heard a mole rustling beneath dead leaves, and to our joy we saw a squirrel run up a branch and sit to bask in a a little streak of sunshine. "yes," said frank, "sure enough spring is coming." -----------------------------------------------------------------------the storm. march 15.--why, it is only two days since that delightful ramble of ours. two days, but what a change! the snow has been falling all night long. it was falling still when these lines were penned, falling thick and fast. not in those great lazy butterfly-like flakes, that look so strange and beautiful when you gaze skywards, nor in the little millet-seed snow-grains that precede the bigger flakes, but in a mingled mist of snow-stars, that falls o! so fast and looks so cold. the whole world is robed in its winding-sheet. the earth looks dead. to-day is but the ghost of yesterday. the leafless elms, the lindens and the oaks are trees of coral, the larches and pines mere shapes of snow shadowed out with a faint green hue beneath. and the birds! well, the thrush still sings. what a world of hope the bird must carry in his heart! but the blackbird flies now and then through the snow-clad shrubbery with sudden bickering screams that startle even the sparrows. the lark is silent again, and shivering robin comes once more to the study-window to beg for crumbs and comfort. and this snow continues to fall, and fall till it lies six good inches deep on roof and road and hedgerow. and it is sad to think of the buried snowdrops, of the crocuses, yellow and blue, and the sweet-scented primroses. march 17.--the pines are borne groundwards, at least their branches droop with the weight of snow; they are very weird-like, very lovely. the snow has melted on the roofs, but the dripping water has frozen into a network of crystal on the rose-bushes that cling around the verandah. it has mostly melted off the tall lindens also, only leaving pieces here and there that look for all the world like a flock of strange big birds. everything is beautiful--but all is silent, all is sad. the sun goes down in a purple haze, looking like a big blood orange; and an hour afterwards, when the stars come out, there is all along the horizon a long broad band of rose tint, shading upwards into yellow, and so into the blue of the night. i close my study-windows, and go into the next room; how bright the fire looks, how cheerful the faces round it! hurricane bob is snoring on the hearth, ida is asleep beside him, maggie may has got hold of a picture and wants me to weave a story to it. note that she says "`_weave_' a story." "i would have put it plainer," says frank, laughing, "and said `spin a yarn.'" at another time, i might have been inclined to attach some semi-comical signification to the picture maggie may held coaxingly out to me. it represented a wide unbroken field of dazzling snow, with the outlines of a pine-wood in the far distance. there were two dark and ugly figures in the centre of the snow-field--an ugly fierce-like boar and a gaunt and hungry, howling wolf. you could see he was howling. but with the rising wind beginning to moan drearily round our house, and the icicle-laden rose-twigs rattling every now and again against the glass, i could see nothing amusing in maggie may's little picture. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the fairy forest. "had you been walking across that wild wintry waste, maggie may," i began, "you would have seen at some distance before you a great pine-wood, half buried in drifting snow, the tall trees bending before the icy blast and tossing their branches weirdly in the wind." "don't you want slow music to that?" said frank, pretending to reach for his fiddle. "hush, frank! when you looked again, maggie may, lo! what a change! the fairy forest has been transformed into a city. there is a blue uncertain mist all over it, but you can plainly distinguish streets and terraces, steeples, towers, ramparts, and ruins; and instead of the mournful sighing of the wind that previously fell on your ear, you can now listen to the music of bells and the pleasant murmur of the every-day life of a great town. towards this town then, one day, a big wolf was journeying. it was summer then, the sun shone bright, clouds were fleecy, and the sky was blue, and the plain all round him was bright with the greenery of grass and dotted with wild flowers. but neither the beauty of the day, nor the loveliness of the scenery, had any effect on the gaunt and ugly wolf. not being good himself, he could see no goodness in nature. "`i'm far too soon,' he grumbled to himself, `i must curl up till nightfall; i wish the sun wasn't shining, and i wish the birds wouldn't sing so. moonlight and the owls would suit me far better. i wonder what makes that skylark so happy? well, _i_ was happy once,' he continued as he lay down behind a bush, `yes i was, but, dear me, it is long ago. when i was young and innocent, ha! ha! i wouldn't have stolen a tame rabbit or a chicken for all the world; i was content with the food i found in the wild woods, and now i'm lying here waiting for night, that i may fall upon and slay a dozen at least of those pretty lambkins i see gambolling down on yonder lea. i wouldn't mind being young again though, i think i might lead a better life, i think--' "he did not think any more just then, for he had fallen sound asleep. "the hours flew by. the sun went round and down, and a big moon rose slowly up in the east and smiled upon the landscape. "the time flew by, as time only flies in a fairy forest. "the wolf moaned in his sleep, then he shivered, and shivering awoke. no wonder he shivers: he had lain down to sleep with the soft balmy summer winds playing around him; now all is cold snow. "no wonder he shivers, for yonder in front of him, and not two yards away, stands one of the most terrible-looking apparitions ever his eyes beheld. a great grizzly boar! "`o! dear me,' cried the wolf, `what a fright you gave me! who are you at all?' "`i'm remorse,' was the stern reply; `you used to call me conscience once.' "`o! well,' said the wolf, `do go away, you have no idea how dreadful you look. i'll--hoo--oo--oo!' "and the wolf laid back his ears, lifted up his head and voice, and howled till the welkin rang, just as you see him in the picture. "`i didn't always look dreadful,' said the boar; `when i was young i was tender, but you seared me and hardened me, and tried to bury me. do you remember the days when i used to beseech you to do unto others as you would that others would do unto you? now i'm come to do unto you as you have done to others. aha!' "`hoo--oo--oo!' howled the wolf. `o! pray go away. hoo--oo--oo!' "`nay, nay,' said remorse, `i'll never leave you more.' "`you must be joking,' cried the wolf, `you must be mad. hoo--oo--oo!' "`must i?' said remorse; `you've led a life of discontent. your evil deeds are more in number than the bristles on my back.' "`pray don't mention them,' exclaimed the wolf, shivering all over. "`you've led a cruel, selfish, useless life. do you feel any the better for it now? you don't look any better.' "`o! no, no, no.' "`now look at me.' "`i daren't. hoo--oo--oo!' "`well, listen.' "`i must.' "`yes, you cannot shut your ears, though you may close your eyes. before you tried to crush and kill me, i was your best friend, the still small voice within you guiding you on to good. what am i now? your foe, your tormentor--remorse!' "`mercy, mercy!' cried the wolf. `o! give me back my innocence. be my conscience once again.' "`too late!' "and now a cloud passed over and hid the moon, and next moment, had you looked, neither wolf nor wild boar would you have seen. "nothing there save the distant fairy forest, with the wind bending its branches and sighing mournfully across that dreary waste of snow." -----------------------------------------------------------------------note 1. a complete description of this caravan is to be found in my book, "the cruise of the land yacht _wanderer_," published by messrs. hodder and stoughton, paternoster row. the book is at all libraries. chapter eight. on the road.--neptune: a story of strange meetings. "love, now a universal birth, from heart to heart is stealing, one moment now may give us more than fifty years of reason; our minds shall drink at every pore the spirit of the season." wordsworth. it was on a lovely morning early in the month of june that--after many trial trips here and there across country--we started on our long and romantic tour, away to the distant north. come weal or woe, we determined never to turn our horses' heads southwards until we had reached and crossed the grampian mountains. all the village turned out to see us start--the older folks shouting us a friendly farewell, the children waving their arms in the air and cheering. but in an hour's time we were away in the lonesome woods, and when we stopped on a piece of moorland to eat our first real gipsy lunch, there was not a sound to be heard anywhere except the bleat of sheep, and the singing of the joyous birds in the adjoining copse. a blue june sky was above us, june butterflies floated in the soft june air, june sunshine glittered in the quivering beech-tree leaves, june wild flowers were everywhere, and the joy of june was in all our hearts. i had never seen frank look so buoyant and young as he did now, despite those tell-tale hairs of silver in his brown beard. some of the roses of june seemed to have settled in maggie may's cheeks already, my wife looked calmly happy, and wee ida madly merry, while hurricane bob rolled lazily on his back and pulled up and threw to the winds great tufts of verdant moss. ida was frank's _coupe_ companion. his caravan came behind ours, and sure enough these two gipsies had plenty to say, and they saw plenty to laugh at. it is time to tell the reader about one little wanderer that has not been mentioned before--mysie, the caravan cat. we really had intended leaving miss mysie at home in charge of the old cook, but miss mysie did not mean to be left. she had watched with the most motherly interest all our preparations for the tour, and at the very last moment in she jumped and took possession of a corner of the caravan sofa, commencing forthwith to sing herself to sleep. and there she was now, while we sat on the greensward at lunch, walking round big bob, and rubbing her shoulders against his head, as happy as a feline queen. for believe me, dear reader, cats are very much what you make them. i have made these animals a study, and found that the old ideas about them which naturalists possessed, and the conclusions they so ungenerously jumped at, are all wrong. i do assure you--and you can easily prove it for yourself--that if you use a cat well, feed her regularly and treat her as the rational being it undoubtedly is, you will find that pussy is _not_ a thief, that she is fonder far of persons than places, that she is true and faithful, loving and good. -----------------------------------------------------------------------as soon as luncheon was over, and we had rested a little and the horses' mouths were washed out--they had been busy all the time with nose-bags on--we resumed our journey. we had no intention, however, of seeking for, or of sojourning even for a single night, in any large town. as our home by night and by day for months to come would be the caravans, so our bivouac must be in woods and wilds. at all events we must keep far away from the bustle and din, the trouble and turmoil, of towns. towards evening we found ourselves drawing near to a cosy little roadside inn, and here we not only got a meadow in which to place our wooden houses, but stabling for our steeds. and while frank put up the tent and dinner was being prepared, i busied myself looking after the horses, and seeing to their bedding and general comfort. this was to be one of my duties every evening. the day had not been altogether devoid of adventures, for we lost our way entirely once in a labyrinth of lanes that seemed to lead nowhere, or rather everywhere, through beautiful woods on the banks of the thames. we got clear at last, however, and soon found ourselves on a hill so steep, that it was with the greatest difficulty our powerful horses managed to drag the caravans up and over it. but now all our troubles were forgotten; and no wonder, for such a dinner as our cook and valet frank placed before us in the tent, surely gipsies never sat down to before. we were all as happy, if not as merry, as larks, for everything was so new to us; and this life of perfect freedom seemed, somehow or other, precisely what each of us had been born for. when, after the tent had been cleared, and frank had brought in his violin and commenced to play, it appeared quite a natural thing that the figure of a handsome young man in cyclist's uniform should come to the doorway to listen. i beckoned him in, and presently he was squatting in the midst of us. "now, gordon," said frank, when he had finished playing a symphony, "we'll have your story, and then perhaps the young stranger will give us some of his experiences." "i'll be delighted, i'm sure," said the cyclist, smiling. "that is," he added, "if i can think of anything." "i'll tell you, then," i said, "one of my service adventures." "is it true?" asked ida. "quite true, ida," i replied. "i shall call it------------------------------------------------------------------------"neptune: a story of strange meetings. "`the world is not so _very_ wide after all!' "this exclamation, or one somewhat akin to it, we are constantly hearing in these times of rapid travelling. for my own part i am never in the slightest degree astonished at meeting any old friend anywhere, for nowadays there seems but little to prevent everybody from going everywhere. "i could instance scores of cases of strange and unexpected meetings from the diary of my own life, and some of them would be amusing enough, but one or two must suffice. "when i first left home to join the service i left geordie m--ploughing in one of my father's fields, with an ox and the `orra' beast. i specially mention the ox and the `orra' beast, by way of showing that geordie was by no means even a first-class ploughman. [orra, _scotice_ `of all work,' or `for doing odd jobs.'] he was an _orra_ man himself, and couldn't be trusted with a team of the best horses. he was slow in his motions, and slow in his notions; he wore a corduroy coat, his boots weighed pounds, he never lifted his feet, but trailed them; such was geordie. "just two years after this i was one day sitting forward in the sick bay examining and taking the names of a batch of marines who had come to join us from another ship. it was at bombay, and the weather was hot, and i was drowsy, so i seldom looked twice at my man, and was not in the best of tempers; but there was one marine in the lot, and a right smart clean-footed fellow he was, who attracted my attention, because he laughed when i spoke to him. he talked in the broadest of scotch, and the very sound of his voice recalled to my memory highland hills clothed in blooming heather. i rubbed my eyes and looked at him again. as sure as i live it was geordie. "i bade good-by to a medical friend of mine once in soho square. he was going away to the country to get married, and settle down in a mining district among the welsh hills. years flew by. i was out on the eastern shores of africa. we were hunting slavers. one rascally old dhow gave us much trouble and a long chase. we ran her at last down to shooting distance, and as she would not stop we brought our big guns to bear on her; still she flew on, and on, fair and square before the wind, till a lucky shot knocked the mainmast out of her. when we boarded her, the very first person seen on deck was the medical friend i had bidden a final adieu to--as i thought--in soho square. there was not much mystery about the matter after all. he had _not_ got married. he had not settled down among the welsh mountains. he was on his way to zanzibar to join a mission, and had taken passage in this dhow for cheapness' sake. "peter middleton--this is not his real name--was a blacksmith's apprentice in my parish. he was clever, too clever, for he often got into trouble for requisitioning hares, rabbits, and such small cattle of the hills. when he took at last to paying midnight visits to the farmers' fowl-runs, the farmers waxed wroth, and peter had to run himself, and no more was heard of him in that place. my ship was lying some time after at a town in south australia, and i received a polite but badly spelt note from a resident medical man requesting me to come on shore for consultation on a difficult case. the house was a smart one and well-furnished, but judge of my surprise to find that the doctor himself was no other than peter middleton, ex-poacher and poultry-fancier. it is a strange world! "but to my tale. i very seldom travel anywhere, by sea or land, without taking as a companion a well-trained and handsome dog. it is nearly always a pure black newfoundland, a breed for which i have obtained some celebrity. these animals are of such extreme beauty and so prepossessing in manners, and so noble withal, that they never fail to make friends wherever they go. it may seem a strange thing to say, but it is strictly true nevertheless, that my dogs have introduced me to many of those who at the present moment i rank among my most valued acquaintances. "about two years before the tremendous war broke out between germany and france, happening to have earned a `spell of leave' as sailors call it, i was very naturally spending it in touring through the scottish highlands, my only companion being as usual a noble newfoundland, who not only performed the duties of bodyguard and sentry over my person, but also those of light porter, for he carried my portmanteau. had i possessed any desire for exclusiveness on this journey, i should have been quite miserable, for wherever i went--on steamboat, in trains, or walking on foot--my princely companion was the subject of conversation and admiration. if i had tied a slate about my neck and pretended to be deaf and dumb, i might have been allowed to hold my tongue, but i should have had to write. "who that has travelled in summer among the western isles of scotland, does not know the grand steamships of the country, with their splendid decks and palatial saloons. one beautiful day my dog and i were on board one of these boats on our way to portree, the capital of skye. nero was looking his best and sauciest, his crimson silver-clasped collar showing off his raven-black colour to the best advantage. i seated myself in an out-of-the-way corner right abaft, with a book to read, and threw my tartan plaid over the dog. i thought we should thus escape observation, and i would not have to answer the same questions over and over again which i had been replying to for the last month. but the book was too interesting. i became absorbed in it, i lost myself, and when i found myself again, i found i had lost my dog. but yonder he was with quite a crowd about him, his beauty greatly enhanced by the rich colours of the plaid that floated from his broad back on each side of him, making him look like some gaily caparisoned elephant or embryo jumbo. from the laughing and talking i could hear, it was evident he was amusing them by performing his various tricks, such as sneezing, making a bow, saying `yes,' standing on alternate legs, etc, all of which brought him buns and tit-bits. "`your dog's been 'avin' a blow out,' a sailor said to me. `i see'd 'im eat the best 'alf of a turkey, besides two pork-pies, and no end of lumps of sugar, biscuits, and buns.' "i soon stopped the performance, but did not get away until i had told the whole history of the dog, his breed and pedigree, and the points and characteristics, whims and oddities of newfoundlands, and about fifty anecdotes of dogs in general, given a kind of canine lecture; in fact, i had become used to the role of public platformist by this time. "the dog slipped down that day to dinner with the rest of us, and lay down between a young german gentleman and myself. the steward wished to turn the dog out. i said `certainly, by all means.' the great good-natured dog also said `certainly, by all means,' when the steward addressed him; `but,' the dog added, `you'll have to carry me.' "as the newfoundland weighed over nine stone, the steward permitted him to remain. then the german and i got talking about the weather, the ship, the sea, my country, his country, history, poetry, music and painting. his english was very good and his accent almost faultless, and his conversational powers were great; but though he could speak well, he could also listen, and the earnest look, the smile, or the occasional hearty though well-timed laugh, showed he possessed a soul that could appreciate originality in others, in whatever form it came. before i was an hour in this young german's company, i had come to the conclusion that there were only _two_ human beings on board the steamer, and that they were hans hegel and myself. i have reason to believe that hegel himself was much of the same opinion. "we stayed at the same hotel, and next morning--and a delightful morning it was--as we sat together on the pine-clad hill, with the blue waters of the loch shimmering in the sunshine far beneath us, and on every side the marvellous rocks and wondrous hills, we agreed to travel in each other's company for the next three weeks at least. "when i say that those three weeks got extended to six, it will readily be believed that we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. of all romantic scenery it has ever been my luck in life to gaze upon, that of the `winged isle' is by far and away the most enchanting. see skye in summer, and you will have something to think about and dream about until your dying day. "i was somewhat proud to be able to show my newly found friend all the wild beauties of the island, the mysterious caves among its rocks, the frowning glories of its mountains, the sylvan sweetness that hovers dream-like around bonnie armadale, and the awesome sublimities of lonely coruishk. i know skye _so_ well, and there was not a glen, a hill, a bleak moorland or one mile of surf-tormented beach, on which i could not cause to reappear the heroes and heroines of a bygone age. there was no attempt at effect in anything i said; i told but what i knew, i spoke but what i felt, and if i did sometimes warm to my subject or description, the warmth welled right up from the bottom of my heart. "every enjoyment must come to an end at last. i got a letter one morning--a long white service envelope contained it--which demanded my presence on the other side of the world. "we were reclining on a wild-thyme scented knoll not far from the edge of a cliff, that went down a sheer five-hundred feet to the sea below. we could hear the boulders thundering on the beach, though we could not see them. beyond this was the minch, flaked with foam; it was a breezy day, and far away on the horizon the blue outline of the harris hills. "`no,' he said, in answer to a question of mine. `we will not hamper each other with a promise to correspond. this world is full of sad partings. we must bend to the inevitable. i'll think of you though, sometimes, and skye, and this lovely dog.' "`i have one of his puppies,' i said, `he shall be yours.' "the franco-german war was over; even the demon of civilised warfare had been exorcised at last by blood and tears, and peace smiled sadly on the soil of france once more. "i had been for a short time attached to a corps of german dragoons, in the capacity of correspondent. but there was little more for me to do now, only i think the officers, with whom i had got very friendly, wished me to see their reception at home, and i could not resist the temptation to march along with them. i have often been `homeward bound,' but never saw before such genuine happiness as i now did. how they talked of the mothers, wives, sweethearts, and little ones they were soon again to see, and often too with a sigh and a manly tear or two about the comrades they left behind them under the green sod! "our mess was a very jolly one. sometimes at night the wind rose and roared, causing our tents--we _had_ a tent then--to flap like sails in a storm at sea. or the rain would beat against it, until the canvas first sweated inside, then dropped water, then ran water, till we were drenched. but, whether drenched or dry, we always sang, oh! such rattling choruses. the villages we passed through had all we wanted to buy, the villagers often scowled, and i think they were usually glad to see our backs. but some fawned on us like whipped hounds for the sake of the money we spent. yet i must say in justice that the germans took no unfair advantage, and if any allusion was made to them as conquerors, they but laughed carelessly, muttered something about the fortunes of war, and changed the subject. "i was riding along one morning early, when i saw several of our fellows on the brow of a hill looking back with some degree of interest, but trotting on all the same. "i should have followed their example, but the mournful howling of a dog attracted my attention, and went straight to my very heart. so i rode up and over the hill. "i was hardly prepared for what i saw. a beautiful black newfoundland, whining pitifully beside what appeared to be the dead body of a man. "i dismounted, and the dog came to meet me. he jumped and fawned on me, then rushed wildly back to the side of that prostrate form. but i stood as if one transfixed. i could not mistake those eyes. it was neptune, that i had given--a seven months' old puppy--to hans hegel three years before. "and the poor fellow who lay before me with sadly gashed face, upturned to the morning sun, was hegel himself. "he lay on his sword, lay as he had fallen, and the absence of the coat, the sash-bound waist, and sleeve up-rolled, told to me the history of his trouble in a way there was no mistaking. he had fallen in a duel. "but was he dead? no. for, soon after i had raised him in my arms, and poured a little cordial down his throat, he opened his eyes, gazed bewilderedly at me for a moment, then his hand tightened on mine and he smiled. he knew me. "i should have liked some of those strange people who do not love dogs to have been present just then, to witness the looks of gratitude in poor neptune's eyes as he tenderly licked my hand with his soft tongue. "my regiment went on: i stayed at the nearest village hostelry with hans hegel. "when he was well enough he told me the story of the duel. so far the affair was unromantic enough, for there was not a lady in it. the quarrel had been forced upon him by a fire-eating frenchman, and swords were drawn on a point of national honour. "`i owe my life to you,' hegel said. "`you owe your life,' i replied, `to heaven and that faithful dog.'" -----------------------------------------------------------------------"and now, sir stranger," i said as i concluded my story, "we look to you." "well," said the cyclist, "as you gave a name to your tale, i daresay i must follow suit. your tale had a dog in it. mine has a horse, and as the horse's name was doddie, so i call my story." chapter nine. old doddie; the cyclist's story. "thro'out the annals of the land, tho' he may hold himself the least, that man i honour and revere, who, without favour, without fear, in the great city dares to stand the friend of every friendless beast." longfellow. "i had dismounted to light my tricycle lamps, and to `oil up,' previously to accomplishing the last part of my day's ride--a good fifteen miles, through a rough and very lonely bit of country on the borders of north wales. i had already ridden somewhat over thirty-five miles that day, and the roads were sticky, and in many parts stony, for it was very early in the spring, and the metal that had been put down a month or two before had not yet smoothed down. "i was not sorry, therefore, to stretch my legs a little and gaze at the sky. the sun had set about an hour before, and the heavens in the south-west were lit up with most singular beauty of tinting. there was nothing stern or harsh about the colouring--no saturnian glare, no sulphureous glow, like what was so often seen during the winter of 1883-84. high up, the sky there was of a palish blue; in that blue shone a solitary star with wonderful brilliancy. beneath this was pale saffron-yellow. lower down still this pure yellow melted gradually into a soft tint of carmine, while between that and the horizon was a bar of misty steel-grey. "`how lovely!--how inexpressibly lovely!' i couldn't help saying to myself, half aloud. "`it is indeed beautiful!' said a voice close by my elbow that made me start and look round. `but it bodes no good. you couldn't see me coming,' he said, smiling, `because i was under the shadow of the hawthorn hedge; and you couldn't hear me, because i walked on the grass.' "`and what did you come for?' i inquired. `but stop,' i added, before he could answer my question; `i have no right to ask you. the road is free to both of us.' "`but i'm not on a journey,' he replied, `so i will answer. my house is in here, behind that hedge, though you can't see it, and there is not another for the next ten miles. you are seventeen miles from l--, where, i presume, you are going. had you not better come in and rest a bit? the moon rises at eight to-night.' "`you are really very kind,' i said; `but my being so far from home makes hurry all the more necessary. i'll light my lamps and be off.' "`as you please,' he said carelessly. "just then i discovered, very much to my astonishment--for i pride myself on the perfectness of my outfit while on the road--that my match-box was empty. "`i'll follow you, thanks,' i said, `and borrow a few matches from you.' "`come on, then,' said my would-be host pleasantly; and trundling my cycle in front of me, i followed him. "he was a man apparently about forty--square-shouldered, tall, straight, and manly-looking. he did not look a farmer, but he evidently was, from the appearance of his place--and a farmer, too, of sporting proclivities. "a boy was drawing water from a deep well; a fine old hunter stood by watching the boy--a dark bay horse, whose hollow temples and somewhat drooping under-lip gave proofs of age. a couple of beautiful setter dogs came careering up to meet their master, and received a fond caress. the old horse left the boy at the well and ambled up, then, laying his head on my host's shoulder, nickered low but kindly. "`bless his good old heart! has he had his supper?' "my heart warmed to a man who could speak thus kindly to a dumb brute. "`you love that horse, evidently,' i said. "`i do,' was the reply. `i have good cause to. down, doddie--down on your knees to this gentleman.' "doddie, as he called him, did at once what he was told to, and there remained while i smoothed his ears and caressed him on the brow. "`trot off now, doddie, and have a drink.' "and away went doddie. "i was not sorry to rest awhile; the fireside was so pleasant, and the room all so cheerful. the hostess, a fragile little fair-haired body, who must have been bewitchingly pretty a few years back, and who did not look a bit like a fanner's wife, brought in a tray laden with bread, cheese, and butter, and a mug of home-brewed beer. "to have refused partaking of this cheer would have been most unmannerly. i did justice to it, therefore, and we soon got quite friendly. two hours passed very quickly indeed; then i was startled to hear the wind howling in the chimney, and the rain beating against the panes. "`i knew it was coming,' said my host, whose name, i found, was morris. `that is one reason i asked you in; the other was,'--here he smiled very pleasantly--`a selfish one--i don't have a talk with a gentleman once in a month. mary, fill our mugs again--it's only home-brewed, sir--and i'll tell the gentleman why we love old doddie so.' "mary sat by the fire quietly knitting, while mr morris told me the following particulars of old doddie. "`been a rover all my life,' he began, `till three years ago, when mary's father brought us home here to his native place, bought this little farm for us, then died--poor old soul! he'd been a farmer out in mexico, but didn't save much. like myself, he seemed but to live to prove the truth of the proverb that a rolling stone never gathers moss. but he was never such a rolling stone as i, sir. bless you! no. i've been everything--oxford graduate, coffee-planter, actor, soldier, trapper, miner, ne'er-do-weel. eh, mary?' "mary merely smiled, but she gave him one kindly glance that spoke volumes. "`well, sir, my story--and it is short enough i mean to make it-commences, anyhow, in my trapper days, and there are two things it proves: the first is, that even a redskin can be grateful; and the second is, that tom morris has been a lucky dog, and drawn, at all events, one trump card in his day. "`i was living in a log hut in one of the wildest parts of the north-west of mexico, and had been for nearly a year. the hut didn't belong to me. there was nobody in it but a half-starved dog when i came upon it, so i just took quiet possession; but the owner never returned, and from stains of a very suspicions colour all about the doorway, i guessed he had been killed and robbed by the indians. "`i had an idea there was gold somewhere thereabout. i had this idea from the very first, and i wasn't altogether wrong. i found enough to cause me to stay on and on. i spent most of my time prospecting among the hills, the forests, and the canons, killing enough game and enough fish to keep me alive, with the help of a few sweet potatoes that grew in a patch close by the hut. "`i found gold, but i didn't make a pile. but in my wanderings i came across the cattle ranche that belonged to mary's poor old father here. i was surprised to find a white man so far away from civilisation. but mr ellis knew what he was about. there was the river not far away, and the forest adjoining, and this river was navigable all the way down to the town of c--, some sixty or seventy miles. at c--was a splendid market for skins and grain. mr ellis paid nothing for his cattle, and very little for the labour of farming, and he had no rent to pay, so on the whole i didn't blame him for staying where he did. he had only one companion, and that was his little daughter mary here, and his servants, men and women, numbered about ten in all. "`the farm buildings must have been a kind of an outpost at one time, when the indians and the states were hard at it, for they were completely surrounded with a log rampart and a ditch. there had been a drawbridge and a gate, but it was now a solid affair of stone. but over his bridge, please remember, lay the only road into fort ellis farmhouse. "`although the fort was twenty miles 'cross country, and more than forty by the regular road, i found myself very often indeed at the farm, and poor mr ellis--heigho! he is dead and gone--and i got very friendly indeed. "`and mary and i--ah! well, sir, you cannot wonder that, thrown together thus, and in so wild a country, we got very fond of each other indeed. "`but to proceed. the indians were never very friendly to the white man. they bore a grudge against him--a grudge born, sir, of many and many a broken treaty. so they were not to be depended on even when the hatchet was buried. "`there came to my hut, sir, one summer's day, crawling painfully on bands and knees, an indian of the tribe i am talking about. he had been bitten by a snake--a moccasin, if my memory served me aright. i took him in out of the sun, and gave him nearly all the _aqua ardiente_ i had in the hut. for days he lay like a dead thing, and i was beginning to think about where i'd bury him, when he opened his eyes and spoke. i gave him the _aqua ardiente_ now in teaspoonfuls. i nursed him almost day and night, hardly ever leaving him. but he was on his feet and well again at last, and if ever tears were in a redskin's eyes, they were in his when he bade me good-by. i hadn't been much at the fort during the redskin's illness, and they were getting alarmed about me, when one forenoon doddie and i came clattering over the drawbridge. "`a few months flew by so quickly, sir, because i was in love, you know; and one evening in autumn the dog barked; next moment my redskin stood before me with a finger on his lip. "`hist!' he said; and i drew him into the hut. "`o! sir, sir! tom morris was a madman when he was informed by that poor friendly redskin that at twelve that night the fort would be attacked by a wandering tribe of redskins, every one murdered save mary, who was to be dragged off into captivity. "`i thanked the indian, blessed him, then hurried to the stable and brought doddie out. the saddle was broken; it must be a bare-back ride. there was time if we met no accident. it was now eight o'clock, and i mounted, waving adieu to the indian, and rode away eastwards in the direction of the fort. in an hour i was at the river. here the main road branched away round among the mountains. there was no time to take that. my way lay across the ford and through the forest, cutting off a long bend or elbow of the river, and coming out at another ford, within a mile of ellis fort and farm. "`i headed doddie for the stream, and we were soon over. i knew the path, and the moon was up, making everything as light as day. "`but look ahead! the glare was never the moon's light. alas! no, sir; it was fire. the forest was in flames. i think to this day it was done by the savages to intercept me. in half an hour more, sir, the flames were licking the grass within ten yards of our pathway, and running in tongues up the bark of the trees. "`doddie neighed in fright, reared, and i was thrown. next moment i was alone in the burning forest. to fly from the fire was impossible. i threw myself on my face in despair. o! the agony of those few minutes! but even then i believe i thought more of poor mary and her father than of my own wretched end. "`all at once i started to my feet, for a soft nose had nudged me on the arm. it was doddie, and in an instant we were flying again through the forest. i think we might have made the ford, but my horse now seemed to lose all control of himself, and i of the horse, for the bridle broke. "`doddie made for the river above this ford, and took a desperate leap into the deep water. but he was quieter now, and it was easy to head him down the stream, and at last we were once again on _terra firma_, with the broad river between us and the fire. "`we blew up the bridge and barricaded the gate immediately on my arrival. and not a whit too soon, for half an hour afterwards the fort was surrounded by howling savages. "`our relief came next evening, in the shape of mounted soldiers; and i feel sure, sir, that it was that grateful indian who sent them.' "i have, reader, given a mere epitome of my host's story, which was altogether interesting and took quite an hour to tell. by the time it was finished, the squall had blown over; the moon shone out bright and clear over the hills, and bidding mr morris a kindly `good-night,' i mounted my cycle and resumed my journey. "but i assure you i did not go until i had patted poor old doddie on the nose, and given him a lunch biscuit from my cyclist's wallet." -----------------------------------------------------------------------the stranger started up as soon as he had finished. "i must be early on the road," he said; "and so i suppose must you." "good-night all." "good-night: sound sleep!" an hour afterwards we were all enjoying that sound repose that only the just, and gipsies, ever know. chapter ten. spare the sparrow. "ye slay them! and wherefore? for the gain of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat. or rye, or barley, or some other grain." on this grand gipsy-tour of ours we had reason to be thankful every day for a good many things. first and foremost, that our horses were so sturdy, strong, and willing; that the great caravan itself was so comfortable, and the smaller one so snug, and both so delightfully and artistically fitted up, that they looked more like the saloon and cabin of some beautiful yacht than the homes of amateur gipsies. it took us a whole month to get across the borders and well into bonnie scotland. but a more pleasant month i for one never spent before nor since. we took it easy. we were determined to study the _otium cum dignitate_ and _dolce far niente_, and at the end of this month it would have been difficult to say which of us was the hardier or jollier. the horses were sleek and fat, hurricane bob spent most of his time either lying among rugs on the _coupe_ with the children, or tumbling on the daisied sward, while the cat did nothing but sing and look complacent. we human beings were so happy, we could even afford to laugh and be gay when thunders rolled, when gales of wind blew and rocked the caravan as if she had been a ship at sea, or when the rain came down in torrents. maggie may had already ceased to be an invalid, and ida had got as brown as if she really were a true-born romany-rye. no, we never hurried the horses. for there was so much to be seen, fresh scenery at every turn of the road, beautiful wild flowers to be gathered to fill the vases. the children at lunch-time even made great garlands of them, and hung them round the horses' necks. of course the village children always took us for a show, and ran out to meet and cheer us, but most grown-up folks took us simply for what we were--a party on a pleasant summer tour. mysie, strange to say, although she often stopped out of doors all night, was always back in good time for the start in the morning. i fear she proved a great enemy to the birds. one evening she brought into the tent a beautifully plumaged cock-sparrow. now i am very fond of sparrows. they are historical birds, and birds of bible times, so i relieved mysie of her poor prisoner, and let it flutter away. we then had some talk about sparrows, and i embody my ideas of them in the following sketch. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the british sparrow: a study in ornithology. the sparrow, although it undoubtedly belongs to the great natural family _fringillidae_, which includes among its members the weavers and whydah birds, the linnet, the goldfinch, and bullfinch, to say nothing of the canary itself, can hardly be said to rank with the aristocracy of the bird world. quite the reverse; in fact, the _passer domesticus_ is a bird of low life. he is by no means a humble bird, however. there is nothing at all of the uriah heep about my little friend; he has quite as good an opinion of himself as any feathered biped need to have. yet if it be possible for some classes of birds to look with disdain on the behaviour and doings of others, sparrows are surely so treated by their betters. and no wonder, for they are neither elegant in shape nor appearance; they do not dress well either in winter or in summer; it is not their lot to be arrayed in scarlet or in gold, but in humble brown and russet grey. so much for the appearance of the bird. in manners and in deportment sparrows are far beneath _bon ton_; their knowledge of music is exceedingly limited, their appreciation of sweet sounds conspicuous only by its absence--why, they think nothing of interrupting even the nightingale in his song--and if any bird can be said to talk billingsgate, those birds are sparrows. should any one doubt the truth of my last statement, let him go and listen for one minute to the wrangling linguamachy that goes on of an evening after sunset, as they are retiring to roost in a tree. yet, for all this, many of the tricks and manners of these plebeian birds are well worth watching, and often highly amusing. it is not, however, merely to amuse the reader that i now write, but quite as much in behalf of the bird itself. for of late years the character of the british sparrow has been aspersed in this country, but more particularly abroad; and i think he ought to have a fair and impartial trial. i therefore stand forward, not, mind you, as the champion, but the counsel both for and against the prisoner at the bar-the said _passer domesticus_, who, on this occasion, is not arraigned for the murder of cock-robin, but for a far more heinous offence, namely, that of constituting himself a common nuisance, and doing more harm than good in the world. for some years back i have had many--nay, but constant--opportunities for studying the habits of sparrows and many other kinds of birds, and i am not unobservant. i live in one of the prettiest and leafiest nooks of tree-clad berkshire. the village that adjoins me nestles among trees; the gardens all about the houses are masses of shrubbery and flowers; stone fences are utterly unknown; there are hedges everywhere. our trees are wide-spreading oaks and planes, drooping acacias, leafy lindens, elm, ash, willow, poplar, and what not. up the lordly line of splendid poplar-trees that bound my cosy little paddock the green ivy grows, and here sparrows dwell in hundreds. i do not shoot my wild birds, nor do my children chase and frighten them. linnets build every year in the laurels close by the dog-kennel: robins feed with the dogs, and some older sparrows know names that we have given them, and come to be fed. no need to hang up boxes for them to build in--we live in the bush; but in summer-time they have a bath on the back lawn, and it is a sight to see them in the early morning. thrushes, blackbirds, finches, sparrows, starlings--they all agree as well as if they had learned watts' hymns, and laid them all to heart. more about my birds another day--perhaps. one starling, however, i must mention here; he comes down every sunny morning, with his wife; he sends her in to bathe and splash; _he_ sits on the edge of the bath and receives the drops--that is all the bath he takes. she is a dutiful wife. the plumage of the domestic sparrow is almost too well known to need description. in one of the very excellent publications of messrs. cassell and co.--viz, "familiar wild birds"--the following remarks occur:-"the difference in the appearance of the plumage of a country sparrow, as compared with his town-bred cousin, would be hardly imagined, the fresh bright plumage of the one displaying the prettily marked black, white, and brown, whilst smoke and dirt hide the beauty of the town sparrow, so that it is sometimes difficult to distinguish the sex at a glance. the male, however, has a brilliant black throat, and is otherwise more determined in colour, the hen being especially deficient in the bright brown of the wings and the chocolate mark over the eyes." this is quite true. the author might have added, however, that the black bib which the male sparrow wears is seldom perfect until june, and the birds pair and build long before they have acquired their summer dresses. they are in such a hurry that they do not wait for their wedding-garments. now, this is just the place to mention a fact that i have proved again and again, to my own satisfaction at all events. it is this: sparrows are polygamous; house-sparrows are undoubtedly so, and i believe also so are their first cousins, who build in trees. i myself was reared in the woods and wilds of scotland, and, like most boys, was fond of bird-nesting. it often used to strike us lads as strange that differently marked eggs were found in the same sparrow's nest. we did not suspect then that these were laid by different birds. last week a family quarrel arose among some sparrows in the large wistaria that covers the front of my cottage, and during the row an immense hammock of a double nest was knocked down. when i say a double nest i mean two nests joined in one--a kind of a "butt and a ben," only with separate doors. one nest was empty--only clean, well-lined, and ready for use. the other contained four eggs--two pairs. they have the distinctive colouring and markings of ordinary sparrow's eggs, but each pair is different, and the gentleman sparrow who owned that semi-detached cottage has two wives; they have built another and private residence some yards from the old site, and it is to be hoped will live happy ever afterwards. i have a sparrow who answers to the name of "weekie," and who comes to call. this sparrow has _three_ wives. in many ways he is a remarkable bird. for several winters he has slept on the same rose-twig close under the verandah, with his wives--at first he had but two--not far from him. i used to watch weekie from a top window sending his wives to roost just at sunset and before he retired himself. he would perch himself on the top of a tall cypress-tree and call them, turning his head this way and that as he hailed them, evidently not knowing from what direction they would come. but they always _did_ come, and after some friendly remonstrance went to roost. about ten minutes after weekie would give himself a little grateful shake, and hop in under the verandah to his favourite twig. it was weekie who first taught me that sparrows build for themselves little shelter-nests--any person in the country who takes the trouble to study these birds can prove to his own satisfaction that such is the case. it is only, however, in frosty weather that the sparrows take the trouble to erect these nests of convenience. some two or three years ago we had a very severe frost. during the first day or two i observed straws lying about the verandah; then i noticed that weekie brought a straw with him at night, and on taking the lamp out to look at him--weekie meanwhile looking down with one wondering bead of an eye--i noticed that he had his straw over his shoulder. well, there couldn't have been much comfort in this, but it was a hint to his two wives, and sure enough they took it, and i saw them building a nest of moss and straw, not larger than half a goose's egg, _around_ and _under_ weekie's twig--not above, because there the verandah sheltered him. weekie was happy now, i suppose, and warm as to his toes. weekie's wives are dutiful wives, but mark this: they themselves had no shelter-nests, and all through the terrible frost-spell they cowered by night within a foot or two of their lord and master--but on bare twigs. i notice now that these shelter-nests are quite common. a cock-sparrow slept in one last winter in the great _gloire de dijon_ rose-tree that covers the northern wall of my stable; but this was built above the perching-twig--it was, in fact, a little arbour. when they don't build shelter-nests, sparrows crouch at night under eaves, in ivy thickets, in old nests, and in the holes of trees, which they sometimes line. the great work of the year--building and bringing forth their young-among sparrows commences early in march, or much sooner, if the weather be fine. but long before this married sparrows who have determined upon a change of residence, and bachelor sparrows who intend to set up for themselves when summer comes, go prospecting around, popping into holes, examining eaves, and chimneys, and ivied trees. the former take their wives with them, whom they seem to consult and try their best to please, often in vain, for the female sparrow appears to derive a genuine pleasure from house-hunting, and keeps it up as long as possible--till probably the warm weather comes upon them all at once, and they are fain to settle down anywhere. in the early part of the season the nests are not built very rapidly: about june or july they are often run up in three or even in two days. the birds seem to have a dreamy kind of happiness in building the first nest, and want their sweetness long drawn out. in fact, it is the honeymoon. example: a half-built nest in the wistaria-tree just under a huge cluster of sweet-scented blossom. it is noon, a bright march sun is shining, and up in the tree it is almost as warm as summer. the particular sparrow who owns that half-built nest has only one wife; it is _his_ first season, and _hers_. they are both young and innocent, not to say ignorant. the foundation of the nest is terribly untidy, exceptionally so. the hen sits about a yard from the nest, with her consequential morsel of a bill in the air, giving her body a little jerk every now and then as if she had the hiccup, and saying "po-eete." the cock is closer to the nest, busy preening his feathers in the sunshine. presently he hops into the nest, and has a turn or two round by way of seeing how things are going on. this is a hint to the hen, and excites her to a little more activity, and away she goes to look for a mouthful of building material. she stops on the garden-path to pick up a tiny beetle or two, then hops on to the vegetable beds, shakes up a few bunches of dry couch-grass roots, but finally abandons them for a terribly long and terribly strong wheaten straw. back to the wistaria-tree she flies with this, half frightened at her own temerity in carrying anything so large. she sticks it up at the side of the nest--it hangs a long way down the tree--and retires to look at it. the cock looks at it too. they both study it. "it is very hard, isn't it, my dear?" says the cock at last. "it is a very fine piece of straw though," replies the hen, slightly piqued. "yes," says the cock, "_as_ a straw it is certainly a very grand specimen. i admit that. the puzzle is how to work it in." so they both sit down with their wise wee heads together, and look at that strong straw, and think and wonder in what possible way or shape it can be made use of. they sit there for quite two hours giving vent only to an occasional suggestive "cheep," and a jerk of their little bodies as if they both had the hiccup. but at last they suddenly awaken to a sense of their folly. two whole hours of sunshine lost, and all for a straw! that straw is at once cast loose, and both fly off and soon return with something far more useful, if less ornamental. and so the work goes on. my sparrows build the main portion of their nests principally with hay, straw, and withered weed roots, but this is mixed and mingled with a variety of other material, rags, pieces of old rope or twine; but paper above all things, especially, it appears to me, tracts and bills relating to cheap sales, because the paper on which these are printed is soft. a long string of white or coloured cloth may often be seen fluttering pennant-fashion from a sparrow's nest. some believe this is so placed in order to frighten cats and hawks. more likely it is mere slovenliness. well, a sparrow's nest outside does look a most untidy wisp. but there is an art in its very untidiness, and the thickness of the nest renders it cool in summer and warm for a shelter-nest during winter. the amount of feathers crammed into a single nest, particularly that of a tree-sparrow, is often quite astounding. an old nest is sometimes made to do duty over and over again during the season, but it is always overhauled and re-lined. sparrows are not invariably wise in the selection of their building sites. instance: two sparrows built this summer in the rose-covered spout of my verandah. a terrible storm of rain came, and the young were drowned in the torrent of water that came from the roof. but i daresay these silly birds think such a thing will not occur again--in their time. at all events, they have thrown the dead birds out to the cat, renovated and re-lined the nest, and there are eggs in it now. i was staying last summer for a week or two with a friend not far from here. there were plenty of martens about, and three nests under the eaves right over my bedroom window. for several mornings i had noticed grains of wheat on my window-ledge, and on looking up towards the nest i noticed feathers protruding. now, had i been samuel pickwick, i should have at once taken out my note-book and made the following entry:--"n.b. the house-martens in hampshire line their nests with feathers and feed their young on wheat and barley." i laughingly told honest joseph g--, my friend's gardener, of my discovery in natural history. he was too old a sparrow to be caught with chaff, however. "it's the sparrows, beggar 'em," he said, shutting his fist; "they're at their games agin. i'll shoot 'em, i will. they waits till the swallers builds their nests, then they goes and turns 'em out and finishes up wi' feathers." "don't shoot them," i said, "they have young." "indeed, sir, but i will," cried joseph g--. "what right has they to turn the swallers out, eh? fair play, i says, fair play and no favour." some years ago i read that the sparrows in australia had constituted themselves a kind of plague, and in rather a strange way they stole _all_ the hay to build their nests, and every plan, such as smoking them, and turning the garden hose on the nests, etc, had been tried in vain. we must not believe all colonists tell us. they are noted perverters of the truth. why didn't they retaliate and turn the sparrows into pies--a sparrow pie, they say, is a dainty dish. i do not care to eat my sparrows. i believe that killing sparrows is like killing house-flies--others come to fill up the death vacancies. now there are some things about sparrows that i confess i cannot quite understand. knowing that they are often bigamists, sometimes polygamists, i am never surprised to see two or three hens helping a cock to build the family nest; but when i notice, as i have frequently done, a sparrow who has only one wife being assisted in the construction of his domicile by another gentleman sparrow, what am i to think? who, i want to know, is the other fellow who drops round of a forenoon in a friendly kind of way with a weed in his mouth, and even gets inside and "chins" the nest. is he a brother-in-law, or a father-in-law, or the son by a former marriage, or what? i give it up, but there is the fact, and "facts are chiels that winna ding." it may not be generally known that there are bachelor sparrows, who remain bachelors all the summer from choice, and old-maid sparrows who are obliged to be so, and who sometimes build nests and sit by them looking disconsolate enough, sighing and singing "po-eete" for the poet who never comes. here is an anecdote with a little mystery about it that the reader may possibly be able to unravel, for i can't. it is a little tragedy in one act, and must have been a very painful one to the principals. my splendid newfoundland, hurricane bob, came down to my garden wigwam one forenoon last spring. he was whining and apparently in great distress of mind. "come on up here with me, master," he said, "there are some strange goings on at the front lawn." i followed him, and could soon hear the pitiful cries of a sparrow, up near a spout that comes out from under the wooden eave of the tallest gable of the cottage. the dog pointed up there, continuing to whine as he did so, and evidently in grief because he couldn't fly. it was not long before i mastered the whole facts of the case. they were as follows:--close by the funnel-shaped mouth of the descending spout, and supported by some branches of the wistaria, a pair of sparrows had built in the previous spring and raised several broods. it was february now, and they had come round prospecting--impressed doubtless by old associations--to see if the same nest could not be refitted, and thus do duty again. full of excitement, the cock bird had hopped down between the woodwork of the eave and the spout, and seeing a crack about half an inch wide beneath, had attempted to come out there. he got his head through and one wing, but there he had stuck. it was quite affecting to witness the agony and perturbation displayed by the hen bird--the poor imprisoned cock did nothing but struggle and flutter--her cries were pitiful, and every now and then she would seize her spouse by head or by wing and try to pull him through. meanwhile, on a twig of wistaria not a yard away sat another cock-sparrow, an interested but inactive spectator. he simply looked on, and never volunteered either assistance or a suggestion. as soon as i could procure a ladder long enough to get up, i went to the rescue, but the poor bird's head had drooped--he was dead; and so firmly fixed in the crack that i could neither drag him through nor push him back. the hen sparrow and the strange cock sat looking at me some little way off, but the former after this made no further attempt to relieve the cock bird. he was no more, and she must have known it. but who the mystery was the strange cock--the impassive spectator? was he father, brother, or, dear me! was he a former lover--a rival? did he sit there mocking the dying agony of the other bird? did he address him thus:--"you're booked, old man. you may kick and flutter as much as you please. i tell you you are as good as dead already. when you are gone i'll hop into your place. this nest will suit us nicely. _us_, i say, d'ye hear? it will suit _us_, and we will soon forget you. good-by, old man, keep up your pecker." i would have torn down the old nest, but i really was curious to know if the dead sparrow's widow would wed again, and take up house there. surely she would never bear to pop out and in at the doorway of that nest, with the skeleton of her late lamented husband hanging out through the crack. i left the nest for a month or two, then tore it down, but no birds have ever built there since. there are more hen than cock-sparrows, and this may account for the prevalence of polygamism in the community. as to old-maid sparrows, i have assuredly often known nests built by hens alone, but am willing to admit that these hens may be relicts, some accident may have happened to the husband. however, it is a fact that there are plenty of bachelor sparrows, who live a free and easy life all the summer, and never dream of becoming benedicts; you see them in the gardens, and you meet them out in the fields, and they are always in company with other male sparrows of their own way of thinking. now every one who lives in the country is perfectly familiar with those little disturbances that often arise all of a sudden among sparrows, when about half a dozen go flying into a bush together, squabbling, bickering, and fighting with fearful ferocity. some books gravely tell us that these squabbles are in reality courts-martial being held on some erring brother or sister of this genus _passer_. i never took this for granted, and for three or four summers i have used my best endeavours to get at the true explanation of the matter, and i am satisfied they are caused by differences of opinion between benedict and bachelor sparrows, resulting in a match "'twixt married and single," a free fight, in which the females take part. female sparrows often fight most viciously together from bush to bush, but preferably on the ground. i have often seen a stand-up battle between the two wives of a bigamist sparrow. he himself would simply stand about a yard off, and look on. "it's no good interfering," the cock appears to think; "it is a sad state of affairs to be sure, but what can a fellow do? i must try to manage matters differently another year." sparrows may keep the same mates from year to year, and so they may arrange for pairing as early as november or december the year before, flying about with their coming queens, and roosting near them at night. but considering the number of these birds that are killed every year--by our bold sparrow-club men for example, by misguided gardeners, and by bucolic louts who net them in the ivy after nightfall for the purpose of supplying matches with the needed birds--considering the quantities of them that cats and hawks kill, and the numbers that die from frost and starvation, to say nothing of the young birds of last season, the mating time is a very busy one indeed. the cocks are then as full of fight as an irishman on a fair day, and the hens--well they simply sit and look on. "none but the brave deserve the fair," they seem to say to themselves, "and it is certainly very gratifying to one's self-esteem and respect to know that all these sanguinary battles now raging round the rose-trees and in under the laurel-bushes are about us." here are a few notes i took some months ago:--a bright spring morning in march. sunshine on the red brick walls of our cottage, sunshine on the wistaria. wistaria not in blossom yet.--n.b. blossom comes before leaves, though it is now covered with long soft downy buds, tipped with a suspicion of mauve. the forenoon is quite warm, delightful to be out of doors. yet at seven o'clock there was hoar-frost on the ground, and thin ice on the dogs' water. the sparrows are unusually lively, and bickering constantly--especially the cocks. yonder a fight has commenced, just under the eave; it rages there a few moments, then down tumble the belligerents from a height of twenty feet, holding viciously on to each other's jaws all the while with the ferocity of bulldogs. now they struggle together on the lawn, lunging and pecking, and wrestling with wings outspread and legs everywhere. there are beads of blood about their eyes, and tiny drops on the grass. what a serious matter it seems! death or victory! they think and care for nothing else. i believe i could steal up and put my hat over the pair of them. "england's difficulty," says my persian cat, creeping up, "is ireland's opportunity." no you won't, puss. go away at once, or i'll call for collie to you. but see, one sparrow has triumphed. _vae victis_! he chases the conquered and breathless bird from bush to bush, till his own lungs give out, and he returns open-mouthed but glorious, and flies up to the tree where sits the cosy wee hen that all the row has been about. he is going to say something or make a proposal of some kind, when back flies the conquered cock, and the battle is renewed with double vigour. this is a longer fight than last, but victory once more declares itself on the side of the former champion, and back he flies again to the trysting twig--to find what? why, another fellow who has been actually taking a mean advantage of his absence in the battle-field, and pruning his feathers in front of _his_ hen. there is another fight there and then, and perhaps there may be many more to come. but in the end all things will be well, and the fittest survive. round the corner are a pair of birds already matched and mated; they are at peace with all the world, and can afford to sit quietly on their twigs and witness the fighting and the fun. the cocks this lovely morning seem striving to do all they can to make themselves conspicuous. the hens, on the other hand, sit quietly on their twigs, their morsels of tails at an angle of about 45 degrees, their little beaks in the air, and their feathers all balled out to catch the sunshine. to one of these independent little mites a black bib sidles up. he addresses her in wretchedly bad grammar, but what can you expect of a sparrow? "it's you and me this season, ain't it?" he says. she tosses her bill higher in air than it was before, as she replies-"oh dear no, sir. i couldn't think of changing my state." "here, _you_!" cries another black bib, hopping on to the same twig, "it's you and _me_, if you please." then another fearful fight begins between the two black bibs. and so the fun goes on. but this i have observed: before mating actually takes place the male sparrow often gives the female a thrashing. well, perhaps it is as well they should have their little differences out before marriage instead of after. _quien sabe_? early in june my sparrows may be seen hopping or flying about with sprays of blue forget-me-not in their bills. a lady visitor at my house was much struck with seeing this last summer. "whatever do they carry flowers for?" she asked laughingly; "your sparrows are more refined in their tastes than any birds i ever even read of." but the explanation is simple enough. they cut and carry away the sprays of forget-me-not for sake of the seeds that are already half ripe at the lower end of them. a little innocent girl asked me the same question, her pretty eyes filled with sweet surprise, and i wickedly replied, "there is going to be a grand _fete_ of some kind to-day among my sparrows, and they are going to decorate their nests." she simply answered, "oh!" but she looked believing. in this short paper i have not said one-half of what i should wish to say about these interesting and independent wee birds that follow and take up their abode with mankind wheresoever he goes in the wide world, but i hope i have said enough to gain for sparrows a little more consideration and a little less cruelty than they generally meet with. "but they are so destructive?" yes, i knew some one would say that. yet i maintain that they do far more good than harm in the world. if space were given me i could prove this. meanwhile here is an extract from _land and water_, which is well worth reading and considering:-"what the swallow tribe do in killing innumerable flies in country parks, the sparrow does to some extent in the gardens and squares of london, especially in its more immediate suburbs. all the sparrows have got nests, many containing callow young, a few `flyers,' and some are still sitting on the eggs. an old sparrow might be seen perched on the top of a house, and presently with a graceful motion the bird `rises to a passing fly' and secures the morsel. if the bird or birds had got young in the water-spout hard by, or in the hole often left by builders missing a brick at the end of a row of houses, in ivy, or in the thick foliage of the virginia creeper, the young birds get the `catch.' besides this fly-catching, i have noticed for the last few weeks the sparrows working in every evergreen bush, also in jessamines, in lilac-trees, and especially in the crevices of old walls, in search of spiders, earwigs, green-fly, daddy long-legs, etc. the adult birds seem to prefer this wall and bush `food' more than crumbs of bread regularly thrown out for them, except where they have got a nestful of hungry youngsters, and then the latter get some of both. but how hard the sparrows work, and the starlings too!" now let us go a little farther from home. some years ago the english sparrow was introduced into that country of free institutions called the united states. the sparrow has certainly made himself at home there. he has increased and multiplied a millionfold, and now america wants to "extirpate the vipers." but the americans do not always know what is good for them. example: they have slain all their big game (where will you find a herd of wild buffalo now?), they have killed nearly all their birds, and well-nigh cut down their last bit of genuine forest. yes, the sparrow makes itself at home in america. some months ago i was sitting in one of the beautiful open squares in new york. the sparrows were plentiful enough all about and enjoyed themselves very much, especially in flying through the playing fountains; it must be delightful to take a bath on the wing. a tall yankee was sitting near me with outstretched legs. a sparrow alighted on the toe of his boot; he wore number 10's. he eyed it curiously and critically. i smiled. "a cheeky bird," i couldn't help remarking. "yes, sir," was the reply, "but--it's british. that accounts." i "dried up" after that. but even in america the british sparrow has made a few friends, as the following extract from _forest and stream_ will prove:- "a good word for the sparrows.--i send you by this mail a lot of leaves of the maple growing in front of my office, which when gathered were literally covered with insects. what attracted my attention to them was the busy action of some two dozen english sparrows, hopping here and there in the tree, peering under the leaves, and savagely feeding on something. an inspection revealed the cause of their eagerness, and the cause of the early shedding of the leaves. examine these vermin and tell us what they are. the sparrows were so busy they would scarcely keep out of the reach of my hand. i called the attention of several gentlemen, who watched them for some time. this proves (to me) the insectivorous habits of the english sparrow." sparrows are treated with systematic cruelty by many in this country; they are trapped and shot wholesale and at all seasons, and not only are their nests torn down with the eggs in them, but even when filled with young, and these are allowed to expire--mere little naked things--on the ground. sparrow matches are a disgrace to our country, and to those who engage in them. every reader will surely admit this much. as for members of sparrow clubs, i never saw one, and heaven forbid i ever may. chapter eleven. on the breezy cliff-top.--our "hoggie." "ah! what pleasant visions haunt me as i gaze upon the sea! all the old romantic legends- all my dreams come back to me." one of the sunniest memories to all of us is the time we spent on the cliff-tops of romantic old dunbar. there is nothing more calculated to give pleasure to a true briton, unless he happens to have been born by the beach, than a few days spent at the seaside; that is, if he or she can have thereat some comfort. here at dunbar was no noise, no bustle, no stir, and, to us, not the worry inseparable from living in lodgings. our little homes were all our own: we could go when we liked, do what we liked, and there was no landlady at the week's end to present us with a bill including _extras_. the only noise was the beating of the waves on the black rocks far beneath us, and the scream of sea-birds, mingling perhaps with the happy voices of merry, laughing children. stretching far away eastwards was the ever-changing ocean, dotted with many a sail or many a steamer with trailing smoke. northwards was the sea-girt mountain called the bass rock, whilst south-eastwards we could see the coast-line stretching out to saint abbe head. we were so pleased with our bivouac on the breezy cliff-tops of dunbar that we made the place our headquarters, journeying therefrom, up the romantic tweed, visiting all the places and scenery sacred to the memory of scott and the bard of ettrick. we did not forget to make a day's voyage to the bass rock, and well might we wonder at the grandeur of this wild rock, with its feathered thousands of birds, that at times rose about like a vast and fleecy cloud. it was, however, no part of our ideas of happiness to in any way hamper each other's movements. no, that would not have been true gipsy fashion. sometimes, one of us would be quietly fishing from the rocks, while two more might be out at sea in a boat, a little dark speck on the blue. as for me, it was often my delight to- "lie upon the headland height and listen to the incessant sobbing of the sea in caverns under me. and watch the waves that tossed and fled and glistened, until the rolling meadows of amethyst melted away in mist." often, when she found me all alone, ida would pounce on me for a story. to this child a tale told all to herself had a peculiar charm. here is one of our little sketches. -----------------------------------------------------------------------our "hoggie." one dark, starless night in october, 1883, i had been making a call upon a neighbour of mine in the outskirts of our village. i had a tricycle lamp with me, not so much to show me the way as to show me my dogs, a valuable newfoundland and a collie. both are as black as erebus, and unless i have a light on a dark night, it is impossible to know whether i have them near me or not. just by the gate, but on the footpath, as i came out, i found my canine friends both standing over and intently watching something that lay between them. "it is a kind of a thorny rat," eily the collie seemed to say, looking up in my face ever so wisely; "i have kept it in the corner till you should see it; but i wouldn't put my nose to it again for a whole bushel of bones." eily's thorny rat was, as you may guess, a hedgehog, and a fine large fellow he was. now i should be one of the last people in the world to advise my readers to capture wild creatures and deprive them of their liberty, but i knew well that if the boys of our village found this hedgehog, they would beat it to death with sticks and stones; so for its safety's sake i went back to my neighbour's house and borrowed a towel, and in this, much to the dog's delight, i carried "hoggie" home with me. the children were not in bed; they were half afraid of it, but very much pleased with the new pet, and set about making a bed for it with hay in an outhouse, and placed cabbage and greens and milk-and-bread sop for it to eat. when we all went to see hoggie next morning, he had his head out and took a good look at as with his bright beautiful beads of eyes. he looked as sulky as a badger nevertheless. we offered him nice creamy milk, but he would not touch it; we even put his nose in it. "no," he appeared to tell us, "you can take a horse to the water, but you can't make him drink." so we placed a saucerful of bread and milk handy for him, and left the little fellow to his own cogitations, and determined not to go near him till next day. when we did so, we found, much to our joy, that all the bread and milk had disappeared. he was certainly no dainty feeder, for he had had his fore-feet in the saucer, which was black. we soon discovered that night was the only time he would take food, and that he very much preferred lying all day curled up in his bundle of hay, sound asleep. it has been said that rats will not come near a place where a hedgehog is. this is all nonsense; we had plenty of conclusive evidence that the rats which swarm about our place kept hoggie company. under one particular tree the earthworms used to swarm, always coming out of their holes at night, and around this tree it occurred to the children to build hoggie a garden. they fenced it round with wire-work, and put a box and a bundle of hay in it at one corner. hoggie was now indeed as happy as a king, and he soon grew as tame as a rat, for kindness will conquer almost any wild animal. we did not interfere with his natural instincts, but in the evenings we used to have him out for a little run, and very much he seemed to enjoy it. he was afraid neither of dogs not cats, and would allow any of us to smooth him just as much as we pleased, and pat his pretty little brow between and above his pert, wee eyes. there was only room for one finger there, so small was his head, but this was quite enough. "don't hedgehogs sleep all winter?" asked little inez, my eldest daughter, one day; "and isn't this winter?" "yes, baby," i replied, "this is winter. it is now well into december, and poets and natural historians have always given us to believe that hedgehogs do hibernate." "_i'm_ not going to hibernate," replied hoggie, or he _seemed_ to reply so, as he gave a kick with one leg and commenced a mad little trot round and round his yard. "the idea of going to sleep in fine weather would be quite preposterous, as long," he added, swallowing a large garden worm and nearly choking over it, "as the worms hold out, you know." but great was our dismay when one morning we missed hoggie from his yard. it was nearly christmas now, and frost had set in, and once or twice snow had fallen. our gardens and paddock are quite surrounded with hedges, and trees of all kinds abound; so with the dogs we searched high and low for hoggie, but all in vain. eily found a rat, bob found a dormouse, and rudely awaked it, but no dog found poor hoggie. "poor hoggie!" the children cried. "poor hoggie!" said the youngest; "i hope poor hoggie has gone to a better place, pa." "has hoggie gone to heaven, pa?" this same prattler asked me in the evening. now let me pause in my narration to say a word about hoggies in general. i have had many such pets; they get exceedingly tame and quite domesticated. they seem to prefer to live with mankind, and can be trusted out of doors quite as much as a cat can. they are sure to come back, and generally come in of an evening, trotting very quickly and in a very comical kind of fashion, and make straight for the kitchen hearthrug. "it is so dark and cold and damp out of doors," they appear to say, "and quite a treat to lie down before a cheerful fire like this." well, hedgehogs are the best-natured pets in the world, and so full of confidence, and are not afraid of any other creature when once fairly tame. you know, i daresay, that one hedgehog will keep the house clear of black beetles. but nastier things than beetles come into country kitchens and cellars sometimes--newts, for instance. well, hoggie will eat these; indeed, hoggie would eat a snake. i saw a hedgehog one evening in the dusk crossing the road with a snake trailing behind her. it was in summer, and i daresay that the snake was being taken home to feed the young ones. the young are born blind and white and naked, but the bristles soon come, and by-and-by they begin to run about; then the mother hoggie takes them all out for a run in the cool, dewy evenings of may or june. the father hoggie looks very proud on these occasions, and runs on in front for fear of danger, and to guide his little family to spots and places where plenty of food is to be found. in the domesticated state, a hedgehog will pick up its food in summer out in the garden; but if kept indoors it must have food gathered for it--worms, slugs, a little green food, and roots, chiefly those of the plantain. besides this, it should have bread and milk, and perhaps a little cabbage and greens, which it may or may not eat. i may tell my little readers that tame hedgehogs are very cleanly, and of course they do not bite, nor do they put their bristles out when being petted by those they love. the hedgehog is the gardener's best friend, and any man or boy who destroys one, is really guilty not only of cruelty, but of folly. now to complete my sketch of our hoggie. i have a wigwam, although i am not a wild indian. my wigwam is a very beautiful house indeed, built of wood and surrounded with creepers. it stands in the orchard, on the top of a square green mound, with steps leading up to it. well, one day in spring, when the gardener was busy cutting the grass around this wigwam, he told the children something that caused them to come whooping up the path, all in a row, just like american savages. "oh, pa!" they shouted, emphatically, "hoggie's come back. he is underneath the floor of the wigwam!" i was as glad as any of them, because i am very much of a boy at heart. i got a candle, though it was broad daylight, and peeped into a hole beneath my wigwam, and there was hoggie sure enough, smooth little brow, black little eyes, bristles and fur and all. hoggie came out that same night. "i've been hibernating," he seemed to say, "and ain't i hungry, just! got any bread and milk? got any worms, any slugs, any anything?" you may be sure we fed him well. and hoggie goes and comes, and comes and goes, at his own sweet will. but his home is underneath the wigwam floor, where he has one companion, at all events--a pet toad of mine, a very amusing old fellow, whose history i will tell you some day, if our kind friend the editor will give me leave. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the following two stories were told by frank and me on this same breezy cliff-top at dunbar, the most interested portion of our audience being apparently ida, hurricane bob, and mysie, the caravan cat. chapter twelve. danger; a study in dog life. "shall noble fidelity, courage, and love, obedience and conscience--all rot in the ground? no room be found for them beneath or above, nor anywhere in all the universe round? i cannot believe it. creation still lives, and the maker of all things made nothing in vain." tupper. danger is a very suggestive name for a dog, especially when that dog happens to be a guard-dog and a bull-terrier to boot. but such was the name by which the hero of this brief biography was always known. the probability is that he was descended from very ferocious ancestors; indeed, the dog had all the external appearance of one that could both tackle and hold, if occasion demanded any such display of his powers. however, one should judge, not even of a dog, from first impressions. the dog danger did not advance very high in my estimation at our first meeting. it wasn't love on sight with either of us. i had gone into a shop in the dusk of a summer's evening, to buy a small guide-book, being then on a tour through the lovely vale of don, aberdeenshire. i found no one in attendance except danger, whom i did not at once perceive. a low ominous growl soon drew my attention to the spot where he was lying. i could just trace the dim outline of his figure, and see two eyes that glittered like balls of green fire. it would have been quite enough, no doubt, to make a person unaccustomed to dogs feel uneasy, more particularly as the shopkeeper seemed in no hurry to put in an appearance. he came at last, though. "is your dog dangerous?" i asked. "he is very far from that," was the quiet reply. "i often wish he were a trifle more so. but his name is danger," he added, smiling, as he lit the gas. i had now a better look at the animal. he certainly was no beauty, and i thought at once of the painting by landseer--"jack in office." danger was huge and somewhat ungainly, though not really so large as he looked. it was his immense head, and the general cloddiness of his body, that gave him the appearance of size. his ears were small and lopped over gracefully, his nose was both flat and broad, and his eyes did not look a bit more conciliatory in the light than they did in the semi-darkness. he came round behind, and forthwith instituted a very minute investigation of the calves of my legs. this was probably a proof of the dog's high intelligence, but it was not over-pleasant to me nevertheless. "there is hardly anything that animal won't do," said the shopkeeper. "i can quite believe that," i replied, with a furtive glance over my shoulder; "i can quite believe it." danger went away presently, apparently satisfied with the result of his scrutiny, and my mind was relieved. i had occasion to make many visits to the same shop after this, and danger and i got to be very friendly indeed. there was something decidedly honest about danger's every look and action when you came to know him. perhaps he had the same opinion about me. i trust he had. at all events he appeared to take to me, and had a quiet, queer way of showing his regard that many people wouldn't have altogether relished: to wit, if i sat down in the shop, as i sometimes did, danger would come and lay his great head in my lap; it weighed about ten pounds, apparently; any attempt at getting him to remove it, until he himself pleased, elicited a low growl, which was by no means reassuring. yet, while he growled, he wagged his tail at the same time, as much as to say: "i really do not wish to quarrel with you, unless you force me." if i _stood_ in the shop instead of sitting, it was much the same, because danger used to lie down beside me, and put his monster head on top of my foot, and go through the same performance if i attempted to disturb him. nor would he always obey his master and come away when told; he was like the spirits in "the vasty deep." i made the village of v--my headquarters for several months it was _so_ quiet, and i wanted rest. it came to pass eventually that danger took it into his big head to go with me in my walks and rambles; i did not dare to refuse the convoy, though so forbidding did the animal look, that i was often ashamed to be seen in his company. i flatter myself that there is nothing of the bill sykes about my personal appearance; if there were, danger was just the dog for me. ladies meeting me and my questionable friend, would often look first at danger and then at me, in a way i did not at all relish. danger was not a young dog; he had certainly arrived at years of discretion. he was well known in v--. indeed, he was as much a part and parcel of the village as the town clock itself; and a fine, free and independent life danger led, too. it was also a life of singular regularity. as soon as he had eaten his breakfast of a morning, he used to take a trot down the street, visiting exactly the same places or spots every day. coming back, he would seat himself at a bend of the road and right in the middle thereof, where he could see all that was going on either up the street or down the street; and hear as well, for he always kept one of his ears turned each way--a very convenient arrangement. danger spent the greater portion of every forenoon, wet day or dry day, in this way, only on sundays he never appeared at all. he was not only well known to every human being in the village, but to every dog and cat also, and no dog ever went past danger without coming and saying a friendly word or two, or exchanging tail-waggings, which is much the same. i have sat at my window and seen all sorts and all kinds and conditions of dogs come and make their obeisance to danger of a forenoon--lordly saint bernards, noble newfoundlands, stately mastiffs, business-looking collies, agile greyhounds, foxy pomeranians, wee, wiry scotch-terriers, daft-like skyes, and even ladies' darlings, the backs of whom danger could have broken at one bite, had he been so minded. i am perfectly sure that danger knew he was not very prepossessing in appearance, and that he looked a fierce dog, though he did not feel it. occasionally a strange dog would come trotting up the street, and then it was amusing to watch danger's tactics. of course the new dog would not like to pass danger without making some sign. to do so would have looked cowardly, and no dog cares to show fear, whether he feels it or not. danger would bend all his energies to getting the new-comer to advance and be friendly. he would not get up, because that might be construed into a menace, but he would positively wriggle on the road and grin. this made him appear more grotesquely hideous than ever, but the other dog seldom failed to understand it. "i confess i do look terribly ugly and terribly ferocious," danger would seem to say, "but i am the meekest-minded dog in all the village. come along. don't be afraid. i never met you before, but i am satisfied we shall be the very best of friends." "well," the new dog would apparently reply, "you are certainly no beauty, but i think i can trust you nevertheless." now there came to the village one day a large half-bred cur, partly smooth sheep-dog, and partly mastiff. he came swinging up the street in a very independent manner indeed, and as soon as he saw danger he stopped short, and raised his hair from head to tail. this was meant for a challenge to danger, but danger was slow to see it; he simply began to grin in his usual idiotic fashion. but when the mongrel advanced, danger grasped the situation in a moment. at the same time the cur seized danger by the neck, and a fierce fight ensued. five minutes after the mongrel slunk away home, beaten, bleeding, cowed; and danger lay quietly down again as if nothing unusual had happened. "dave," as the mongrel was called, had had enough of danger, and used to go past him afterwards as if he saw him not; but he took his revenge on the other village dogs, all the same. there was scarcely one he did not attack and badly use. when, however, dave one day lamed a pomeranian, who was a great favourite with danger, and when that wee dog came limping up and seemed to show danger his grievous wounds, the latter thought it was quite time to be up and doing. he now purposely threw himself in dave's way at every opportunity, and stout and fierce were the battles fought, danger invariably coming off triumphant. dave belonged to a wood-carter, and both man and dog had bad names. when dave at last took to worrying sheep by the dozen, his master was communicated with in a way he hardly relished, and so dave was put on chain, and peace in the village canine community was happily restored. the winter came on, and a wild, bitter winter it was, with high, icy, east winds, sleet and snow. i happened to be passing one day near to the cottage where dave's master dwelt, and, hearing a mournful whine issuing from a shed, i peeped in. there lay poor dog dave, and a pitiable sight he was, and no sign of either water or food was to be seen. my heart bled for the creature. bad enough he was in all conscience, but to make him suffer thus was revolting. i got little satisfaction at first from his cruel master, who told me he had no time to attend properly to a dog on chain. the promise of an occasional coin brought about a better state of existence for dave. but this did not last long. once only i saw him led out on a string for a little exercise. how wretched he looked!--lean and mangy, and trembling like an old aspen-tree, his hocks plaiting and bending beneath him at every step. there was no fight in dave now! he even wagged his tail to danger when he met him, and danger returned the salute with a hearty goodwill, which showed how much of benevolence dwelt beneath that ugly phiz of his. but i was witness to a still greater proof of the kindness of danger's heart, a few days after this. it was a grey, dull day, with a keen wind blowing from the north-east. i was just dressing to go out, when who should i see making his way along the pavement but my friend danger. he had a great ham-bone in his mouth. i got out as quickly as i could, and followed danger down the street and down the lane, and straight to the shed where poor dave lay dying--for dying he undoubtedly was. i never before had read or heard of so generous an act being done by one dog to another--that other, too, a quondam foe. dave lay on his miserable bed of damp, unwholesome straw in the woodshed, through every cranny and chink of which the wintry wind was whistling and sighing. dave was shivering, but more, i think, from sickness than cold. danger approached with a ridiculous grin on his foolish phiz, and many an apologetic wag of his tail. "here, dave," he seemed to say, "here is a bone i have saved for you; there certainly isn't much on it, but it may just do for a picking." but poor dave was past even picking a ham-bone, and two days after this the shed had no tenant; dave was dead. i do sincerely wish that my tale had not so gloomy a finish, but as i am writing facts, i have no power to make it otherwise. danger's master lived in a cottage about a mile up the don, and close to its bank. one night a terrible rain-storm came on, and i was told next day that the river was in "spate;" that many sheep had been carried away, and even cattle and horses. after breakfast i went to see it. there was something even awe-inspiring in the sight; the quiet and placid river of the day before, with its clear, brown, rippling water, was swollen into a wide, yellow, surging, roaring torrent. the sturdy old bridge on which i stood shook and trembled with the force of the water that dashed underneath. pine-trees, hay, straw, and even the carcases of cattle, came down stream every minute. i left the bridge at last, and walked slowly up along the top of a wooded cliff. till this day i regret that i did not go straight home from the bridge, for i shall always remember what i saw. something was coming floating down the turgid river, right in the centre, and rapidly approaching me, swirling round and round in the current. it was a small hay-cock. how he had got on i never knew, but on the top thereof was my honest friend danger. i called him. the pitiable, pleading look with which he replied went straight to my heart. danger could not swim! what made the matter more mentally painful to me was, that there was quite as much of the ludicrous as the pathetic about the situation. for, poor dog, his great solemn face never looked uglier, never looked more distressed than now; and the glance he gave me as he was borne hurriedly onwards to certain destruction--why, i have but to close my eyes to see it even now, as i sit here. and that was the last that was ever seen of danger; he never appeared again on the streets of the village of v--. chapter thirteen. dicky dumps: the parson's pony. "a little water, chaff and hay, and sleep, the boon of heaven; how great return for these have they, to your advantage, given! and yet the worn-out horse or ass. who makes your daily gaining, is paid with goad and thong, alas! though nobly uncomplaining." tupper. there are, or were, two immortal men, who never spoke without saying something--i refer to shakespeare and burns; and when the former remarks so prettily,- "what's in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." we cannot help replying, "that is true." but for all that, every one who owns a pet animal of any kind, that he really loves, will be ready enough to admit that seemingly senseless though the names be which we sometimes give them, there is generally some reason in them, albeit there may not be much rhyme. when we talk to animals which we have a great affection for, we often use a deal of ridiculous abbreviations. never mind--they, our favourites, understand them, and really appear to prefer them. just one or two examples. there is an immense newfoundland lying not far from me while i write, an animal who by reason of his beauty, his bounding independence, and his very roguishness, takes all hearts by storm. his name was originally "robin;" that soon came down to honest simple "bob." he is known in what is called the canine world as "hurricane bob," he being a show dog. he derives the sobriquet "hurricane" from the mad way he rushes round his own paddock when he first gets out of a morning. with his long black hair floating in the wind, he is hardly visible as he races round and round about you. you can just see a black shape, that is all, which you conclude is hurricane bob. you can set him off racing round and round at any time by calling-"hurricane, hurricane, hurricane!" he has a great sense of humour and of the ridiculous; but if you say to him, "robert, come here," he then approaches very gravely indeed. "what's up!" he seems to say, "that i am being called robert? have i done anything wrong, i wonder?" again, if you call him bobbie, he expects to be patted, caressed, and made much of. so he has a name for all weathers, as a sailor would say. "eily" is the name of a splendid collie of mine. in the course of years her name became eily-biley. she prefers this. there is love and affection and pats and pieces of cake, and all kinds of pleasantness associated with the name. eily is simply her business name, as it were, and there are times when she is called "bile" emphatically, and on these occasions she knows she has been doing something wrong and is to be scolded, so she at once throws herself at my feet, makes open confession, and sues for forgiveness. "yes, dear master," she seems to say; "it is quite true, i did chase the cock, and i did tree the cat. they did provoke me, but i will try not to do so again." i have a great many wild-bird friends. there are several sparrows visit me every day, at and in my wigwam, or garden study. one comes to name. that name is "weekie!" i heard his little wife call him "weekie" one day, so the name has stuck to him. we have been friends for years, weekie and i. he is bold and pert, but affectionate. he roosts in winter among the creepers on my wigwam, and steals morsels of my manuscripts to help in building his nest in summer. so there _is_ something in _pet_ names at all events. i daresay most of my readers would think that "dumps" was a queer name to give a pony. well, and so it is; but the name grew, for he was originally dick; from dick to dickie the transition is natural. "but how about the `dumps'?" you may ask. well, dickie belonged to a good old country parson that i knew, who lived some years ago in one of the wildest glens of our scottish highlands. if this parson was not, like some one else, "_passing rich with forty pounds a year_," he managed to live and support his family upon not much more than double that sum. but he had a very thrifty wife, and his children were each and all of them as good as they looked, and that is saying a deal. they possessed the kind hearts that are worth more than coronets, and the simple faith that is better far than norman blood. so poor though mr mack, let us call him, was, his home was a very happy one. mrs mack rather prided herself on her cookery, and her skill in the art was fully appreciated by all the family--including dickie the pony. but what dick particularly loved was a morsel of suet dumpling. the dining-room window looked over dick's field, and was entirely surrounded with lovely climbing roses, as indeed was all the cottage, for great yellow roses could be gathered even through the attic windows, and they actually trailed around the chimneys. in spring and summer the dining-room window used to be left open, and dickie would station himself there, and wait with equine patience for his morsel of dumpling. sometimes he got two or three pieces, and even then would have the audacity to ask for a fourth help. "it is so nice," he would appear to say, with a low, comical kind of a nicker. "it is dee-licious. do you know what i'll do, if i don't have more dumpling? i'll crop the rose-leaves." "ah, dickie, would you dare?" mrs mack would cry; for she dearly loved the roses. "well, then," dick would appear to answer, "give me some more dumpling." even at breakfast-time, if the window were open, dick would pop his head in, and apparently ask: "is there any of that dumpling left? i don't mind taking it cold." so there is no great wonder that the pony came to be called "dickie dumpling," and finally, for short, dumps. poor old dumps, he was such a favourite; and no wonder either that the children all loved him so, for they had grown up with him; the eldest girl, muriel, was seventeen, and dumps was at the parsonage when she was a baby. dumps had been grey, when in his prime--a charming grey, almost a blue in point of fact; but, alas! he was white enough now, and there were hollows in his temples that, feed him as he would, his master never could fill up. sometimes, too, dumps' lower lip would hang a bit, and shake in a nervous kind of way; and as to his teeth! well, the less said about them the better; they could still scoop out a turnip or bite a bit of carrot, but as for his oats, dumps had a decided preference for them bruised. these, of course, were all signs of advancing age; but age had some advantages, for the older dumps grew, the wiser he got. there was very little that concerned him that dumps didn't know, and very little that concerned his master either. the rev mr mack was one of the most tenderhearted men i ever knew. many and many an old pauper blessed and prayed for him. yes, and he for them; but i am bound in honesty to say that mr mack's blessings often took a very substantial and visible form. there was a large box under the seat of the old-fashioned gig, that the parson used to drive, and dumps used to drag; and, nearly always, after he had prayed with, read, and talked a bit to some poor afflicted pauper, mr mack would go to the door, and stretch his arm in under the seat, and haul something out: it might be a loaf of bread, it might be a bit of cheese, a pot of jam-mrs mack was a wonder at making jams and jellies--it might be merely the remains of yesterday's pie, or it might be--whisper, please--a tiny morsel of tobacco, or a pinch or two of snuff in a paper. "don't go away, dumps," the parson would say to the pony, as he returned into the house. dumps would give a fond, foolish little nicker, that sounded like a laugh. "at my age," the pony would seem to reply, "i'm not likely to run very far away." i happened to be practising in mr mack's parish for six weeks, having taken the duties of a gentleman who was gone away to get married. i drove, the parson's pony. "just give him his head," said mr mack on the first day that i went to visit my paupers; "he'll take you all round." not knowing anything at all about the roads, i was very pleased to leave the whole arrangement of my visits that day to dumps. he went jogging up the road, half a mile, then down a lane, and finally brought up at a long, low, thatched cottage. then he jerked his head round to me, as much as to say, "get out here." and in the same way poor dumps took me everywhere over the parish. here would be a sick child to see, here a bedridden old woman, here a feeble, aged man, and so on and so forth. the sun was set, and the stars coming out, and it appeared to me i must have still ten miles to drive before i reached the parsonage, when all at once that dear, rose-clad old cottage stood before me, and there were mr mack and two of his charming daughters standing at the gate laughing. i was indeed surprised. the explanation is this: dumps had returned by a different road. he had really and truly taken me on a round. my friend, who had gone to get married, returned at last, and i left the glen. but happening to be on half-pay in the june of the succeeding year, i received a pressing invitation from my brother professional to spend the summer with him, and enjoy some fishing, a sport of which i am extremely fond. it was while i was at his house that a cloud shadow fell on the old parsonage, and its inmates, hitherto so quietly happy, were plunged into grief. i did not know, nor had i any business to know, the exact history of poor mr mack's trouble. from the little he told me, however, it was pretty evident that it was occasioned or arose from his own kind-heartedness: he had become security for the debts of a friend. o! it is the same old story, you see; the friend had failed to meet certain demands, and they had fallen on mr mack. how willingly i would have come to the kindly parson's relief had it been in my power, and i believe he would have accepted assistance from me as soon as from any one, for i was looked upon as a friend of the family. i could not help noticing now that it was a case of _pinch, pinch, pinch_ with the macks. indeed, i fear their table no longer groaned with the weight of the good things of this life, but rather for the want of them. but for all that--let it be said to his credit--the poor of the parish never went without the dole to which they had been so long accustomed. things grew worse instead of better, although, when i expressed my concern, mr mack assured me, with a sadly artificial smile on his face, that after a certain day it would be all right again. "my dear," said mr mack to his wife one evening as she sat sewing after the young folks had all gone to bed, "to-morrow is the fair at b--, and i fear i must go. poor old dumps! my heart is as cold as lead at the thoughts of parting with our children's pet." his wife never looked up. she couldn't have spoken a single word if she had tried to, but the tears rolled down her cheeks and fell thick and fast on the white seam. mr mack was up next morning betimes. i question if he had slept a single wink. he was up before the lark, and long before any one in the house was stirring. he made himself a hasty breakfast, fed dumps, and started. it was better, he thought, to go ere the family were about. when mrs mack took the children into the study, and explained to them _why_ they were forced to part with dumps, they showed far less exuberance of grief than might have been expected, and lent their aid individually to console the mother; but-o! the sorrow was deep, though silent. the father returned the same evening alone. he looked jaded and wan. hardly any one touched a bit of supper that night, and, judging from their faces next morning, i feel sure some of the girls mast have cried themselves to sleep. it would be waste of words to say that dickie dumps, with all his droll, wise ways, was sadly missed. poor old fellow, they would have given almost anything now to see his head popped in through the breakfast-window, or even to see him cropping the rose-leaves. who, they thought, would give him his morsel of dumpling now? and they hoped and trusted that he might have a good home. one day the parson came to see me. "i've got bad news to-day," he said. "o! i wouldn't that my wife and darlings knew it for all i possess." "nothing very serious, i hope," i inquired anxiously. "some might not think so," he replied. "my dear old pony! he is working in a coal-mine: slaving away down in the dark and grime; the horse that took my wife away on our marriage tour, the horse that has been my children's friend all their lives. don't think me foolish, gordon, but only think, the poor old fond creature that loved us all so well, been used to the green country all his life, to sunlight and daisied leas and kind treatment, and now--" he couldn't say any more, and i did not wonder; and i tell you, reader, that at that moment i wished to be rich as much as ever i did in my life. i went away over the hills. i walked for miles and miles. it is a capital plan this, when one is thinking. i was thinking, and before i returned i had concocted a scheme which, if successful, would restore dumps once more to the bosom of his family. i told the parson of the plan, and he was delighted, and rubbed his hands and chuckled with gladness. a day or two after, a short series of lectures was advertised to take place in the village school-house, to be illustrated with a magic lantern. two lecturers were to officiate every night, and together tell stories of their lives and wandering adventures. one was a soldier friend of mine--dead now, alas!--the other my humble self. the lectures were somewhat original in their way, for we not only told stories on the little stage, but we sang songs, and even gave specimens of the dances of all nations, including the savages of america, africa, and southern australia. i daresay we succeeded in making fools of our two selves; but never mind, we made the people laugh and we drew bumper houses, and the best of it all was, that we raised money enough to buy back dumps. "never say a word to anybody," whispered the parson to me, "till dickie is back again in the stable." nor did i. but though dumps had gone away a white pony, he returned a black one, and what made matters worse was that it was raining hard on the evening i led him round to his old stable at the manse. i stopped to supper, of course, and as soon as thanks had been returned, mr mack went away into the kitchen and came back with the lantern lighted. "i want you to see something," he said, "that i have in the stable." ah! but the parson spoiled the whole thing by looking so happy. his wife and children could read his face as easily as telling the clock. there was a regular shout of "dumps! o! pa, it must be dumps!" his wife snatched the lantern out of his hand, and the children, wild with joy, ran after her, so that instead of being first in the stable the parson was the very last. there was no occasion now to hide tears as they caressed the old pony, for they were tears of joy. dumps was back, and nickering in the old foolish fond way, and nosing everybody all over in turn. "isn't it first-rate?" dumps seemed to say; "fancy being back again among you all; and how is the grass, and how is the rose-tree, and how is the dumpling?" when we returned at last to the parlour, the parson glanced at his family and burst out laughing, and the members of his family looked at each other and laughed too. and no wonder, for what with the rain, and the coal-dust of the pony's neck, i never before or since have seen a family of faces that more needed washing. but what did that signify? wasn't dumps in the stable once more? chapter fourteen. a quiet evening--rover's experience. "lo! in the painted oriel of the west, whose panes the sunken sun incardines, like a fair lady at her casement shines the evening star, the star of love and rest." longfellow. "i can't see them," said frank. "nor i either," was my answer. the sun had gone down some time ago, not as the song says: "the sun has gone down o'er the lofty ben lomond, and left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene." there were no red clouds worth the name, only far up in the west a few scarlet feathers. but projecting straight up into the heavens from the spot where sol had sunk in a yellow haze, was one broad beam or ray. it looked strange, weird-like, and it remained for quite a long time. meanwhile an orange flush of intense depth spread all along the horizon, and the pine-trees on the distant hills were etched out in darkest ink against it; higher up was all sea-green, then blue, and here shone the evening star. we had the front door of the caravan open. frank sat on the driver's seat--the horses were sung in stable, bedded up to the knees--and i and the children lay among the rugs on the _coupe_. our _coupe_, mind you, was quite a verandah. how very still it was, how beautiful was the scenery all around us! we were far north of dunkeld, we had toiled through the pass of kiliecrankie, and were on the verge of one of the loneliest passes of the grampian range. there was hardly a sound to be heard, except the monotonous drowsy hum of a waterfall, hidden among those solemn pine-trees in the glen close adjoining. "no," continued frank, "they won't come out." "what is it?" said maggie may. "that tall ray of sunshine," i answered, "is the nearest approach to what we in greenland call sun-dogs, and frank and i were looking for them." "what are sun-dogs?" "a strange kind of mirage, maggie may, in which the sun is reflected four times in the sky, so that you can actually see four or even five suns--that is, one real, and four unreal." "now," said ida, "tell me a stoly." "and me a story too," said maggie may. "get your fiddle and play, frank." frank did so, and sang too, but the children would not be put off, so i had to begin. "it is about a little dog--a spaniel, ida--and it is the poor little fellow himself that is supposed to be speaking. do you understand?" "i twite understand; go on." -----------------------------------------------------------------------rover's experience. "i'm not tired," said rover, for that was the dog's name, "and i'm not sad, though i sigh--at least, not very sad." "o," he continued aloud, his brown eyes dilating with earnestness, as he began to tell his story, "it was not my dear old master's fault that he parted with me. he was poor, and tempted by a large price; and the tears coursed down his cheeks as he bade me farewell. _i_ could see them, though _he_ tried to hide them." "`good-bye, dear old rover,' he said, `you will be happy where you are.' the luxury of tears is denied to dogs, but, o! what a big choking lump was at my throat, as, led by a string, i went away with my new master. "i tried to do my duty by him at first, although i could see he was empty, vain, and foolish. he gave me a new name, he bought me a new collar, such a fine one, and he bought a new silver-mounted whip--dear old master never used a whip. he bought something else--_he bought a muzzle_! "`this,' he said, shaking it at me and smiling, `is to put on you in the dog days, my boy.' "i shuddered. this man, then, believed in the old worn-out fallacy and superstition that dogs go mad in the dog days. from that very moment i determined to leave him. i would not return to my old master. no; i would not pain him by proofs of my disobedience, but i would go somewhere--anywhere away from the cruelty that now surrounded me. it was the cruelty of ignorance--the cruelty, i might say, of luxury--for my kennel was superb, the dish from which i lapped my milk was china, my chain was of polished steel; but had it been of the purest gold it was still a chain, a fetter. and, alas! while i had plenty of the best meat and bones to eat, i often lacked bread; and although my milk was brought fresh every morning, i often wanted water. all my master cared about was to hear me praised and called beautiful. "my relief came at last. i was taken down to the copse one day in june; my master had his gun. "`see now, good dog,' he said, `if you can't start a rabbit. in you go.' "`with all the joy in life,' i replied, speaking with my tail. but it is not given to men like him to understand the language of dogs. "i plunged into the copse, and my master started to walk round and watch. he may be walking round and watching till this day for anything i know, or care. i did not go far till i sat down, to enjoy, to drink in a portion of the life, the freedom, and the joy everywhere around me. "it was in a little glade carpeted with meadow grass and wild flowers, many with pink eyes peeping through the green, many with blue; then there were tall branching ferns and trailing white-blossomed brambles, and glittering buttercups, starry-flowered fairy bedstraw, and the modest little crow-pea that rivalled the buttercups in richness of yellow. down in this quiet copse the nightingale and blackcap still trilled their song, and gorgeous birds and butterflies innumerable flew hither and thither, all so happy in their freedom. "`don't leave the copse till nightfall,' said a sweet bell-like voice that proceeded from a beautiful moth deep hid among the crow-peas, `don't leave till nightfall--we never do; don't leave, don't leave--' i heard no more; slumber stole over me, a slumber more sweet than any i had enjoyed for many months; and when i awoke the stars were all out, and a lovely moon, and the moths were floating and dancing among the elder blossoms. it was very dreary in that copse, and when i heard the distant village clock chime out the hour of midnight and the owl hoot mournfully, i felt frightened, for all dogs are superstitious. "flap! flap! flap! at that moment a great owl flew right over the glade, and i started and ran, and never pulled up until i was miles upon miles away from that eerie, dreary copse. "i got to a highway at last, and went straight on, and on, and on; but towards morning, when the stars began to pale, i forsook this road, and took once more to the wilds, keeping the direction in which i knew london to lie, for that i determined should be my destination. i had been running since midnight, and was now very tired and very hungry, and glad enough i was, you may be sure, when i came to a humble cottage, from the roof of which the smoke was curling. here a woman gave me a little milk to drink, and would fain have caught me afterwards; but, though not ungrateful, i was too near the place from which i had escaped; and so i ran on again once more. "all that day i slept under a wreath of newly mown hay, until the stars once more shone out that i thought were to guide me on to london. then i had the good fortune to find a plentiful repast, in the shape of a young rabbit. part of it i ate, and part i took along with me. "towards morning i was in quite a wild country. there was not a house to be seen, save one shepherd's hut, and this i determined to avoid; but fate willed it otherwise. i caught my leg in a trap that had been set for a fox. how can people be so cruel! my limb was frightfully lacerated, and when towards evening the shepherd's boy came to my relief, i expected nothing but death. how different was the treatment i received at the hands of the dear boy who found me! he carried me away to his mother's cot, and for weeks between the two of them they tended and fed me as if i had been a baby. the food i had may have been rough. what of that? i had it regularly, and my drink was the pure water from the neighbouring rill. when at last i was able to follow my kind young protector away over the wild moorland after his fleecy flock, o! i don't think there could have been a much happier dog than i. i could have lived there for ever. but happiness will not, cannot, last in his world. one day a bird-catcher came over the moor. i went to look at him, he threw me a piece of meat and i ate it. i remembered no more until i found myself tied by the neck with a rope, and the blackness of darkness everywhere about me. how i blamed my greed in not having been contented with the kindly fare my humble master and mistress never failed to place before me. but my life with this bird-catcher was of short duration; he sold me, and before many months were over i was re-sold, and sold and sold again. sometimes i was owned by rich, sometimes by poor; at times i slept in stables, at times on beds of down; but i cannot say i ever was happy. i was seldom fed with regularity either--indeed, the time on any day at which i dined was merely chance; my water, whenever i had a dish, was seldom pure; and as for exercise, i had to take it whenever i could. folk little think how cruel such treatment as this is, but the time is coming when they will know, although my poor bones will then be mouldering in the dust. we have but a short life, we poor doggies. i think those who own us, and whom we love and try to serve so faithfully, might often be a little kinder to us than they are. but there--i will not sadden this happy meeting by one word of complaint. the last master i had was one of the best of all, but even he was thoughtless, and i determined if i had the chance to leave him. that chance came. it came with christmas eve. i could see that preparations were being made to send me away, and to my joy i heard more than once mention of the name of london. finally, i was led to the station and consigned to the tender mercies of the railway officials. never shall i forget the horrors of that journey, for instead of putting me in a clean hamper, properly directed as he ought to have done, my master simply sent me off on a collar and chain. so i was thrust into a terrible box, called `the boot,' with at each end of it a grating; the way was long, the night was piercing cold, i had neither food nor water, nor straw to lie upon, and the wind whistled over me till my very bones felt frozen. but, worse than all, i had to change carriages towards morning. i was taken out, therefore, and tied up at the station at a corner, where the wind blew most fiercely, and the whirling snow almost choked me. the snow was all the refreshment i had for many, many hours; so there i starved and shivered all the livelong day. rosy-cheeked, happy-looking children and people in holiday attire brushed past me, friends met friends; there were laughing and gaiety and joy on all sides, but no one looked towards poor me. yes, forgive me if i forgot thee, dear mild-eyed gentle woman, you came and stood in front of me, and i could see a tear quiver for a moment, ere it fell on my head. this dear lady, whom i never saw again, opened her bag and gave me to eat. "at length came a porter, a rough, hard-handed, cruel man, and undid my chain, but my poor limbs were quite paralysed, and refused to move. "`come, you must,' he cried, and kicked me. "but i could not; then he dragged me along on my side by the chain; i was choking, my eyes were starting from their sockets, when at last my champion came. "only a railway guard--only a big, burly, bine-coated, brass-buttoned railway guard--but as, lamp in hand, he stood there, square-shouldered and erect, glancing with indignant eyes at the wretched cowering porter, he seemed all a hero. "`how dare you use a dog in that way?' he cried. "then he took me in his arms and carried me into his own van, and gave me a bed of warm straw. heaven bless his brown beard, wherever he is; but for him i should have died. "i was left to starve again at the london station, and here by sheer force i pulled my head through my collar and fled. "that is my story then," said rover, "and it proves that the world is not all bad, and that there are many good guards on railways who are kind to travelling doggies; and once more i say, heaven bless their brown beards where'er they may be." "a very nice stoly indeed," said ida. "and now me," said maggie may. "well, maggie may, i see you have got mysie there to nurse, so i'll put a pussy in your story, if you don't mind." "yes." "then frank will fiddle again, and after that we'll all go to bed as gipsies ought to at this time of night." chapter fifteen. just like tiny. "the family friend for ten years or more that basked in the garden and dozed in the hall, and listened for songs on the mat on the door." tupper. "just like our tiny!" said little ada mair when she first saw the subject of my present sketch. "just like our tiny!" repeated her wee sister ailie, going directly up, throwing her arms about charlie's neck and kissing him. charlie, you will understand, was the dog's name, a small black and tan, with a coat as dark as a raven's wing, and as soft and sheeny as satin. not, mind you, that it was soft in reality, only it felt so. the tan in charlie's cheeks, and eyebrows, and neck and feet, was of the richest mahogany, and his eyes were like the eyes of a young seal, or some lovely gazelle. altogether we were all very fond of charlie, and not a little proud of showing off his tricks to strangers, and we were positively astounded when one day we were told by a gentleman who knows a very great deal about dogs, that although our charlie was "a very pretty fellow," still he was not quite well enough shaped in the head, too short and broad in fact, to take a prize at a show. "o! you _must_ be mistaken," said our maiden aunt, bristling up; "_we_ think him perfection." i smiled, but said nothing, for i knew the critic was right. "and just like our tiny!" said ailie again, as she repeated the kiss. charlie was seated on a chair, a favourite location of his, because he was out of reach of the old cat's claws. tom the cat never agreed with charlie, and there was no love lost between the pair of them. the truth is tom was jealous, and took every opportunity that presented itself to make poor charlie's life as miserable as it could well be. tom used to invite charlie to have a drop of milk out of his saucer sometimes. "real new milk!" tom would say; "have a drop, charlie, it will do you good." "do you really mean it?" charlie would ask, talking with those great eyes of his. "of course i do," puss would reply. about a minute after this, charlie would be coming flying up the back stairs as if the house were on fire, with tom behind him, whacking him all the way, and crying: "i'll teach you to touch my milk." sometimes charlie would have a bone, and when done with it, would hide it in a corner. well, pussy would settle down behind it, and presently when charlie came back: "come away, charlie," pussy would say, or seem to say. "come away, dear; i've been watching your bone. those thieving rats, you know." "o, thank you, tom," charlie would say. but half a minute later charlie would be once more rushing madly up the back stairs, and pussy after him, clawing him all the way. pussy's favourite seat was the footstool, and in a winter's evening, when tea was on the table, a bright fire in the grate, the kettle singing on the hob, and tom half asleep, but singing all the same, on the hassock, our parlour looked _so_ cheerful. but sometimes tom would say to charlie: "i'm going away to the woods to-day, charlie, for a long, long hunt after the rats and weasels, so you can curl up on my footstool all day." "o, thank you!" charlie would say. then away tom would trot, and charlie would be up on top of the hassock, and asleep in five minutes, for on the whole charlie was a shivering little fellow when the weather was cold--just like your tiny. well, pussy would not go farther away than the paddock gate; she would sit there for perhaps ten minutes, making little funny faces at the sparrows, and at cock-robin. then back she would come. "he'll be asleep by this time," tom would say to himself, as he came stealing to the parlour. next moment there would be another race up the back stairs, and charlie would be howling most dismally. this was very naughty of pussy, and it was not at all pleasant for charlie; no wonder he preferred sitting in the chair. i'll never forgot the day charlie caught and killed his first rat. it was a very big one, and he was as proud as any deer-stalker. he must needs bring it into the parlour and lay it on the rug before us all. tom smacked him, and took the rat away to a corner, and gloated and growled over it, and told charlie that _all_ the rats and mice about the place belonged to him. charlie could swim as fast as a newfoundland, he could follow the carriage for miles, and whenever it stopped he used to jump up and sit on the horse's back, and perhaps go to sleep there, for he was a sleepy little fellow at times--just like your tiny. charlie used to fetch and carry. does your tiny do so? he would carry things much, _much_ bigger than himself. a carriage rug, for example. and this was funny, if the rug were very heavy charlie would stop pulling it and give it a good shaking, growling all the time as if the rug were alive. then he would stop and look at it for a minute or two, with his head first on one side and then on the other, as much as to say: "will you come now, then? i'll give you more if you don't." bright, loving, brave, and gentle was charlie. you see i say "_was_ charlie," so you will know that charlie is not alive now; i will tell you how it happened. it was a winter evening. our house, the grange, is a good mile from the station, across a wild bleak common. it would be quite three miles round by the road, so we seldom go that way. some of our friends were coming to spend a week with us. they ought to come by the 4:30 fast train, and i was there to meet them. it was eight before they arrived, however, and o! such a dreadful night. the snow had come down and was already fully a foot deep, and lay on the road in great wreaths that no horse could pass. then the wind blew a perfect hurricane, and the drifting snow almost took our breath away. we must go by the common or remain at the station all night. our friends were only two, a young lady and her father, but both were very brave. alas! we never could have crossed the common that night, had it not been for charlie. many a life was lost in that terrible storm, which will long be remembered in our shire. i had not taken charlie with me, but when in the very middle of the moor, with poor miss b--all but dead and my friend and i sinking, and not knowing which way to turn--we had probably been going round and round in a circle--i spied something black feathering about among the snow. it was charlie! i leave you to imagine with what joy we received him. "go home, charlie!" we cried. and away went our little guide, sometimes quite invisible, but always coming back to encourage us. half an hour afterwards we were all at home in our bright and cheerful parlour. but poor charlie never recovered it. he must have been out in the snow for hours. next day he was ill, and got rapidly worse. strange to say that tom the pussy was now actually kind to him. "i fear," i said one evening, "charlie is worse than ever." charlie _was_ worse--one pleading look at us, one slight shiver, and our pet was no more. there is a little grassy grave down in the orchard, that the children always cover with flowers in spring-time and summer. that is charlie's. chapter sixteen. professor dick's academy: a strange adventure. "bodily rest is sleep--is soothing sleep, spirit rest is silence deep, o daily discord! cease, for mercy cease, break not this happy peace." the caravan lay high up on a lonely moorland, amid the solitary grandeur of the grampian mountains--a thousand good feet and over above the level of the sea. the scenery around us was desolate in the extreme, for no vestige of human life, no house, no hut, not even a patch of cultivated land, was anywhere to be seen around us. above was the blue sky, with here and there a fleecy cloud, and yonder an eagle soaring. around us, as a horizon, the eternal hills, many of them flecked and patched with the snows, that never melt. far beneath, at one side, was a stream; though not visible, we could hear its drowsy chafing roar, as it tumbled onwards, forming many a foaming cataract, to seek for outlet in some distant lake. on the other side was a good scotch mile of heathery moor, blazing purple and crimson in the sunshine. here and there, on grassy banks, great snakes glittered and basked in the noontide heat, while agile lizards crept over the stones or stood panting on the heath-stems, to stalk the flies. it was strangely silent up here. we could listen to the lambkins, bleating miles away, and the strange wild cry of mountain plover and ptarmigans, while the song of insects flitting from alpine flower to alpine flower was pleasant music to the ear. on the right i could see the dark tops of pine-trees. but they were far away. never mind, i would walk towards them. i so love forests and woodlands. no, i would have no companion save my trusty friend bob. a word was sufficient to deter maggie may from accompanying me in my ramble. that word was "snakes!" frank was not so easily shaken off; but when i told him i was probably going to write verses, he refrained from forcing his company on me. so bob and i set out on our rambles alone. verses? well, verses come sometimes when least expected. better than wooing the muse, is being quiet and letting the muse woo you. but a sweet spirit of melancholy was over me to-day. i wished for silence, i longed for solitude. a breeze was murmuring and sighing through the weird black trees of the forest when i entered it, and i sat me down on a stone to listen to its wail. nature seemed whispering some sad tale to my ears alone. this to me was spirit rest. it was indeed a strange forest. the trees were all dark firs, though not tall and not close together. but i had never seen such trees before. gnarled and bent and fantastic, taking shapes and casting shadows that positively looked uncanny. i had not walked an hour among them till i fancied myself in some enchanted wood, and almost wished myself out of it and away. i stooped down more than once to smooth and talk to the great newfoundland, to reassure myself; and once, when passing an ugly brown pool of water, i started almost with fright as some water-birds sprang whirring into the air in front of me. still i had as yet no thoughts of retracing my footsteps. when, at last, i climbed a rocky mound and saw the sun going right away down behind a hill, like a ball of blood, i made up my mind to get homewards at once. but in which direction did the caravan lie? my answer to this was a very hazy one. however, standing on this mound would not help me, so i set out to retrace my steps. for fully half an hour i walked in what i considered the right direction, but i did not come to the pond again, and the trees seemed different--more close together, and more weird-looking and uncanny, if that were possible. i got tired at last and sat down. i had been pensive when i started, i was now perplexed. no wonder, for night was coming on. stars were glinting out in the east, a big brown owl flew close over me, with a most melancholy shriek of "tu-whit-tu-whoo-oo," that made my blood feel cold. _i was lost_! yes, but what had i to fear? i thought i had been lost before, lost in afric wilds, on prairie lands, and in greenland mists: was i going to be baffled by a highland forest and moorland? "tu-whit-tu-whoo-oo!" a sweet spirit of melancholy is very nice, but one may have too much of it. "tu-whit-tu-whoo-oo!" bother the bird. his wings too are flapping on the night air, and rustling as they say evil spirits do. the trees grow more uncanny-looking every minute, and after going on and on for fully twenty minutes more, these ghostly ill-omened pines positively seem to advance to meet me, and wave their gnarled arms in the starlit air as i pass. "tu-whit-tu-whoo-oo-oo." horrible! "bob, my boy, bark, speak, and scare that awful bird." "wowff--wowff--wowff!" listen! hark! at no great distance we can hear the sharp "yap! yap! woo-oo" of a shepherd's collie. no mistaking it. it cannot be a fox, and there are no wolves about. i take my bearings by a star that shines over the place from which the barking appeared to come, and bob and i make straight in that direction. to our great joy and relief, we presently emerge from among the black-branched uncanny trees, and on the moor, at no great distance, see a light streaming from the open door of a hut. a creature very like a wolf, with hair all on end, comes grumbling and yelping in a most threatening way to meet us. "let me settle him," says bob. "no, bob," i reply. "he is watching his master's house. he is right." but one glance at bob is enough for the collie. he disappears--goes bounding away over the hill, evidently to seek his master, for when we enter the one-roomed hut we find it deserted. there is a bright fire on a low hearth, however, and the smoke finds its way up a real chimney, and not through a hole in the roof, as is the case so often in highland shepherd huts. there is a pot hanging over the fire, simmering away slowly, and raising its lid a little every now and then to emit a whiff of steam, so savoury that master bob begins to lick his lips, and seems to wonder that i do not at once proceed to have supper. i shake my head, as he looks up in my face inquiringly. "no, no, bob," i say; "that pot does not belong to me." "nonsense," says bob; at least he thinks it. "nonsense, master, all the world belongs to you if you could only believe it. you're king of the universe, in my mind at all events." we sit and look at the pot. there is an old-fashioned wag-at-the-wall clock, tick-ticking away, but no other sound. after a time the clock clears its throat, and slowly rasps out the hour of nine, then goes quietly on tick-ticking again. a whole hour passes. the clock clears its throat once more and gives ten wheezy knocks. bob suggests supper more emphatically. i am getting very weary. those we left behind us must think we are indeed lost, or swallowed up in a quagmire. the thought makes me very uneasy, and i begin almost to wish my adventure in the weird forest may be all a dream, that presently the peat-fire, pot and soup and all may vanish, and i may wake in bed. but while thus musing i am startled very much indeed, and so too is bob, at hearing a cracked and dismal world-old voice close beside me say with a long-drawn sigh: "heigho! i wonder what o'clock it is!" there is no one in the room, not a soul to be seen. next moment, from another direction, but whether above or beneath i cannot be sure, issues a low, half-demoniacal laugh of self-satisfaction. "ha! ha! ha!" the great dog starts up. his hair is on end all along his spine. he growls low and glances fearfully round him as if he expected to see a spectre. again the mournful old-world voice and the long-drawn sigh. "heigho! will he ever, _ever_ come!" the dog looks in my face with terrible earnestness. he expects me to explain. i cannot--i feel uneasy. we listen for many minutes, but hear no more, till the rising wind moans drearily round the house and the fire gets low on the hearth. "ha! ha! ha!" the demon laugh again! it is a kind of half-ironical chuckle, impossible to describe. then a voice in pitiful tones of entreaty: "_don't_ do it. don't _do_ it." i am really getting frightened. i look towards the door, which had hitherto been open, and stare to see it slowly shut as if moved by some spirit hand. the wind howls now like wild wolves outside. "what is it? what _is_ it? ha! ha! ha! what _is_ it?" then a wild unearthly shriek, and a yell of "murder!" rises high above the wind. my nerves are quite unstrung. i verily believe my hair is moving under my highland bonnet. i would not stay another moment here for all the world. i open the door, and rush out into the night, bob at my heels, and shrieks and laughter resounding in my ears. out and away--anywhere, to be free of that uncanny hut. a big round moon is shining now, and the weird pine-trees are casting weird shadows on the moorland. look, though, is that a pine-tree? no, it is a tall figure, in highland garb, with a long crook, which it grasps high up, the plaid depending from the uplifted arm. "yap, yap, yap--" that is the collie's bark, and yonder figure is no doubt that of his master. he advances, and the moon shimmers brightly on the pleasant face and snow-white beard of an old man. "welcome, stranger. you've lost your way. my dog came to tell me. come back and share my humble supper, then i will conduct you home." i thought it strange to be addressed in such good english. but i was not reassured. was this a wizard, or a spectre--the spirit of this haunted wood? "back!" i cried, with a shudder; "back among goblins!" "ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, and i could not help noticing that his laugh was precisely the same as that i had heard in the hut. "pardon me," he said, "but my cockatoos have been talking to you from behind the scenes. come back, sir, it is all right. see, our dogs are playing together." that was true. bob and the collie were already the best of friends. from the very moment he mentioned the word "cockatoos," i felt somewhat ashamed of myself. so back i went, and shared the shepherd's soup, and we were soon enjoying a very interesting conversation. i told him all about myself and caravan, and he explained who he was. a shepherd by choice, because a lover of nature. a wizard according to some, a poet according to others, because his verses which, he said, were as rough as the heather and the granite rocks on the hillside, found _entree_ to the glasgow papers. after supper, he lit a great oil-lamp: we had hitherto had only the fire-light. then he pulled aside a screen, and lo! and behold, a dozen at least of cages, each containing a cockatoo, and one a starling. "what is it? what _is_ it?" said this latter. "nothing much, dick. but you've frightened this stranger." "strange!" said dick. the old shepherd opened the cage-door, and out flew the bird, and straight on to the supper-table. "professor dick," said my host, "won't say another word till he has finished his meal." "professor dick, you call him?" "yes, and i may as well tell you at once how i live and how i manage to get warm clothing, good food, and plenty of books." "i see your library is a most extensive one," i put in. "it is, for a poor man. i am a hermit by choice; i live all alone in these wilds; i am rent-free, because i have the charge of sheep, and i dearly love the solitudes around me. "the house or hut i occupy i call professor dick's academy. dick is my all in all. the collie comes next in my affections. "but dick maintains us." "dick maintains you?" "yes, you see all these cockatoos? well, dick trains them all to speak. and he trains them tricks, he and i between us. without dick i would be nowhere, and perhaps dick would go to the bad without me." "but what becomes of the cockatoos?" "i sell them. that is the secret of our wealth and happiness. they are australian hard-bill crestless cockatoos. i pay thirty shillings for each of them. i sell them for ten and even fifteen pounds. there is one there, forty years of age; the most wonderful bird in all the world. rothschild is very rich, sir, and so is vanderbilt, but neither possess money to buy that darling bird. no, nor dick either. but here comes the professor." the bird came hopping towards me, jumped up, perched on the back of a straw chair, and eyed me curiously for quite a minute, using first one eye, then the other, as if to make quite sure of diagnosing me properly. i thought him somewhat brusque and peculiar at first. he asked me three questions in rapid succession, but gave me no time to answer: "who are you? what do ye want? are you hungry?" the professor and i, however, soon settle down to steady conversation, and talked on all kinds of topics, as freely as if we had known each other for years. only, like the dictionary, dick was apt to change his subject rather frequently. i must say, however, that this pretty bird was the cleverest and best talker i have ever known or heard. there positively seemed no end to his vocabulary, and the ridiculously amusing remarks he made would, i believe, have caused a horse to smile. "in the name of goodness," i was fain to exclaim at last to my host, "is this really a bird, or is it some sprite or fay you have picked up in the depths of this weird forest?" the old shepherd seemed pleased. he nodded and smiled to dick, and the bird waxed more boisterous and funny than ever. "i begin to think," i said, "that i have got into some house of enchantment, and that nothing around me is real." the shepherd put professor dick to bed at last, and conducted me safely over the moor. he promised to call for us next day, and take us back to the cottage in the forest to hear the professor teaching his class. there had been anxious hearts in the caravan during my absence, but bob went bounding away in front of me to announce my arrival. frank was dressed and ready to go off to seek me, stick in hand and plaid across his manly shoulders. but all is well that ends well. chapter seventeen. the old man's dogs. "but there was silence one bright golden day, through my own pine-hung mountains." the sun shone very brightly next morning; the sky was blue; and a silence, broken only by the constant roar of the torrent, brooded over the bills. we all went to see, or rather _seek_, for professor dick's academy. but for a long time all in vain, and i was beginning to think the events of last evening must all have taken place in dreamland, when, emerging from the trees, the stalwart form of the old shepherd himself was observed coming towards us. in a few minutes more we were in the cottage. and there, sure enough was dick hard at work teaching his class. _he_ was loose, his pupils all caged. we were warned to keep silence, and did so as long as we could. dick repeated words and sentences over and over again, and some of the pupils were most attentive and apt. and the way some of the more earnest stretched down their necks, cocked their heads and listened, was amusing in the extreme. but there was one bad boy in the class--a saucy-looking cockatoo, with a red garland round his neck. "i want a bit o' sugar," was all he would say, and he kept on at it. "a bit o' sugar, a bit o' sugar; i want a bit o' sugar." the professor went towards the delinquent's cage, as if to reason with him; but the naughty bird laughed derisively, and finished off by making a grab at dick through the bars. the old man at once threw a black cover over the cage, upon which the bird's tune was changed, and in the dark he seemed to bitterly bemoan his fate, repeating in a most lugubrious voice the words--"poor polly! poor _dear_ little polly." one of us laughed. the spell was broken, and the professor would teach no more. "my birds will have a half-holiday," said the old shepherd, laughing. he came with us to the caravans, and greatly delighted he was. we gave him books and magazines, and that same morning shifted camp farther east, promising, if ever we came that road again, to visit the shepherd and professor dick's academy. the story of the evening was------------------------------------------------------------------------the old man's dogs. "i would not enter on my list of friends (though graced with polished manners and fine sense, yet wanting sensibility) the man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm." when a boy at school, of all my favourite authors, bulwer lytton was _facile princeps_. walter scott fascinated, and cooper enthralled me, while the "arabian nights" held me spell-bound; but there was a charm to me about all the writings of the first-mentioned novelist and poet that nothing else could equal. girls often have what they call "a hearty cry" over the book or story which moves their feelings; boys do not. i do not remember ever putting down a book in order to weep. such a matter-of-fact way of going to work never occurred to me; yet, while reading, tears _have_ often filled my eyes--yes, and sometimes _do_--so as to interfere materially with the distinctness of the print i hold before me. now, there is in my opinion no one less to be admired than an ungrateful person. one might surely be pardoned for thinking that ingratitude ranks as a great sin in the sight of heaven. but we are not to judge, far less condemn. it were often better, perhaps, to extend pity rather than anger to one who has been found guilty of ingratitude, for so universal, as an inborn sentiment, is the feeling of gratefulness, not only in man, but in the animals he has domesticated, that the absence of it would seem to denote an imperfection of brain-structure rather than anything else. those who have to do with children should not forget that gratitude is a feeling that can be fostered and cultivated, even in those among them in whose minds it exists only in embryo. but if it can be cultivated, so also can it be crushed; that, too, should be borne in mind. what a power gentle words and kind persuasion have over even the "brute" nature, as it is called! you may always lead, though you cannot always drive. my newfoundland dog is very fond of being in the house. "bob" has a temper of his own to strangers, and a strong will of his own at all times. sometimes it is necessary that he should go to his kennel and mount guard when he would far rather stay indoors. if, on such occasions, i speak somewhat sharply to him, he refuses to move. no force could get him from under the table; but a few gentle pats on the head, and a few kindly words, succeed at once. the great dog jumps up and comes trotting along with me, looking up in my face as much as to say: "always talk like that, master, and i'll go through fire and water to please you." says phil. g. hamerton, "whoever beats a dog gives evidence of his own personal stupidity; for a dog always tries his best to understand, and you can make things clearest to him by gentle teaching, if you know how to teach at all." i had to part with a lovely spaniel dog some years ago. we had had many a happy day together in the woods and fields, and the poor animal got exceedingly fond of me. well, it was two years after that i met him by chance at a great dog show. i had passed his bench three or four times without knowing him. i only noticed that a certain spaniel was making frantic efforts to break his chain, and rush into somebody's arms; and it was not until i at last stood opposite to him that it occurred to me to look at the catalogue, when i found it was my own old "beau" that i had not known among the multitude of strange dogs, all of the same colour and shape. ah! but he had known me in the multitude. but i am _so_ thankful i noticed the dear fellow, and did all i could to make him happy for one short day at least. suppose i had gone away and never said a word to him--never given one kind word or loving caress; it would have seemed to him so cruel and ungrateful! on the stormiest winter's day i seldom wear a hat about my own grounds. and shall i tell you why? it is because i cannot bear to see dogs disappointed, for whenever i do put on my hat, the dogs, with the impulsiveness characteristic of their race, jump to the conclusion that i am going for a walk, and that of course they are going as well. but referring to bulwer lytton's novels, or lord lytton's, if you prefer it, there is a passage or scene in one of his charming tales that, when a boy, i could not read without the tears rising up and blinding me, and that i cannot think of, even as i write, without emotion. an old man has none to care for him or tend him on earth save a daughter, whom he tenderly loves. but he finds a letter which proves her worse than false, worse than ungrateful, for she is, in that epistle, coolly reckoning and calculating _on his death_ at no distant day. what a shock to the father! he is no longer any use; is a positive encumbrance; and she, whom he had so thoroughly trusted, she, too, wishes him away. he calls his dogs to him. they come to his knee, and with wistful, wondering eyes gaze up into his face, for they can see poor master is in grief. and his heart feels ready to break, as he pats his poor dumb friends and exclaims: "will there be no one even to look after the old man's dogs when he is gone?" there is a species of cruelty to animals, happily, i believe, very rare. i refer to that which induces a person to treat harshly and unkindly some dumb creature for the simple reason that it belongs to an enemy. whatever of harm an animal's master may have done me, it, at all events, is guiltless of evil. reference to this is made in holy writ, and if we turn to exodus twenty-three, verse 5, we read the following: "if thou see the ass of him that hateth thee lying down under his burden, and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely help with him." on the other hand, the pets of those we love become doubly dear to us in the absence of their real master or mistress. yonder, let us say, is little maggie's pet canary. maggie is always the merriest of the merry when she is about the house. it would be difficult indeed to say whether the canary or she sings the louder, or looks the brighter or the happier all day long. but there were tears in maggie's eyes on the day she went away, and when she went to the cage and said, "bye, bye, birdie," it was all she could do to keep from crying. and the bird seemed sad too, and does not sing so blithely now; and every morning, when any one enters the breakfast-room, he extends a very long neck indeed, for he is looking for and expecting the loved one. now would it not be cruel if the person in whose charge that birdie is left were not more than kind to it in maggie's absence? yonder is johnnie's rough wee terrier dog. o, what romps and games and rambles far and near johnnie and that little dog did use to have! but johnnie has gone to sea. the little dog mourns for him; any one can notice that. but he does not mourn for him as one dead, for often when a step somewhat like his master's sounds on the gravel, how wildly the little dog rushes to door or window to have a look, and how very low his tail droops as he returns disconsolate to his seat on the hearth. may heaven send johnnie safely home again; and won't he find his doggie sleek and fat? it will not be our fault if he does not. if any one were to ask me how long i supposed a dog would remember an absent master, i should answer--and i should speak advisedly when i did so: "a dog will remember and mourn for an absent master until his return, no matter how long that may be; or until the dog's own loving eyes are closed in death." about the mystery of death itself, i question if dogs know very much. they must at any rate imagine that there is a possibility of the dead one returning again to life. does the reader remember the story of the gentleman who lost his way among the mountains and was killed, his body being found a quarter of a year afterwards, with his faithful dog still beside it? or scott's beautiful lines on the subject, a few of which i cannot resist the temptation to quote? "dark-green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather. till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, for, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, the much-loved remains of his master defended, and chased the hill-fox and the raven away. how long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? when the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? how many long days and long weeks didst thou number. ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?" i was travelling one time in ireland in a jaunting-car which i had hired for some days. i had no other companion save a large newfoundland dog, for whose comfort the seat of the car was hardly broad enough. but there was the driver to talk to, and nothing loth was paddy either to carry on the greater share of the conversation. it was the sweet summer-time, and whatever my companion the dog did, i know _i_ felt as happy and light-hearted as the birds. "see them two dogs?" said the driver to me, as we passed an old-fashioned gate, about a mile from the village of c--. "yes," i replied, "pull up a moment, paddy, till i have a look at them." a pair of lovely basset hounds they were, a dark or liver-coloured and a light one, coupled together by a short chain. they were waiting for some one, apparently; the white one turned his head to look at us, but the other was all eagerness, all attention. he seemed to me to hear a footstep. "waiting for some one, i should think," i said to my driver. "indeed, yes, sorr," replied paddy. "it is waiting for their master they do be. it is waiting for him they'll never see again, they are, sorr. they call them `the old man's dogs,' and every evening at five o'clock out they trot, just as you see them, and there they stand, sorr, and there they listen for hours and hours together; then trot back, with hanging heads and tails, sorr; but they'll never see him more." "is he dead, then?" i inquired. "yes, sorr," said paddy; "but we'll drive on a bit if we're going to talk." i gave one last glance towards the dogs, and the look of eager expectancy in the dark one's eyes i shall not soon forget. "it was all owing to treachery, i think, sorr," said paddy, as we drew up under a drooping lime-tree. "but there it was; the old man b--used to stay much in foreign parts, but he came home at last to settle down. he had an only daughter with him, that he loved right dearly, and barring her neither kith nor kin, that ever we could see, belonging to him. "_he_ was always cheerful, sorr, and she seemed always happy. he used to go to l--every day; his carriage waited him on his return at the station, and them two faithful brutes, sorr, at the old gate. so everything seemed to go as cheerfully as wedding-bells, and just as easy like. "there was a count, they called him, that used often to stay at the mansion, sorr. whether he had anything to do with it or not, it's not myself that can tell you. but i won't keep you waiting, for it's a cruel story. the old man came home one day to an empty house. he was never the same after. broken-down like he was, and didn't seem to care for anything but them two dogs. well, just in one month, sorr, the daughter came back. she never saw her father alive, though. he was carried in the same day at the old gate, dead, sorr. he had dropped down in a fit, or, as some do say, of a kind of heartbreak. "i needn't tell you more, sorr. there is nobody at the old manor now. _she_ is abroad, and just guess you, sorr, what her feelings are if ever she thinks, as think she must. the house is a kind of tumbledown like, and there is no one ever likely to live there again owing to the ghost, you know." "i don't care about the ghost, paddy," i said; "but what about the dogs? where do they live?" "just inside the old gate, sorr, at the gardener's cottage. and it's waiting they do be, sorr, waiting, waiting. hup! mare, hup!" chapter eighteen. up the vale of don.--a peep at paradise. "between these banks we in abundance find, variety of trouts of many different kind; upon whose sides, within the water clear, the yellow specks like burnished gold appear. and great red trouts, whose spots like rubies fine. mixed 'mong silver scales refulgent shine." the summer sped away. but early autumn still found us among the bonnie blooming heather. we were real gipsies now. we had settled down long since to our strangely delightful nomadic life. we were both healthy and happy. there were roses on the cheeks of maggie may, and--let me whisper it-freckles on her nose. frank was as brown as a brick, and even bob and the caravan cat had increased in size, and looked intensely self-satisfied, and on good terms with themselves. this chapter finds me fishing in the don; maggie may is basking in the sunshine, book in hand, and the rest of our crew are invisible. "there is something radically wrong, robert," i said, casting my fly for the fortieth time, and so coaxingly too, over the very spot where i knew more than one fine finny fellow was hiding. "something radically wrong, bob; either the sky is too clear or the water too bright, or there isn't wind enough, or i haven't got the right fly on. but never a bite and never a ghost of a nibble have i had for the last half-hour. i'm tired of it; sick of it. but they are there, bob, for many a one we have landed on luckier days than this. besides, what says the old, old poem?" -----------------------------------------------------------------------bob wagged his immensity of a tail by way of reply, but he never took his eyes off a hole in the bank, that he had been as earnestly watching as i had been flogging the pool. whip! splash! i thought i had one then. and i believe i would have had one, only out of its hole sprang a big black vole, and took to the water. in floundered hurricane bob after it, and there was an end to my fishing. bob came out of the water presently, and stood between me and the sun, and shook himself several times, causing a rainbow to appear around him each time he did so. i wound in my tackle, and put up my rod. half an hour afterwards, maggie may, bob, and i were on the braes above balhaggarty. we lay ourselves down on a sweet mossy bank, bedecked with many a wild flower; peacock butterflies are floating in the sunshine, and great velvety bees make drowsy music in the air; and not far off, on a branch of a brown-trunked fir-tree, cock-robin is singing his clear, crisp little song. before us, beneath us, and on every side, is spread out one of the fairest landscapes in all the wild romantic north. woods and water, hills and dales, stretch away as far as the eye can reach. yonder is the wimpling ury, meandering through the peaceful valley to join the winding don. near its banks stands, or lies, or rather lies and sleeps, and seems to dream, the village of inverurie. very blue are the roofs of its houses in the surrounding greenery, very white are its granite walls, and its spires and steeples look like snow or marble in the autumn sunshine. that was the village home of one of scotia's noblest bards--the gentle, genial thom. though six-and-thirty years have fled since they laid him to rest in the moors, there is more than one old man and woman living in the village there yet, who knew him in his prime, and have stories well worth listening to, to tell of the poet of the ury; but as long as pine-trees shall nod on scottish hills, as long as the dark plumes of caledonia's sons shall wave in the van of battle, so long will thom's name be known in the land of his nativity, and among his countrymen all over the world. far to the right of the spot where we are reclining, the giant mountain, ben-na-chie, rears its proud head into the air. it is a solitary hill, and yet tourists to this land of romance ought to know that from its summit the view obtained on a fine day is probably more beautiful, varied, and extensive than any other i know of in "a' braid scotland." it is a solitary hill--a wild, bold, cliffy mass--yet- "the clouds love to rest on this mountain's dark breast, ere they journey afar o'er the boundless blue sea." a solitary hill--and o! if it could but speak, what tales it could tell: eeriesome, drearisome tales, tales of intrigue and plot, plot domestic and plot political, tales of battle and slaughter and strife--for not a glen for miles and miles around it, not a moorland, not a hill the heather on which has not over and over again been dyed with the blood of fiercely fighting foemen. nor were the struggles that took place among these hills and forests and glens of merely local importance; for aberdeenshire has cut as deep notches in the history of this country as any other shire i wot of. down yonder is bruce's howe, or cave, by the side of the don at ardtannies, celebrated in history as the place where the sick king lay, broken in health and fortune, and where he had his memorable interview with the spider, which so raised his hopes that he feared not shortly after to sally forth, give battle to and defeat the fierce, false cumyn. then bruce laid buchan waste. after this the whole north of scotland soon owned his sway, and five years after the sanguinary battle of inverurie here bannockburn was fought, and scotland freed of its would-be conquerors. but to-day we are seated on the very edge of the great battle-field of harlaw. this battle was fought here on a summer's day in july 1411. the duke of albany, then regent of the kingdom, had managed by hook or by crook-more likely it was by crook--to secure the earldom of ross to his son john stewart, earl of buchan, although by rights it belonged to the wife of donald, lord of the isles. now donald did not see any reason why he should submit to so barefaced a robbery. the donalds and the mcdonalds of the isles have always been a bold and straightforward set of billies. the reader may remember the anecdote that is related of one of these lords of the isles. at a royal feast, having entered somewhat late, he had seated himself at the far end of the board, seeing which the king sent a messenger to ask him to come and sit by him, at the head of the table. "tell his majesty," was the reply, given loud enough for all to hear, "that wherever mcdonald o' the isles sits is _the_ head of the table." donald of the isles sent the fiery cross through the length and breadth of his domains, and soon crossed into the mainland at the head of his followers. he fought and conquered at dingwall. then captured inverness, swept through the highlands, and encamped here at harlaw, determined to push on next day and attack the aberdonians in their city of granite. "give their roofs to the flames, and their flesh to the eagles." donald had reckoned without his host, however. that host was the bold earl of mar, who with a splendid little army of not more than a thousand men, officered by the flower of the county, hurried out and gave donald battle here on the hill-head of harlaw. donald's wild followers numbered 10,000, though they were badly armed. but it was greek to greek, it was scot to scot, and the conflict was a terrible one. as i look around me on this lovely autumn evening, my imagination can easily depict the conflict and people the plain once more with the brave knights, and men-at-arms, the mailed lowlanders that made up the battalions of mar, and with the wild kilted warriors that formed the hosts of donald of the west. yonder is mar himself leading the centre fight, on his right the gordons, leiths and leslies, on his left the keiths and forbeses, and many other brave clans; all feuds are forgotten for a time, they make common cause against the foe. the highlanders fight on foot, armed only with dirk and sword, the lowlanders ride them down and hew them down in hundreds, but the odds against them are fearful; all day even till nightfall the battle rages, when in the darkness donald draws off the remainder of his forces and slowly retreats by ben-na-chie; leaving nearly one thousand dead on the field, while mar is left presumably master thereof, but too sore beaten and far too weak to leave it. the terrible nature of the struggle may be gleaned from the fact that of the thousand lowland knights and men-of-arms, who had entered the battle, hardly four hundred remained alive. what a sad day for the gentry of angus and mearns! in many cases every male of the house was slain. leslie of balquhain fell with every one of his six bold sons, and besides others, sir james scrymgeour, sir alexander ogilvie and son, the constable of dundee, the provost of aberdeen, sir alexander irvine, sir thomas moray, gilbert de greenlaw, sir robert maul, etc, etc. but donald was conquered and aberdeen was saved. just a word about the ury for the reader's sake, for who knows but these lines i write may lead some tourist who is fond of the romantic, fond of the beautiful, and fond of fishing, to sojourn for a time in these sequestered glens. the trout-fishing then of the ury and of many a brawling wee burn around here, and which are literally alive "wi sonsy fish," can easily be obtained on application to the magistrates, and the kindly landlady of the kintore arms has also liberty to grant the boon to those who make her house their home. "the ury," says skinner, "moves onward in noiseless sweetness, winding and winding, as if aware of its own brief course, and all unwilling to leave the braes that hap the heroes of harlaw. by-and-by it creeps mournfully past the sequestered graveyard of inverurie, and kisses the bass, and is then swallowed up in the blue waters of the don." the bass is a small round hill evidently made by human hands, and supposed to be the burial-place of an ancient pictish king. i visit the quiet graveyard. i have reasons for doing so--sad ones. i might say with thom- "move noiseless, gently ury, around yon grassy bed, and i'll love thee, gentle ury, where'er my footsteps tread; for sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, than i forget yon lowly grave and all it hides from me." the roads here are glorious, and what matter the hills when the air is so fresh and invigorating; if there are braes that one must walk up, there are also braes down which one can roll, at any speed one pleases without a touch on treadle. and how delightful it is to linger on these breezy hill-tops, and while positively drinking in health with every breath of the ozone-laden air, leisurely, dreamily scan the bold and matchless panorama spread out before us. yonder is ben-na-chie again. you never can get past ben-na-chie. go where you like in this region, it is always frowning over your path just before you, or alongside, or on the horizon to the right or to the left. there is "an ower true story" connected with that mountain which might well and easily furnish subject-matter for a three-volume novel. the earl of mar's master of horse at the harlaw was a sir thomas leslie, of balquhain, a wild and lawless man of unbridled passions. on the very summit of yonder mountain he built a fortress, to which he was in the habit of carrying off young women of beauty sufficient to attract him. one of these was chief allan's daughter, the fair maid of strathdon. in like manner his son bore away the fair maid of kemnay, who was betrothed to young sir john forbes of drumminnon. sir john soon after attacked and burned the mansion or castle of balquhain, and sir andrew leslie, in revenge, sallied down from his fortress and laid waste the lands of the forbeses with fire and sword. so much for the fair maid of kemnay, and here is the village itself. high up on a table-land it is situated, among pine-woods and quarries, every house is a charming cottage, built of the whitest of granite. surely poverty is unknown in such a place, and people here must live for a century at the very least! i'd like to come to kemnay some time and live for a month in perfect peace, far from the bustle and worry of city life; to live and laze, and fish and dream--perchance to write a book. almost buried among trees is monymusk, as primitive in every way as the grand old hills around it, with only one hotel, or rather inn, but a very cosy one; and o! so quiet is everything here, that in the silence of the night, gazing from the _coupe_ when the moon was silvering the mountain-tops, i have positively heard the field-mice sneeze. about a quarter of a mile from monymusk is new paradise, a kind of a sylvan fairy-land. here are miles of charming walks, here are rustic-seats, and wells, and streams and bridges, and arbours, and a lake, the whole embosomed in woods, in which are many a bosky dell beloved of birds and all kinds of wild forest creatures. there are little glades, where ferns and brackens grow nearly ten feet high; it is sweet to see the soft evening sunshine shimmering down from among the trees, and falling on these, their greenery relieved by patches of warm autumn brown, and by the crimson lights of tall foxgloves. do lovers come here in the evening? we never see them. we have the sweet place all to ourselves, and when we want to change the scene we journey farther on, and soon enter a gloomy defile or forest ravine. this is paradise old. its gateway is a huge jawbone of a whale; for anything i know to the contrary, it may have been the identical whale that swallowed up jonah. the tourist, at all events, feels swallowed up as soon as he has entered. the long avenue that lies before him is one of the most remarkable in scotland. it is on moss you are walking, at each side are trees--larches, spruces, and firs, as straight as arrows, and fully one hundred and twenty feet in height, the stems of which two men can hardly touch fingers round. to your right, dimly seen, is the roaring don, beyond it cliffs and braes, covered with forest and fern, heather and blaeberries. you come at last to a large circle of gigantic beeches and limes, eighteen in all, inside which seats and tables have been placed, though they are now but little used. the most remarkable thing about these wondrous trees is that they have grown almost straight, their stems are mighty pillars, and even their branches have gone upwards, skywards, as if seeking the light, the result being a vast and leafy colosseum forming a dome for over a hundred feet high. the silence is unbroken save for the steady hum of the river, or the occasional cry of some wild bird, and as he looks upwards or gazes around him, a feeling of awe steals over the beholder, which cannot be repressed. there is in the valley of the majestic don many a village where the tourist might dwell for a time with a certainty of enjoyment. the scenery everywhere is grand and noble; it is all a classic land, and eminently historical; in every glen a battle has been fought, every parish has its castle ruins, every castle has a story of its own, and be you artist, author, actor, or antiquary, or merely an invalid seeking rest and health, you cannot do better than visit- "the banks and braes o' bonnie don." chapter nineteen. back once more in bird-haunted berks. "we have wandered in our glee with the butterfly and bee, we have climbed o'er heathery swells, we have wound through forest dells: mountain-moss has felt our tread. woodland streams our way have led; flowers in deepest shadowy nooks, nurslings of the loneliest brooks, unto us, have yielded up fragrant bell and starry cup." back in berkshire once again. were we glad to return? it was a question many a worthy neighbour asked us. could we answer it in the affirmative? we could not, and did not. not even for politeness' sake. but we dearly love berkshire for all that, love its rolling meadows, its fields of waving corn, the trees that go sweeping over its round hills like cloudlands of green; its placid river, its quiet streams, where the glad fish leap in spring and summer; love its birds, love its beasts, all the way up from the timid wee field-mouse to the saucy fox who leads so merry a life in the woods; and love its people, its peasantry--honest and true are they, sometimes rough, but always right. yes, and i am not sure we have not even a kindly regard for its long-nosed pigs. so there! but the fact is that, in one sense of the term, we really had never been from home. we had taken our home with us. and what a long delightful summer and autumn ramble we had had of it to be sure. no single one of us could remember everything we had seen and come through. but when we get chatting together of a winter's evening, and especially when i get my log-book alongside me, then it all comes back. i have many log-books, for though i do not consider myself a great traveller, i have sojourned in many lands, and sailed on many seas. and those logs serve often and often to bring me back the past. here, for instance, is------------------------------------------------------------------------a reverie. i am sitting alone in my wigwam. this pretty and romantic snuggery stands not anywhere near the forests of the far west, nor by the banks of the broad susquehana, nor on alkali plain, or rolling prairie, nor, despite its name, anywhere in the red man's country at all. it is built on a green knoll in my orchard, down in bonnie berks. an old well-thumbed log lies before me. it is the month of february, and the cold winds moan carelessly through the black and gloomy scotch pines out yonder, and through the lordly poplars, tall and bare, with a sound that carries one's thoughts seaward. i read but a line or two of the dear old log, and lo! the scene is changed, the inky pine-trees, the weird and leafless poplars, the solemn cypresses and drooping yews, grow indistinct and fade away--the very wind itself is hushed. i am back once more in the indian ocean, and my arab boat is quietly gliding over a calm unruffled sea of bright translucent blue. it is a day that would make a man of ninety years of age feel life in every limb. was ever sky so bright before i wonder, was ever sea so warm, so soft, so smooth--was ever air so fresh and balmy? the very sea-birds seem to have gone to sleep, and to be dreaming happy dreams, as they float, rising and falling on the gently heaving water. revooma, my boy or boatman--everybody has a boy as a kind of body servant who goes gipsying all alone on this lovely seaboard--revooma, i say, holds the sculls, and i am dreamily steering. "gently, r'ooma, gently," i murmur. "nay, never row so fast; the day is all before us, to do with as we will. let the oars touch the water in silence. i would hear nothing harsher than the dripping of the water from their blades, or musical rhythm of rowlock. now, r'ooma, pause-nay, draw in your oars; we are a good way off yon coral island shore, yet see, we are in water that is almost shoal. now, look overboard, r'ooma, down through the glassy water to the ocean's bed. can't _you_, r'ooma, even you, admire that? you do. is there anything so lovely on shore, r'ooma--anything else so lovely in nature? i'm a poet, am i? thank you; but look again, do not talk, but look; have your fill of the gorgeous beauty of that submarine garden, _i_ will, r'ooma. and years and years after this, perhaps, when lying on a sick-bed, i will have but to close my eyes, and that sight will return to cheer me. have ever you seen flowers that grow on earth like these? why! every moving--for move they do, as if a gentle wind were for ever stirring them--every moving leaflet, twiglet, twig, or stem, is a flower in itself--alive with light and colour combined. are they really weeds, or are they living things? then, look at those anemones. what splendid tints! what gorgeous colouring! "what a bright, white, clear patch of sand this is down here, r'ooma! how distinctly everything can be seen. see, i drop this pin, and it wriggles, wriggles, wriggles all the way to the bottom, and yonder it lies; somewhat distorted, i admit, but still it is the pin all the same. look at that black, wrinkled claw, r'ooma, appearing from under the edge of yonder coral rock. and now the body slowly follows, and a strange-shaped, spider-legged, warty old crab stalks forth. how hideously ugly he is, r'ooma; and this very hideousness, i verily believe, is his defence against his foes. but watch him, boy; what is he going to do? he paws the sand. he stamps on it. is it possible, r'ooma, he is about to dance a kind of a submarine ghillie callum? o, but look about a yard ahead now. see the white silvery sand gently, so gently, moved. and the white, warty crab stops dancing and listens, and rolls his stalky eyes around, handy to have eyes on stalks, you say? you're right, r'ooma. but, behold, our warty friend has beaten a hasty retreat to his cave, and up from the sand appears another, a _facsimile_ of the first--only more ugly, more warty, and more hideous still. they have been playing at hide-and-seek, r'ooma. that is all just a little game to pass the summer's day away. "but, while we have been looking at the antics of these crabs, we have not been noticing the hundred and one other beautiful things that are floating about. plenty of fishes down there, r'ooma; but we haven't seen a very large one yet. lovely in colours all they are, especially those strange, wee, flat fish that sail on an even keel, and are more gaudy in colour than a goldfinch; but most of them are ridiculously grotesque in shape. i am quite certain of one thing, r'ooma, none of them can have very much sense of fun or humour, else they would laugh at each other till they split their sides, and floated dead on the top of the water. yonder, look, goes a whole flotilla of jelly-fishes, as big as parasols; and watch how the bright blue or crimson light scintillates from their limbs as they kick and float. and here comes a fleet of quite another shape, so far as their tentacles are concerned. most independent gentlemen these are at sea, r'ooma, and i wouldn't catch one for the queen; but when stranded on a lee-shore, they are about the most helpless creatures in the universe. the little nigger boys kick them about, and they soon look more like a dish-cloth rolled in sand than anything alive. i've got them out to sea again, after such rough experience of shore-going life as i couldn't have believed even a jelly-fish capable of surviving, and have seen them revive, and float, and put away to sea once more, with the trifling loss, of perhaps one or more limbs or tentacles. "they tell me, r'ooma, that those medusae, or jelly-fishes, have hardly any nervous system, but they have very large heads, if they haven't brains. they always put me in mind of dishonest lawyers, these medusae--they kick and sting for a livelihood. they live on little fishes. they throw out so many feelers all around them, that they are sure to inveigle some small, unwary innocents; and when they do--well, then, i'm sorry for the fishes. but when the medusae, or the lawyer, gets shoaled himself, he is a very pitiless object indeed; all the little fishes gather round, wag their heads or their tails, as the case may be, but no one is a bit sorry for him. "what for i called de funny fish metoosah? is that what you ask, my innocent and unsophisticated body-slave. i will tell you. once upon a time, r'ooma, far away in the lybian wilds, and by the banks of a magic lake, there was a beautiful garden, more enchanting by far, boy, than that down under the sea beneath our boat. this garden grew all kinds of luscious fruit, and all kinds of lovely flowers; but there were also trees therein, laden with apples of purest gold. yes, you may well open your eyes in wonder, r'ooma. but these apples of gold were guarded night and day by a dreadful dragon--a creature bigger than a crocodile, uglier than the iguana, with bat-like wings, as large as the jib-sails of a boat, that enabled it to fly wherever it had a mind to, and its teeth and eyes were frightful to behold. and in the garden, r'ooma, there dwelt three fearful ladies--and one was called medusa. her hands and claws were of brass, she had wings that shone like burnished gold. her body was covered with scales, like the crocodile's, and her teeth were more formidable than those of the lion of the jungle. and she braided her hair with deadly snakes, that were for ever wriggling in and out, like the tentacles of yonder medusae just floating past us. and so awful were her eyes that, if she looked upon any one, he was turned into stone. she was slain at last, r'ooma; and they say that every drop of her blood changed into a thousand venomous snakes. "is dat where all de dreadful snakes come from? you ask me. nay, boy, nay; never look so frightened, r'ooma. there, pull on shore into that little sandy bay, beneath that ridge of black rocks so beautifully fringed with green. in that cool spot, r'ooma, i would drink my coffee and rest; and there, too, i will tell you a simple story, that i tell all my boys, about him who made and cares for us all, who gives motion to the air, flight to the birds, leaves to the trees, and life and joy to every creature we see around us. row, r'ooma, row." the above, reader, you may if you choose consider a kind of a reverie, nevertheless it is true in every touch. poor r'ooma, i wonder where he is now! a good and a childishly innocent lad he was, and loved me so dearly he would have died to please me. that very day, i remember, which i allude to in the above reverie, after a good, long rest, and after telling the story to r'ooma, which i had promised, i went into the warm sea to bathe. r'ooma came too. i had an idea that there might be sharks, and these ground-sharks will not touch a black man. well, if one had appeared r'ooma might have covered my retreat. i have seen a black man jump into the sea after a sailor's cap where sharks were in swarms. we had a long way to walk through shallow water, before getting into a place deep enough to swim with comfort. on our way out, seawards, i came upon an immense univalve shell in about three or four feet of water. i could see that it was alive, and was a volute of some kind. it was by far and away the largest i have ever seen--quite an armful of a volute. i called to r'ooma to stand by and watch it while i bathed. after my swim, i hurried back shorewards to secure my prize, when, much to my chagrin, i found my boy floating about, enjoying himself. "o, but, sah," he said to me, "i have marked de place where dat plenty mooch big cowrie sleep. we soon findee he for true." my boy had marked the place by putting a piece of seaweed to float over it. so we didn't "findee he for true." the "plenty mooch big cowrie" was not to be caught napping, and, doubtless, moved away into deep water as soon as we had left. but i have even dreamed of that shell more than once since then. in the sides of the cliffs that surrounded the bay where r'ooma and i had coffee that morning, and deeply imbedded in the rocks, were fossil shells, bivalves of some kind, in shape like the _patella_, or cockle of our coast, only in size about two feet across. fancy a cockle two feet across. as big as a turtle! it would make a dinner, i should say, for twenty hungry marines. in the shoal water were immense quantities of the common _holothuria_, or sea cucumbers. they were of gigantic size. but the shores of these little uninhabited islands north of zanzibar abound everywhere with shells of the most beautiful and curious kinds. many of the islands are covered with wood, and snakes live there, if little else does. how did the snakes get there? did they swim across from the mainland? snakes can swim well; but i doubt if they could cross twelve or twenty miles of salt water. on one of these islands i once had an encounter with a snake that cost me a pair of good shoes, and i had to go barefooted for a week. more about this in my next log-leaf. r'ooma was a boy of an inquiring turn of mind, so i took a delight in teaching him many things which, perhaps, he remembers to this day. he used to make the oddest remarks about the creatures and things around him, which caused me often to say to him: "you're a poet, r'ooma! i declare, r'ooma, that you are a poet!" r'ooma was not slow in returning the compliment whenever he thought there was a chance. "you are one poet, sah. i declare to goodness, sah, you are one poet." this would be r'ooma's remark when i said anything he thought clever. or if i did anything he thought clever, it was just the same. for example, in lamoo one forenoon a half-caste arab insulted me. i'm afraid i hit him. at all events he fell, and his turban came off, and he looked ridiculous without it, as he had a shaven skull. r'ooma laughed till he was obliged to double himself up like a jack-knife to save his sides from cracking. "o, yah!" he roared, "i declare to goodness, sah, you are one poet." yea, there really are worse places to go gipsying to than the indian ocean, and, if time and space permitted, i am sure i could tell you stories of my wanderings on the shores of africa, in its woods and wilds--stories of its strange birds and beasts and beetles, of its wild beasts and wilder men--that would quite interest. some other day, perhaps--who knows? well, leaves have a time to fall, and so also have curtains. down drops ours, then; our little play is ended, and our tales are told. but as regards the gipsying part of our story, if one further proof that such a mode of life is enjoyable in the extreme to all who love nature and an outdoor life, it surely rests in the fact that in this first month of spring i now throw down my pen to go and prepare our great caravan for another thousand miles' tour through the length and breadth of merry england. baree, son of kazan. james oliver curwood. jtable 10 31 1 preface since the publication of my two animal books, "kazan, the wolf dog" and "the grizzly king," i have received so many hundreds of letters from friends of wild animal life, all of which were more or less of an inquiring nature, that i have been encouraged to incorporate in this preface of the third of my series--"baree, son of kazan"--something more of my desire and hope in writing of wild life, and something of the foundation of fact whereupon this and its companion books have been written. i have always disliked the preaching of sermons in the pages of romance. it is like placing a halter about an unsuspecting reader's neck and dragging him into paths for which he may have no liking. but if fact and truth produce in the reader's mind a message for himself, then a work has been done. that is what i hope for in my nature books. the american people are not and never have been lovers of wild life. as a nation we have gone after nature with a gun. and what right, you may ask, has a confessed slaughterer of wild life such as i have been to complain? none at all, i assure you. i have twenty-seven guns--and i have used them all. i stand condemned as having done more than my share toward extermination. but that does not lessen the fact that i have learned; and in learning i have come to believe that if boys and girls and men and women could be brought into the homes and lives of wild birds and animals as their homes are made and their lives are lived we would all understand at last that wherever a heart beats it is very much like our own in the final analysis of things. to see a bird singing on a twig means but little; but to live a season with that bird, to be with it in courting days, in matehood and motherhood, to understand its griefs as well as its gladness means a great deal. and in my books it is my desire to tell of the lives of the wild things which i know as they are actually lived. it is not my desire to humanize them. if we are to love wild animals so much that we do not want to kill them we must know them as they actually live. and in their lives, in the facts of their lives, there is so much of real and honest romance and tragedy, so much that makes them akin to ourselves that the animal biographer need not step aside from the paths of actuality to hold one's interest. perhaps rather tediously i have come to the few words i want to say about baree, the hero of this book. baree, after all, is only another kazan. for it was kazan i found in the way i have described--a bad dog, a killer about to be shot to death by his master when chance, and my own faith in him, gave him to me. we traveled together for many thousands of miles through the northland--on trails to the barren lands, to hudson's bay and to the arctic. kazan--the bad dog, the half-wolf, the killer--was the best four-legged friend i ever had. he died near fort macpherson, on the peel river, and is buried there. and kazan was the father of baree; gray wolf, the full-blooded wolf, was his mother. nepeese, the willow, still lives near god's lake; and it was in the country of nepeese and her father that for three lazy months i watched the doings at beaver town, and went on fishing trips with wakayoo, the bear. sometimes i have wondered if old beaver tooth himself did not in some way understand that i had made his colony safe for his people. it was pierrot's trapping ground; and to pierrot--father of nepeese--i gave my best rifle on his word that he would not harm my beaver friends for two years. and the people of pierrot's breed keep their word. wakayoo, baree's big bear friend, is dead. he was killed as i have described, in that "pocket" among the ridges, while i was on a jaunt to beaver town. we were becoming good friends and i missed him a great deal. the story of pierrot and of his princess wife, wyola, is true; they are buried side by side under the tall spruce that stood near their cabin. pierrot's murderer, instead of dying as i have told it, was killed in his attempt to escape the royal mounted farther west. when i last saw baree he was at lac seul house, where i was the guest of mr. william patterson, the factor; and the last word i heard from him was through my good friend frank aldous, factor at white dog post, who wrote me only a few weeks ago that he had recently seen nepeese and baree and the husband of nepeese, and that the happiness he found in their far wilderness home made him regret that he was a bachelor. i feel sorry for aldous. he is a splendid young englishman, unattached, and some day i am going to try and marry him off. i have in mind someone at the present moment--a fox-trapper's daughter up near the barren, very pretty, and educated at a missioner's school; and as aldous is going with me on my next trip i may have something to say about them in the book that is to follow "baree, son of kazan." james oliver curwood owosso, michigan chapter 1 to baree, for many days after he was born, the world was a vast gloomy cavern. during these first days of his life his home was in the heart of a great windfall where gray wolf, his blind mother, had found a safe nest for his babyhood, and to which kazan, her mate, came only now and then, his eyes gleaming like strange balls of greenish fire in the darkness. it was kazan's eyes that gave to baree his first impression of something existing away from his mother's side, and they brought to him also his discovery of vision. he could feel, he could smell, he could hear--but in that black pit under the fallen timber he had never seen until the eyes came. at first they frightened him; then they puzzled him, and his fear changed to an immense curiosity. he would be looking straight at them, when all at once they would disappear. this was when kazan turned his head. and then they would flash back at him again out of the darkness with such startling suddenness that baree would involuntarily shrink closer to his mother, who always trembled and shivered in a strange sort of way when kazan came in. baree, of course, would never know their story. he would never know that gray wolf, his mother, was a full-blooded wolf, and that kazan, his father, was a dog. in him nature was already beginning its wonderful work, but it would never go beyond certain limitations. it would tell him, in time, that his beautiful wolf mother was blind, but he would never know of that terrible battle between gray wolf and the lynx in which his mother's sight had been destroyed. nature could tell him nothing of kazan's merciless vengeance, of the wonderful years of their matehood, of their loyalty, their strange adventures in the great canadian wilderness--it could make him only a son of kazan. but at first, and for many days, it was all mother. even after his eyes had opened wide and he had found his legs so that he could stumble about a little in the darkness, nothing existed for baree but his mother. when he was old enough to be playing with sticks and moss out in the sunlight, he still did not know what she looked like. but to him she was big and soft and warm, and she licked his face with her tongue, and talked to him in a gentle, whimpering way that at last made him find his own voice in a faint, squeaky yap. and then came that wonderful day when the greenish balls of fire that were kazan's eyes came nearer and nearer, a little at a time, and very cautiously. heretofore gray wolf had warned him back. to be alone was the first law of her wild breed during mothering time. a low snarl from her throat, and kazan had always stopped. but on this day the snarl did not come. in gray wolf's throat it died away in a low, whimpering sound. a note of loneliness, of gladness, of a great yearning. "it is all right now," she was saying to kazan; and kazan--pausing for a moment to make sure--replied with an answering note deep in his throat. still slowly, as if not quite sure of what he would find, kazan came to them, and baree snuggled closer to his mother. he heard kazan as he dropped down heavily on his belly close to gray wolf. he was unafraid--and mightily curious. and kazan, too, was curious. he sniffed. in the gloom his ears were alert. after a little baree began to move. an inch at a time he dragged himself away from gray wolf's side. every muscle in her lithe body tensed. again her wolf blood was warning her. there was danger for baree. her lips drew back, baring her fangs. her throat trembled, but the note in it never came. out of the darkness two yards away came a soft, puppyish whine, and the caressing sound of kazan's tongue. baree had felt the thrill of his first great adventure. he had discovered his father. this all happened in the third week of baree's life. he was just eighteen days old when gray wolf allowed kazan to make the acquaintance of his son. if it had not been for gray wolf's blindness and the memory of that day on the sun rock when the lynx had destroyed her eyes, she would have given birth to baree in the open, and his legs would have been quite strong. he would have known the sun and the moon and the stars; he would have realized what the thunder meant, and would have seen the lightning flashing in the sky. but as it was, there had been nothing for him to do in that black cavern under the windfall but stumble about a little in the darkness, and lick with his tiny red tongue the raw bones that were strewn about them. many times he had been left alone. he had heard his mother come and go, and nearly always it had been in response to a yelp from kazan that came to them like a distant echo. he had never felt a very strong desire to follow until this day when kazan's big, cool tongue caressed his face. in those wonderful seconds nature was at work. his instinct was not quite born until then. and when kazan went away, leaving them alone in darkness, baree whimpered for him to come back, just as he had cried for his mother when now and then she had left him in response to her mate's call. the sun was straight above the forest when, an hour or two after kazan's visit, gray wolf slipped away. between baree's nest and the top of the windfall were forty feet of jammed and broken timber through which not a ray of light could break. this blackness did not frighten him, for he had yet to learn the meaning of light. day, and not night, was to fill him with his first great terror. so quite fearlessly, with a yelp for his mother to wait for him, he began to follow. if gray wolf heard him, she paid no attention to his call, and the sound of the scraping of her claws on the dead timber died swiftly away. this time baree did not stop at the eight-inch log which had always shut in his world in that particular direction. he clambered to the top of it and rolled over on the other side. beyond this was vast adventure, and he plunged into it courageously. it took him a long time to make the first twenty yards. then he came to a log worn smooth by the feet of gray wolf and kazan, and stopping every few feet to send out a whimpering call for his mother, he made his way farther and farther along it. as he went, there grew slowly a curious change in this world of his. he had known nothing but blackness. and now this blackness seemed breaking itself up into strange shapes and shadows. once he caught the flash of a fiery streak above him--a gleam of sunshine--and it startled him so that he flattened himself down upon the log and did not move for half a minute. then he went on. an ermine squeaked under him. he heard the swift rustling of a squirrel's feet, and a curious whut-whut-whut that was not at all like any sound his mother had ever made. he was off the trail. the log was no longer smooth, and it was leading him upward higher and higher into the tangle of the windfall, and was growing narrower every foot he progressed. he whined. his soft little nose sought vainly for the warm scent of his mother. the end came suddenly when he lost his balance and fell. he let out a piercing cry of terror as he felt himself slipping, and then plunged downward. he must have been high up in the windfall, for to baree it seemed a tremendous fall. his soft little body thumped from log to log as he shot this way and that, and when at last he stopped, there was scarcely a breath left in him. but he stood up quickly on his four trembling legs--and blinked. a new terror held baree rooted there. in an instant the whole world had changed. it was a flood of sunlight. everywhere he looked he could see strange things. but it was the sun that frightened him most. it was his first impression of fire, and it made his eyes smart. he would have slunk back into the friendly gloom of the windfall, but at this moment gray wolf came around the end of a great log, followed by kazan. she muzzled baree joyously, and kazan in a most doglike fashion wagged his tail. this mark of the dog was to be a part of baree. half wolf, he would always wag his tail. he tried to wag it now. perhaps kazan saw the effort, for he emitted a muffled yelp of approbation as he sat back on his haunches. or he might have been saying to gray wolf: "well, we've got the little rascal out of that windfall at last, haven't we?" for baree it had been a great day. he had discovered his father--and the world. chapter 2 and it was a wonderful world--a world of vast silence, empty of everything but the creatures of the wild. the nearest hudson's bay post was a hundred miles away, and the first town of civilization was a straight three hundred to the south. two years before, tusoo, the cree trapper, had called this his domain. it had come down to him, as was the law of the forests, through generations of forefathers. but tusoo had been the last of his worn-out family; he had died of smallpox, and his wife and his children had died with him. since then no human foot had taken up his trails. the lynx had multiplied. the moose and caribou had gone unhunted by man. the beaver had built their homes--undisturbed. the tracks of the black bear were as thick as the tracks of the deer farther south. and where once the deadfalls and poison baits of tusoo had kept the wolves thinned down, there was no longer a menace for these mohekuns of the wilderness. following the sun of this first wonderful day came the moon and the stars of baree's first real night. it was a splendid night, and with it a full red moon sailed up over the forests, flooding the earth with a new kind of light, softer and more beautiful to baree. the wolf was strong in him, and he was restless. he had slept that day in the warmth of the sun, but he could not sleep in this glow of the moon. he nosed uneasily about gray wolf, who lay flat on her belly, her beautiful head alert, listening yearningly to the night sounds, and for the tonguing of kazan, who had slunk away like a shadow to hunt. half a dozen times, as baree wandered about near the windfall, he heard a soft whir over his head, and once or twice he saw gray shadows floating swiftly through the air. they were the big northern owls swooping down to investigate him, and if he had been a rabbit instead of a wolf dog whelp, his first night under the moon and stars would have been his last; for unlike wapoos, the rabbit, he was not cautious. gray wolf did not watch him closely. instinct told her that in these forests there was no great danger for baree except at the hands of man. in his veins ran the blood of the wolf. he was a hunter of all other wild creatures, but no other creature, either winged or fanged, hunted him. in a way baree sensed this. he was not afraid of the owls. he was not afraid of the strange bloodcurdling cries they made in the black spruce tops. but once fear entered into him, and he scurried back to his mother. it was when one of the winged hunters of the air swooped down on a snowshoe rabbit, and the squealing agony of the doomed creature set his heart thumping like a little hammer. he felt in those cries the nearness of that one ever-present tragedy of the wild--death. he felt it again that night when, snuggled close to gray wolf, he listened to the fierce outcry of a wolf pack that was close on the heels of a young caribou bull. and the meaning of it all, and the wild thrill of it all, came home to him early in the gray dawn when kazan returned, holding between his jaws a huge rabbit that was still kicking and squirming with life. this rabbit was the climax in the first chapter of baree's education. it was as if gray wolf and kazan had planned it all out, so that he might receive his first instruction in the art of killing. when kazan had dropped it, baree approached the big hare cautiously. the back of wapoos, the rabbit, was broken. his round eyes were glazed, and he had ceased to feel pain. but to baree, as he dug his tiny teeth into the heavy fur under wapoos's throat, the hare was very much alive. the teeth did not go through into the flesh. with puppyish fierceness baree hung on. he thought that he was killing. he could feel the dying convulsions of wapoos. he could hear the last gasping breaths leaving the warm body, and he snarled and tugged until finally he fell back with a mouthful of fur. when he returned to the attack, wapoos was quite dead, and baree continued to bite and snarl until gray wolf came with her sharp fangs and tore the rabbit to pieces. after that followed the feast. so baree came to understand that to eat meant to kill, and as other days and nights passed, there grew in him swiftly the hunger for flesh. in this he was the true wolf. from kazan he had taken other and stronger inheritances of the dog. he was magnificently black, which in later days gave him the name of kusketa mohekun--the black wolf. on his breast was a white star. his right ear was tipped with white. his tail, at six weeks, was bushy and hung low. it was a wolf's tail. his ears were gray wolf's ears--sharp, short, pointed, always alert. his foreshoulders gave promise of being splendidly like kazan's, and when he stood up he was like the trace dog, except that he always stood sidewise to the point or object he was watching. this, again, was the wolf, for a dog faces the direction in which he is looking intently. one brilliant night, when baree was two months old, and when the sky was filled with stars and a june moon so bright that it seemed scarcely higher than the tall spruce tops, baree settled back on his haunches and howled. it was a first effort. but there was no mistake in the note of it. it was the wolf howl. but a moment later when baree slunk up to kazan, as if deeply ashamed of his effort, he was wagging his tail in an unmistakably apologetic manner. and this again was the dog. if tusoo, the dead indian trapper, could have seen him then, he would have judged him by that wagging of his tail. it revealed the fact that deep in his heart--and in his soul, if we can concede that he had one--baree was a dog. in another way tusoo would have found judgment of him. at two months the wolf whelp has forgotten how to play. he is a slinking part of the wilderness, already at work preying on creatures smaller and more helpless than himself. baree still played. in his excursions away from the windfall he had never gone farther than the creek, a hundred yards from where his mother lay. he had helped to tear many dead and dying rabbits into pieces. he believed, if he thought upon the matter at all, that he was exceedingly fierce and courageous. but it was his ninth week before he felt his spurs and fought his terrible battle with the young owl in the edge of the thick forest. the fact that oohoomisew, the big snow owl, had made her nest in a broken stub not far from the windfall was destined to change the whole course of baree's life, just as the blinding of gray wolf had changed hers, and a man's club had changed kazan's. the creek ran close past the stub, which had been shriven by lightning; and this stub stood in a still, dark place in the forest, surrounded by tall, black spruce and enveloped in gloom even in broad day. many times baree had gone to the edge of this mysterious part of the forest and had peered in curiously, and with a growing desire. on this day of his great battle its lure was overpowering. little by little he entered into it, his eyes shining brightly and his ears alert for the slightest sounds that might come out of it. his heart beat faster. the gloom enveloped him more. he forgot the windfall and kazan and gray wolf. here before him lay the thrill of adventure. he heard strange sounds, but very soft sounds, as if made by padded feet and downy wings, and they filled him with a thrilling expectancy. under his feet there were no grass or weeds or flowers, but a wonderful brown carpet of soft evergreen needles. they felt good to his feet, and were so velvety that he could not hear his own movement. he was fully three hundred yards from the windfall when he passed oohoomisew's stub and into a thick growth of young balsams. and there--directly in his path--crouched the monster! papayuchisew [young owl] was not more than a third as large as baree. but he was a terrifying-looking object. to baree he seemed all head and eyes. he could see no body at all. kazan had never brought in anything like this, and for a full half-minute he remained very quiet, eying it speculatively. papayuchisew did not move a feather. but as baree advanced, a cautious step at a time, the bird's eyes grew bigger and the feathers about his head ruffled up as if stirred by a puff of wind. he came of a fighting family, this little papayuchisew--a savage, fearless, and killing family--and even kazan would have taken note of those ruffling feathers. with a space of two feet between them, the pup and the owlet eyed each other. in that moment, if gray wolf could have been there, she might have said to baree: "use your legs--and run!" and oohoomisew, the old owl, might have said to papayuchisew: "you little fool--use your wings and fly!" they did neither--and the fight began. papayuchisew started it, and with a single wild yelp baree went back in a heap, the owlet's beak fastened like a red-hot vise in the soft flesh at the end of his nose. that one yelp of surprise and pain was baree's first and last cry in the fight. the wolf surged in him; rage and the desire to kill possessed him. as papayuchisew hung on, he made a curious hissing sound; and as baree rolled and gnashed his teeth and fought to free himself from that amazing grip on his nose, fierce little snarls rose out of his throat. for fully a minute baree had no use of his jaws. then, by accident, he wedged papayuchisew in a crotch of a low ground shrub, and a bit of his nose gave way. he might have run then, but instead of that he was back at the owlet like a flash. flop went papayuchisew on his back, and baree buried his needlelike teeth in the bird's breast. it was like trying to bite through a pillow, the feathers fangs, and just as they were beginning to prick the owlet's skin, papayuchisew--jabbing a little blindly with a beak that snapped sharply every time it closed--got him by the ear. the pain of that hold was excruciating to baree, and he made a more desperate effort to get his teeth through his enemy's thick armor of feathers. in the struggle they rolled under the low balsams to the edge of the ravine through which ran the creek. over the steep edge they plunged, and as they rolled and bumped to the bottom, baree loosed his hold. papayuchisew hung valiantly on, and when they reached the bottom he still had his grip on baree's ear. baree's nose was bleeding. his ear felt as if it were being pulled from his head; and in this uncomfortable moment a newly awakened instinct made baby papayuchisew discover his wings as a fighting asset. an owl has never really begun to fight until he uses his wings, and with a joyous hissing, papayuchisew began beating his antagonist so fast and so viciously that baree was dazed. he was compelled to close his eyes, and he snapped blindly. for the first time since the battle began he felt a strong inclination to get away. he tried to tear himself free with his forepaws, but papayuchisew--slow to reason but of firm conviction--hung to baree's ear like grim fate. at this critical point, when the understanding of defeat was forming itself swiftly in baree's mind, chance saved him. his fangs closed on one of the owlet's tender feet. papayuchisew gave a sudden squeak. the ear was free at last--and with a snarl of triumph baree gave a vicious tug at papayuchisew's leg. in the excitement of battle he had not heard the rushing tumult of the creek close under them, and over the edge of a rock papayuchisew and he went together, the chill water of the rain-swollen stream muffling a final snarl and a final hiss of the two little fighters. chapter 3 to papayuchisew, after his first mouthful of water, the stream was almost as safe as the air, for he went sailing down it with the lightness of a gull, wondering in his slow-thinking big head why he was moving so swiftly and so pleasantly without any effort of his own. to baree it was a different matter. he went down almost like a stone. a mighty roaring filled his ears; it was dark, suffocating, terrible. in the swift current he was twisted over and over. for a distance of twenty feet he was under water. then he rose to the surface and desperately began using his legs. it was of little use. he had only time to blink once or twice and catch a lungful of air when he shot into a current that was running like a millrace between the butts of two fallen trees, and for another twenty feet the sharpest eyes could not have seen hair or hide of him. he came up again at the edge of a shallow riffle over which the water ran like the rapids at niagara in miniature, and for fifty or sixty yards he was flung along like a hairy ball. from this he was hurled into a deep, cold pool. and then--half dead--he found himself crawling out on a gravelly bar. for a long time baree lay there in a pool of sunlight without moving. his ear hurt him; his nose was raw, and burned as if he had thrust it into fire. his legs and body were sore, and as he began to wander along the gravel bar, he was quite probably the most wretched pup in the world. he was also completely turned around. in vain he looked about him for some familiar mark--something that might guide him back to his windfall home. everything was strange. he did not know that the water had flung him out on the wrong side of the stream, and that to reach the windfall he would have to cross it again. he whined, but that was as loud as his voice rose. gray wolf could have heard his barking, for the windfall was not more than two hundred and fifty yards up the stream. but the wolf in baree held him silent, except for his low whining. striking the main shore, baree began going downstream. this was away from the windfall, and each step that he took carried him farther and farther from home. every little while he stopped and listened. the forest was deeper. it was growing blacker and more mysterious. its silence was frightening. at the end of half an hour baree would even have welcomed papayuchisew. and he would not have fought him--he would have inquired, if possible, the way back home. baree was fully three-quarters of a mile from the windfall when he came to a point where the creek split itself into two channels. he had but one choice to follow--the stream that flowed a little south and east. this stream did not run swiftly. it was not filled with shimmering riffles, and rocks about which the water sang and foamed. it grew black, like the forest. it was still and deep. without knowing it, baree was burying himself deeper and deeper into tusoo's old trapping grounds. since tusoo had died, they had lain undisturbed except for the wolves, for gray wolf and kazan had not hunted on this side of the waterway--and the wolves themselves preferred the more open country for the chase. suddenly baree found himself at the edge of a deep, dark pool in which the water lay still as oil, and his heart nearly jumped out of his body when a great, sleek, shining creature sprang out from almost under his nose and landed with a tremendous splash in the center of it. it was nekik, the otter. the otter had not heard baree, and in another moment napanekik, his wife, came sailing out of a patch of gloom, and behind her came three little otters, leaving behind them four shimmering wakes in the oily-looking water. what happened after that made baree forget for a few minutes that he was lost. nekik had disappeared under the surface, and now he came up directly under his unsuspecting mate with a force that lifted her half out of the water. instantly he was gone again, and napanekik took after him fiercely. to baree it did not look like play. two of the baby otters had pitched on the third, which seemed to be fighting desperately. the chill and ache went out of baree's body. his blood ran excitedly. he forgot himself, and let out a bark. in a flash the otters disappeared. for several minutes the water in the pool continued to rock and heave--and that was all. after a little, baree drew himself back into the bushes and went on. it was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun should still have been well up in the sky. but it was growing darker steadily, and the strangeness and fear of it all lent greater speed to baree's legs. he stopped every little while to listen, and at one of these intervals he heard a sound that drew from him a responsive and joyous whine. it was a distant howl--a wolf's howl--straight ahead of him. baree was not thinking of wolves but of kazan, and he ran through the gloom of the forest until he was winded. then he stopped and listened a long time. the wolf howl did not come again. instead of it there rolled up from the west a deep and thunderous rumble. through the tree-tops there flashed a vivid streak of lightning. a moaning whisper of wind rode in advance of the storm. the thunder sounded nearer; and a second flash of lightning seemed searching baree out where he stood shivering under a canopy of great spruce. this was his second storm. the first had frightened him terribly, and he had crawled far back into the shelter of the windfall. the best he could find now was a hollow under a big root, and into this he slunk, crying softly. it was a babyish cry, a cry for his mother, for home, for warmth, for something soft and protecting to nestle up to. and as he cried, the storm burst over the forest. baree had never before heard so much noise, and he had never seen the lightning play in such sheets of fire as when this june deluge fell. it seemed at times as though the whole world were aflame, and the earth seemed to shake and roll under the crashes of the thunder. he ceased his crying and made himself as small as he could under the root, which protected him partly from the terrific beat of the rain which came down through the treetops in a flood. it was now so black that except when the lightning ripped great holes in the gloom he could not see the spruce trunks twenty feet away. twice that distance from baree there was a huge dead stub that stood out like a ghost each time the fires swept the sky, as if defying the flaming hands up there to strike--and strike, at last, one of them did! a bluish tongue of snapping flame ran down the old stub; and as it touched the earth, there came a tremendous explosion above the treetops. the massive stub shivered, and then it broke asunder as if cloven by a gigantic ax. it crashed down so close to baree that earth and sticks flew about him, and he let out a wild yelp of terror as he tried to crowd himself deeper into the shallow hole under the root. with the destruction of the old stub the thunder and lightning seemed to have vented their malevolence. the thunder passed on into the south and east like the rolling of ten thousand heavy cart wheels over the roofs of the forest, and the lightning went with it. the rain fell steadily. the hole in which he had taken shelter was partly filled with water. he was drenched. his teeth chattered as he waited for the next thing to happen. it was a long wait. when the rain finally stopped, and the sky cleared, it was night. through the tops of the trees baree could have seen the stars if he had poked out his head and looked upward. but he clung to his hole. hour after hour passed. exhausted, half drowned, footsore, and hungry, he did not move. at last he fell into a troubled sleep, a sleep in which every now and then he cried softly and forlornly for his mother. when he ventured out from under the root it was morning, and the sun was shining. at first baree could hardly stand. his legs were cramped. every bone in his body seemed out of joint. his ear was stiff where the blood had oozed out of it and hardened, and when he tried to wrinkle his wounded nose, he gave a sharp little yap of pain. if such a thing were possible, he looked even worse than he felt. his hair had dried in muddy patches; he was dirt-stained from end to end; and where yesterday he had been plump and shiny, he was now as thin and wretched as misfortune could possibly make him. and he was hungry. he had never before known what it meant to be really hungry. when he went on, continuing in the direction he had been following yesterday, he slunk along in a disheartened sort of way. his head and ears were no longer alert, and his curiosity was gone. he was not only stomach hungry: mother hunger rose above his physical yearning for something to eat. he wanted his mother as he had never wanted her before in his life. he wanted to snuggle his shivering little body close up to her and feel the warm caressing of her tongue and listen to the mothering whine of her voice. and he wanted kazan, and the old windfall, and that big blue spot that was in the sky right over it. as he followed again along the edge of the creek, he whimpered for them as a child might grieve. the forest grew more open after a time, and this cheered him up a little. also the warmth of the sun was taking the ache out of his body. but he grew hungrier and hungrier. he always had depended entirely on kazan and gray wolf for food. his parents had, in some ways, made a great baby of him. gray wolf's blindness accounted for this, for since his birth she had not taken up her hunting with kazan, and it was quite natural that baree should stick close to her, though more than once he had been filled with a great yearning to follow his father. nature was hard at work trying to overcome its handicap now. it was struggling to impress on baree that the time had now come when he must seek his own food. the fact impinged itself upon him slowly but steadily, and he began to think of the three or four shellfish he had caught and devoured on the stony creek bar near the windfall. he also remembered the open clamshell he had found, and the lusciousness of the tender morsel inside it. a new excitement began to possess him. he became, all at once, a hunter. with the thinning out of the forest the creek grew more shallow. it ran again over bars of sand and stones, and baree began to nose along the edge of the shallows. for a long time he had no success. the few crayfish that he saw were exceedingly lively and elusive, and all the clamshells were shut so tight that even kazan's powerful jaws would have had difficulty in smashing them. it was almost noon when he caught his first crayfish, about as big as a man's forefinger. he devoured it ravenously. the taste of food gave him fresh courage. he caught two more crayfish during the afternoon. it was almost dusk when he stirred a young rabbit out from under a cover of grass. if he had been a month older, he could have caught it. he was still very hungry, for three crayfish--scattered through the day--had not done much to fill the emptiness that was growing steadily in him. with the approach of night baree's fears and great loneliness returned. before the day had quite gone he found soft bed of sand. since his fight with papayuchisew, he had traveled a long distance, and the rock under which he made his bed this night was at least eight or nine miles from the windfall. it was in the open of the creek bottom, with and when the moon rose, and the stars filled the sky, baree could look out and see the water of the stream shimmering in a glow almost as bright as day. directly in front of him, running to the water's edge, was a broad carpet of white sand. across this sand, half an hour later, came a huge black bear. until baree had seen the otters at play in the creek, his conceptions of the forests had not gone beyond his own kind, and such creatures as owls and rabbits and small feathered things. the otters had not frightened him, because he still measured things by size, and nekik was not half as big as kazan. but the bear was a monster beside which kazan would have stood a mere pygmy. he was big. if nature was taking this way of introducing baree to the fact that there were more important creatures in the forests than dogs and wolves and owls and crayfish, she was driving the point home with a little more than necessary emphasis. for wakayoo, the bear, weighed six hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce. he was fat and sleek from a month's feasting on fish. his shiny coat was like black velvet in the moonlight, and he walked with a curious rolling motion with his head hung low. the horror grew when he stopped broadside in the carpet of sand not more than ten feet from the rock under which baree was shivering. it was quite evident that wakayoo had caught scent of him in the air. baree could hear him sniff--could hear his breathing--caught the starlight flashing in his reddish-brown eyes as they swung suspiciously toward the big boulder. if baree could have known then that he--his insignificant little self--was making that monster actually nervous and uneasy, he would have given a yelp of joy. for wakayoo, in spite of his size, was somewhat of a coward when it came to wolves. and baree carried the wolf scent. it grew stronger in wakayoo's nose; and just then, as if to increase whatever nervousness was growing in him, there came from out of the forest behind him a long and wailing howl. with an audible grunt, wakayoo moved on. wolves were pests, he argued. they wouldn't stand up and fight. they'd snap and yap at one's heels for hours at a time, and were always out of the way quicker than a wink when one turned on them. what was the use of hanging around where there were wolves, on a beautiful night like this? he lumbered on decisively. baree could hear him splashing heavily through the water of the creek. not until then did the wolf dog draw a full breath. it was almost a gasp. but the excitement was not over for the night. baree had chosen his bed at a place where the animals came down to drink, and where they crossed from one of the creek forests to the other. not long after the bear had disappeared he heard a heavy crunching in the sand, and hoofs rattling against stones, and a bull moose with a huge sweep of antlers passed through the open space in the moonlight. baree stared with popping eyes, for if wakayoo had weighed six hundred pounds, this gigantic creature whose legs were so long that it seemed to be walking on stilts weighed at least twice as much. a cow moose followed, and then a calf. the calf seemed all legs. it was too much for baree, and he shoved himself farther and farther back under the rock until he lay wedged in like a sardine in a box. and there he lay until morning. chapter 4 when baree ventured forth from under his rock at the beginning of the next day, he was a much older puppy than when he met papayuchisew, the young owl, in his path near the old windfall. if experience can be made to take the place of age, he had aged a great deal in the last forty-eight hours. in fact, he had passed almost out of puppyhood. he awoke with a new and much broader conception of the world. it was a big place. it was filled with many things, of which kazan and gray wolf were not the most important. the monsters he had seen on the moonlit plot of sand had roused in him a new kind of caution, and the one greatest instinct of beasts--the primal understanding that it is the strong that prey upon the weak--was wakening swiftly in him. as yet he quite naturally measured brute force and the menace of things by size alone. thus the bear was more terrible than kazan, and the moose was more terrible than the bear. it was quite fortunate for baree that this instinct did not go to the limit in the beginning and make him understand that his own breed--the wolf--was most feared of all the creatures, claw, hoof, and wing, of the forests. otherwise, like the small boy who thinks he can swim before he has mastered a stroke, he might somewhere have jumped in beyond his depth and had his head chewed off. very much alert, with the hair standing up along his spine, and a little growl in his throat, baree smelled of the big footprints made by the bear and the moose. it was the bear scent that made him growl. he followed the tracks to the edge of the creek. after that he resumed his wandering, and also his hunt for food. for two hours he did not find a crayfish. then he came out of the green timber into the edge of a burned-over country. here everything was black. the stumps of the trees stood up like huge charred canes. it was a comparatively fresh "burn" of last autumn, and the ash was still soft under baree's feet. straight through this black region ran the creek, and over it hung a blue sky in which the sun was shining. it was quite inviting to baree. the fox, the wolf, the moose, and the caribou would have turned back from the edge of this dead country. in another year it would be good hunting ground, but now it was lifeless. even the owls would have found nothing to eat out there. it was the blue sky and the sun and the softness of the earth under his feet that lured baree. it was pleasant to travel in after his painful experiences in the forest. he continued to follow the stream, though there was now little possibility of his finding anything to eat. the water had become sluggish and dark. the channel was choked with charred debris that had fallen into it when the forest had burned, and its shores were soft and muddy. after a time, when baree stopped and looked about him, he could no longer see the green timber he had left. he was alone in that desolate wilderness of charred tree corpses. it was as still as death, too. not the chirp of a bird broke the silence. in the soft ash he could not hear the fall of his own feet. but he was not frightened. there was the assurance of safety here. if he could only find something to eat! that was the master thought that possessed baree. instinct had not yet impressed upon him that this which he saw all about him was starvation. he went on, seeking hopefully for food. but at last, as the hours passed, hope began to die in him. the sun sank westward. the sky grew less blue; a low wind began to ride over the tops of the stubs, and now and then one of them fell with a startling crash. baree could go no farther. an hour before dusk he lay down in the open, weak and starved. the sun disappeared behind the forest. the moon rolled up from the east. the sky glittered with stars--and all through the night baree lay as if dead. when morning came, he dragged himself to the stream for a drink. with his last strength he went on. it was the wolf urging him--compelling him to struggle to the last for his life. the dog in him wanted to lie down and die. but the wolf spark in him burned stronger. in the end it won. half a mile farther on he came again to the green timber. in the forests as well as in the great cities fate plays its changing and whimsical hand. if baree had dragged himself into the timber half an hour later he would have died. he was too far gone now to hunt for crayfish or kill the weakest bird. but he came just as sekoosew, the ermine, the most bloodthirsty little pirate of all the wild--was making a kill. that was fully a hundred yards from where baree lay stretched out under a spruce, almost ready to give up the ghost. sekoosew was a mighty hunter of his kind. his body was about seven inches long, with a tiny black-tipped tail appended to it, and he weighed perhaps five ounces. a baby's fingers could have encircled him anywhere between his four legs, and his little sharp-pointed head with its beady red eyes could slip easily through a hole an inch in diameter. for several centuries sekoosew had helped to make history. it was he--when his pelt was worth a hundred dollars in king's gold--that lured the first shipload of gentlemen adventurers over the sea, with prince rupert at their head. it was little sekoosew who was responsible for the forming of the great hudson's bay company and the discovery of half a continent. for almost three centuries he had fought his fight for existence with the trapper. and now, though he was no longer worth his weight in yellow gold, he was the cleverest, the fiercest, and the most merciless of all the creatures that made up his world. as baree lay under his tree, sekoosew was creeping on his prey. his game was a big fat spruce hen standing under a thicket of black currant bushes. the ear of no living thing could have heard sekoosew's movement. he was like a shadow--a gray dot here, a flash there, now hidden behind a stick no larger than a man's wrist, appearing for a moment, the next instant gone as completely as if he had not existed. thus he approached from fifty feet to within three feet of the spruce hen. that was his favorite striking distance. unerringly he launched himself at the drowsy partridge's throat, and his needlelike teeth sank through feathers into flesh. sekoosew was prepared for what happened then. it always happened when he attacked napanao, the wood partridge. her wings were powerful, and her first instinct when he struck was always that of flight. she rose straight up now with a great thunder of wings. sekoosew hung tight, his teeth buried deep in her throat, and his tiny, sharp claws clinging to her like hands. through the air he whizzed with her, biting deeper and deeper, until a hundred yards from where that terrible death thing had fastened to her throat, napanao crashed again to earth. where she fell was not ten feet from baree. for a few moments he looked at the struggling mass of feathers in a daze, not quite comprehending that at last food was almost within his reach. napanao was dying, but she still struggled convulsively with her wings. baree rose stealthily, and after a moment in which he gathered all his remaining strength, he made a rush for her. his teeth sank into her breast--and not until then did he see sekoosew. the ermine had raised his head from the death grip at the partridge's throat, and his savage little red eyes glared for a single instant into baree's. here was something too big to kill, and with an angry squeak the ermine was gone. napanao's wings relaxed, and the throb went out of her body. she was dead. baree hung on until he was sure. then he began his feast. with murder in his heart, sekoosew hovered near, whisking here and there but never coming nearer than half a dozen feet from baree. his eyes were redder than ever. now and then he emitted a sharp little squeak of rage. never had he been so angry in all his life! to have a fat partridge stolen from him like this was an imposition he had never suffered before. he wanted to dart in and fasten his teeth in baree's jugular. but he was too good a general to make the attempt, too good a napoleon to jump deliberately to his waterloo. an owl he would have fought. he might even have given battle to his big brother--and his deadliest enemy--the mink. but in baree he recognized the wolf breed, and he vented his spite at a distance. after a time his good sense returned, and he went off on another hunt. baree ate a third of the partridge, and the remaining two thirds he cached very carefully at the foot of the big spruce. then he hurried down to the creek for a drink. the world looked very different to him now. after all, one's capacity for happiness depends largely on how deeply one has suffered. one's hard luck and misfortune form the measuring stick for future good luck and fortune. so it was with baree. forty-eight hours ago a full stomach would not have made him a tenth part as happy as he was now. then his greatest longing was for his mother. since then a still greater yearning had come into his life--for food. in a way it was fortunate for him that he had almost died of exhaustion and starvation, for his experience had helped to make a man of him--or a wolf dog, just as you are of a mind to put it. he would miss his mother for a long time. but he would never miss her again as he had missed her yesterday and the day before. that afternoon baree took a long nap close to his cache. then he uncovered the partridge and ate his supper. when his fourth night alone came, he did not hide himself as he had done on the three preceding nights. he was strangely and curiously alert. under the moon and the stars he prowled in the edge of the forest and out on the burn. he listened with a new kind of thrill to the faraway cry of a wolf pack on the hunt. he listened to the ghostly whoo-whoo-whoo of the owls without shivering. sounds and silences were beginning to hold a new and significant note for him. for another day and night baree remained in the vicinity of his cache. when the last bone was picked, he moved on. he now entered a country where subsistence was no longer a perilous problem for him. it was a lynx country, and where there are lynx, there are also a great many rabbits. when the rabbits thin out, the lynx emigrate to better hunting grounds. as the snowshoe rabbit breeds all the summer through, baree found himself in a land of plenty. it was not difficult for him to catch and kill the young rabbits. for a week he prospered and grew bigger and stronger each day. but all the time, stirred by that seeking, wanderlust spirit--still hoping to find the old home and his mother--he traveled into the north and east. and this was straight into the trapping country of pierrot, the half-breed. pierrot, until two years ago, had believed himself to be one of the most fortunate men in the big wilderness. that was before la mort rouge--the red death--came. he was half french, and he had married a cree chief's daughter, and in their log cabin on the gray loon they had lived for many years in great prosperity and happiness. pierrot was proud of three things in this wild world of his. he was immensely proud of wyola, his royal-blooded wife. he was proud of his daughter; and he was proud of his reputation as a hunter. until the red death came, life was quite complete for him. it was then--two years ago--that the smallpox killed his princess wife. he still lived in the little cabin on the gray loon, but he was a different pierrot. the heart was sick in him. it would have died, had it not been for nepeese, his daughter. his wife had named her nepeese, which means the willow. nepeese had grown up like the willow, slender as a reed, with all her mother's wild beauty, and with a little of the french thrown in. she was sixteen, with great, dark, wonderful eyes, and hair so beautiful that an agent from montreal passing that way had once tried to buy it. it fell in two shining braids, each as big as a man's wrist, almost to her knees. "non, m'sieu," pierrot had said, a cold glitter in his eyes as he saw what was in the agent's face. "it is not for barter." two days after baree had entered his trapping ground, pierrot came in from the forests with a troubled look in his face. "something is killing off the young beavers," he explained to nepeese, speaking to her in french. "it is a lynx or a wolf. tomorrow--" he shrugged his thin shoulders, and smiled at her. "we will go on the hunt," laughed nepeese happily, in her soft cree. when pierrot smiled at her like that, and began with "tomorrow," it always meant that she might go with him on the adventure he was contemplating. still another day later, at the end of the afternoon, baree crossed the gray loon on a bridge of driftwood that had wedged between two trees. this was to the north. just beyond the driftwood bridge there was a small clearing, and on the edge of it baree paused to enjoy the last of the setting sun. as he stood motionless and listening, his tail drooping low, his ears alert, his sharp-pointed nose sniffing the new country to the north, there was not a pair of eyes in the forest that would not have taken him for a young wolf. from behind a clump of young balsams, a hundred yards away, pierrot and nepeese had watched him come over the driftwood bridge. now was the time, and pierrot leveled his rifle. it was not until then that nepeese touched his arm softly. her breath came a little excitedly as she whispered: "nootawe, let me shoot. i can kill him!" with a low chuckle pierrot gave the gun to her. he counted the whelp as already dead. for nepeese, at that distance, could send a bullet into an inch square nine times out of ten. and nepeese, aiming carefully at baree, pressed steadily with her brown forefinger upon the trigger. chapter 5 as the willow pulled the trigger of her rifle, baree sprang into the air. he felt the force of the bullet before he heard the report of the gun. it lifted him off his feet, and then sent him rolling over and over as if he had been struck a hideous blow with a club. for a flash he did not feel pain. then it ran through him like a knife of fire, and with that pain the dog in him rose above the wolf, and he let out a wild outcry of puppyish yapping as he rolled and twisted on the ground. pierrot and nepeese had stepped from behind the balsams, the willow's beautiful eyes shining with pride at the accuracy of her shot. instantly she caught her breath. her brown fingers clutched at the barrel of her rifle. the chuckle of satisfaction died on pierrot's lips as baree's cries of pain filled the forest. "uchi moosis!" gasped nepeese, in her cree. pierrot caught the rifle from her. "diable! a dog--a puppy!" he cried. he started on a run for baree. but in their amazement they had lost a few seconds and baree's dazed senses were returning. he saw them clearly as they came across the open--a new kind of monster of the forests! with a final wail he darted back into the deep shadows of the trees. it was almost sunset, and he ran for the thick gloom of the heavy spruce near the creek. he had shivered at sight of the bear and the moose, but for the first time he now sensed the real meaning of danger. and it was close after him. he could hear the crashing of the two-legged beasts in pursuit; strange cries were almost at his heels--and then suddenly he plunged without warning into a hole. it was a shock to have the earth go out from under his feet like that, but baree did not yelp. the wolf was dominant in him again. it urged him to remain where he was, making no move, no sound--scarcely breathing. the voices were over him; the strange feet almost stumbled in the hole where he lay. looking out of his dark hiding place, he could see one of his enemies. it was nepeese, the willow. she was standing so that a last glow of the day fell upon her face. baree did not take his eyes from her. above his pain there rose in him a strange and thrilling fascination. the girl put her two hands to her mouth and in a voice that was soft and plaintive and amazingly comforting to his terrified little heart, cried: "uchimoo--uchimoo--uchimoo!" and then he heard another voice; and this voice, too, was far less terrible than many sounds he had listened to in the forests. "we cannot find him, nepeese," the voice was saying. "he has crawled off to die. it is too bad. come." where baree had stood in the edge of the open pierrot paused and pointed to a birch sapling that had been cut clean off by the willow's bullet. nepeese understood. the sapling, no larger than her thumb, had turned her shot a trifle and had saved baree from instant death. she turned again, and called: "uchimoo--uchimoo--uchimoo!" her eyes were no longer filled with the thrill of slaughter. "he would not understand that," said pierrot, leading the way across the open. "he is wild--born of the wolves. perhaps he was of koomo's lead bitch, who ran away to hunt with the packs last winter." "and he will die--" "ayetun--yes, he will die." but baree had no idea of dying. he was too tough a youngster to be shocked to death by a bullet passing through the soft flesh of his foreleg. that was what had happened. his leg was torn to the bone, but the bone itself was untouched. he waited until the moon had risen before he crawled out of his hole. his leg had grown stiff, but it had stopped bleeding, though his whole body was racked by a terrible pain. a dozen papayuchisews, all holding right to his ears and nose, could not have hurt him more. every time he moved, a sharp twinge shot through him; and yet he persisted in moving. instinctively he felt that by traveling away from the hole he would get away from danger. this was the best thing that could have happened to him, for a little later a porcupine came wandering along, chattering to itself in its foolish, good-humored way, and fell with a fat thud into the hole. had baree remained, he would have been so full of quills that he must surely have died. in another way the exercise of travel was good for baree. it gave his wound no opportunity to "set," as pierrot would have said, for in reality his hurt was more painful than serious. for the first hundred yards he hobbled along on three legs, and after that he found that he could use his fourth by humoring it a great deal. he followed the creek for a half mile. whenever a bit of brush touched his wound, he would snap at it viciously, and instead of whimpering when he felt one of the sharp twinges shooting through him, an angry little growl gathered in his throat, and his teeth clicked. now that he was out of the hole, the effect of the willow's shot was stirring every drop of wolf blood in his body. in him there was a growing animosity--a feeling of rage not against any one thing in particular, but against all things. it was not the feeling with which he had fought papayuchisew, the young owl. on this night the dog in him had disappeared. an accumulation of misfortunes had descended upon him, and out of these misfortunes--and his present hurt--the wolf had risen savage and vengeful. this was the first time baree had traveled at night. he was, for the time, unafraid of anything that might creep up on him out of the darkness. the blackest shadows had lost their terror. it was the first big fight between the two natures that were born in him--the wolf and the dog--and the dog was vanquished. now and then he stopped to lick his wound, and as he licked it he growled, as though for the hurt itself he held a personal antagonism. if pierrot could have seen and heard, he would have understood very quickly, and he would have said: "let him die. the club will never take that devil out of him." in this humor baree came, an hour later, out of the heavy timber of the creek bottom into the more open spaces of a small plain that ran along the foot of a ridge. it was in this plain that oohoomisew hunted. oohoomisew was a huge snow owl. he was the patriarch among all the owls of pierrot's trapping domain. he was so old that he was almost blind, and therefore he never hunted as other owls hunted. he did not hide himself in the black cover of spruce and balsam tops, or float softly through the night, ready in an instant to swoop down upon his prey. his eyesight was so poor that from a spruce top he could not have seen a rabbit at all, and he might have mistaken a fox for a mouse. so old oohoomisew, learning wisdom from experience, hunted from ambush. he would squat on the ground, and for hours at a time he would remain there without making a sound and scarcely moving a feather, waiting with the patience of job for something to eat to come his way. now and then he had made mistakes. twice he had mistaken a lynx for a rabbit, and in the second attack he had lost a foot, so that when he slumbered aloft during the day he clung to his perch with one claw. crippled, nearly blind, and so old that he had long ago lost the tufts of feathers over his ears, he was still a giant in strength, and when he was angry, one could hear the snap of his beak twenty yards away. for three nights he had been unlucky, and tonight he had been particularly unfortunate. two rabbits had come his way, and he had lunged at each of them from his cover. the first he had missed entirely; the second had left with him a mouthful of fur--and that was all. he was ravenously hungry, and he was gritting his bill in his bad temper when he heard baree approaching. even if baree could have seen under the dark bush ahead, and had discovered oohoomisew ready to dart from his ambush, it is not likely that he would have gone very far aside. his own fighting blood was up. he, too, was ready for war. very indistinctly oohoomisew saw him at last, coming across the little open space which he was watching. he squatted down. his feathers ruffled up until he was like a ball. his almost sightless eyes glowed like two bluish pools of fire. ten feet away, baree stopped for a moment and licked his wound. oohoomisew waited cautiously. again baree advanced, passing within six feet of the bush. with a swift hop and a sudden thunder of his powerful wings the great owl was upon him. this time baree let out no cry of pain or of fright. the wolf is kipichi-mao, as the indians say. no hunter ever heard a trapped wolf whine for mercy at the sting of a bullet or the beat of a club. he dies with his fangs bared. tonight it was a wolf whelp that oohoomisew was attacking, and not a dog pup. the owl's first rush keeled baree over, and for a moment he was smothered under the huge, outspread wings, while oohoomisew--pinioning him down--hopped for a claw hold with his one good foot, and struck fiercely with his beak. one blow of that beak anywhere about the head would have settled for a rabbit, but at the first thrust oohoomisew discovered that it was not a rabbit he was holding under his wings. a bloodcurdling snarl answered the blow, and oohoomisew remembered the lynx, his lost foot, and his narrow escape with his life. the old pirate might have beaten a retreat, but baree was no longer the puppyish baree of that hour in which he had fought young papayuchisew. experience and hardship had aged and strengthened him. his jaws had passed quickly from the bone-licking to the bone-cracking age--and before oohoomisew could get away, if he was thinking of flight at all, baree's fangs closed with a vicious snap on his one good leg. in the stillness of night there rose a still greater thunder of wings, and for a few moments baree closed his eyes to keep from being blinded by oohoomisew's furious blows. but he hung on grimly, and as his teeth met through the flesh of the old night-pirate's leg, his angry snarl carried defiance to oohoomisew's ears. rare good fortune had given him that grip on the leg, and baree knew that triumph or defeat depended on his ability to hold it. the old owl had no other claw to sink into him, and it was impossible--caught as he was--for him to tear at baree with his beak. so he continued to beat that thunder of blows with his four-foot wings. the wings made a great tumult about baree, but they did not hurt him. he buried his fangs deeper. his snarls rose more fiercely as he got the taste of oohoomisew's blood, and through him there surged more hotly the desire to kill this monster of the night, as though in the death of this creature he had the opportunity of avenging himself for all the hurts and hardships that had befallen him since he had lost his mother. oohoomisew had never felt a great fear until now. the lynx had snapped at him but once--and was gone, leaving him crippled. but the lynx had not snarled in that wolfish way, and it had not hung on. a thousand and one nights oohoomisew had listened to the wolf howl. instinct had told him what it meant. he had seen the packs pass swiftly through the night, and always when they passed he had kept in the deepest shadows. to him, as for all other wild things, the wolf howl stood for death. but until now, with baree's fangs buried in his leg, he had never sensed fully the wolf fear. it had taken it years to enter into his slow, stupid head--but now that it was there, it possessed him as no other thing had ever possessed him in all his life. suddenly oohoomisew ceased his beating and launched himself upward. like huge fans his powerful wings churned the air, and baree felt himself lifted suddenly from the earth. still he held on--and in a moment both bird and beast fell back with a thud. oohoomisew tried again. this time he was more successful, and he rose fully six feet into the air with baree. they fell again. a third time the old outlaw fought to wing himself free of baree's grip; and then, exhausted, he lay with his giant wings outspread, hissing and cracking his bill. under those wings baree's mind worked with the swift instincts of the killer. suddenly he changed his hold, burying his fangs into the under part of oohoomisew's body. they sank into three inches of feathers. swift as baree had been, oohoomisew was equally swift to take advantage of his opportunity. in an instant he had swooped upward. there was a jerk, a rending of feathers from flesh--and baree was alone on the field of battle. baree had not killed, but he had conquered. his first great day--or night--had come. the world was filled with a new promise for him, as vast as the night itself. and after a moment he sat back on his haunches, sniffing the air for his beaten enemy. then, as if defying the feathered monster to come back and fight to the end, he pointed his sharp little muzzle up to the stars and sent forth his first babyish wolf howl into the night. chapter 6 baree's fight with oohoomisew was good medicine for him. it not only gave him great confidence in himself, but it also cleared the fever of ugliness from his blood. he no longer snapped and snarled at things as he went on through the night. it was a wonderful night. the moon was straight overhead, and the sky was filled with stars, so that in the open spaces the light was almost like that of day, except that it was softer and more beautiful. it was very still. there was no wind in the treetops, and it seemed to baree that the howl he had given must have echoed to the end of the world. now and then baree heard a sound--and always he stopped, attentive and listening. far away he heard the long, soft mooing of a cow moose. he heard a great splashing in the water of a small lake that he came to, and once there came to him the sharp cracking of horn against horn--two bucks settling a little difference of opinion a quarter of a mile away. but it was always the wolf howl that made him sit and listen longest, his heart beating with a strange impulse which he did not as yet understand. it was the call of his breed, growing in him slowly but insistently. he was still a wanderer--pupamootao, the indians call it. it is this "wander spirit" that inspires for a time nearly every creature of the wild as soon as it is able to care for itself--nature's scheme, perhaps, for doing away with too close family relations and possibly dangerous interbreeding. baree, like the young wolf seeking new hunting grounds, or the young fox discovering a new world, had no reason or method in his wandering. he was simply "traveling"--going on. he wanted something which he could not find. the wolf call brought it to him. the stars and the moon filled baree with a yearning for this something. the distant sounds impinged upon him his great aloneness. and instinct told him that only by questing could he find. it was not so much kazan and gray wolf that he missed now--not so much motherhood and home as it was companionship. now that he had fought the wolfish rage out of him in his battle with oohoomisew, the dog part of him had come into its own again--the lovable half of him, the part that wanted to snuggle up near something that was alive and friendly, small odds whether it wore feathers or fur, was clawed or hoofed. he was sore from the willow's bullet, and he was sore from battle, and toward dawn he lay down under a shelter of some alders at the edge of a second small lake and rested until midday. then he began questing in the reeds and close to the pond lilies for food. he found a dead jackfish, partly eaten by a mink, and finished it. his wound was much less painful this afternoon, and by nightfall he scarcely noticed it at all. since his almost tragic end at the hands of nepeese, he had been traveling in a general northeasterly direction, following instinctively the run of the waterways. but his progress had been slow, and when darkness came again he was not more than eight or ten miles from the hole into which he had fallen after the willow had shot him. baree did not travel far this night. the fact that his wound had come with dusk, and his fight with oohoomisew still later, filled him with caution. experience had taught him that the dark shadows and the black pits in the forest were possible ambuscades of danger. he was no longer afraid, as he had once been, but he had had fighting enough for a time, and so he accepted circumspection as the better part of valor and held himself aloof from the perils of darkness. it was a strange instinct that made him seek his bed on the top of a huge rock up which he had some difficulty in climbing. perhaps it was a harkening back to the days of long ago when gray wolf, in her first motherhood, sought refuge at the summit of the sun rock which towered high above the forest world of which she and kazan were a part, and where later she was blinded in her battle with the lynx. baree's rock, instead of rising for a hundred feet or more straight up, was possibly as high as a man's head. it was in the edge of the creek bottom, with the spruce forest close at his back. for many hours he did not sleep, but lay keenly alert, his ears tuned to catch every sound that came out of the dark world about him. there was more than curiosity in his alertness tonight. his education had broadened immensely in one way: he had learned that he was a very small part of all this wonderful earth that lay under the stars and the moon, and he was keenly alive with the desire to become better acquainted with it without any more fighting or hurt. tonight he knew what it meant when he saw now and then gray shadows float silently out of the forest into the moonlight--the owls, monsters of the breed with which he had fought. he heard the crackling of hoofed feet and the smashing of heavy bodies in the underbrush. he heard again the mooing of the moose. voices came to him that he had not heard before--the sharp yap-yap-yap of a fox, the unearthly, laughing cry of a great northern loon on a lake half a mile away, the scream of a lynx that came floating through miles of forest, the low, soft croaks of the nighthawks between himself and the stars. he heard strange whisperings in the treetops--whisperings of the wind. and once, in the heart of a dead stillness, a buck whistled shrilly close behind his rock--and at the wolf scent in the air shot away in a terror-stricken gray streak. all these sounds held their new meaning for baree. swiftly he was coming into his knowledge of the wilderness. his eyes gleamed; his blood thrilled. often for many minutes at a time he scarcely moved. but of all the sounds that came to him, the wolf cry thrilled him most. again and again he listened to it. at times it was far away, so far that it was like a whisper, dying away almost before it reached him. then again it would come to him full-throated, hot with the breath of the chase, calling him to the red thrill of the hunt, to the wild orgy of torn flesh and running blood--calling, calling, calling. that was it, calling him to his own kin, to the bone of his bone and the flesh of his flesh--to the wild, fierce hunting packs of his mother's tribe! it was gray wolf's voice seeking for him in the night--gray wolf's blood inviting him to the brotherhood of the pack. baree trembled as he listened. in his throat he whined softly. he edged to the sheer face of the rock. he wanted to go; nature was urging him to go. but the call of the wild was struggling against odds. for in him was the dog, with its generations of subdued and sleeping instincts--and all that night the dog in him kept baree to the top of his rock. next morning baree found many crayfish along the creek, and he feasted on their succulent flesh until he felt that he would never be hungry again. nothing had tasted quite so good since he had eaten the partridge of which he had robbed sekoosew the ermine. in the middle of the afternoon baree came into a part of the forest that was very quiet and very peaceful. the creek had deepened. in places its banks swept out until they formed small ponds. twice he made considerable detours to get around these ponds. he traveled very quietly, listening and watching. not since the ill-fated day he had left the old windfall had he felt quite so much at home as now. it seemed to him that at last he was treading country which he knew, and where he would find friends. perhaps this was another miracle mystery of instinct--of nature. for he was in old beaver tooth's domain. it was here that his father and mother had hunted in the days before he was born. it was not far from here that kazan and beaver tooth had fought that mighty duel under water, from which kazan had escaped with his life without another breath to lose. baree would never know these things. he would never know that he was traveling over old trails. but something deep in him gripped him strangely. he sniffed the air, as if in it he found the scent of familiar things. it was only a faint breath--an indefinable promise that brought him to the point of a mysterious anticipation. the forest grew deeper. it was wonderful virgin forest. there was no undergrowth, and traveling under the trees was like being in a vast, mystery-filled cavern through the roof of which the light of day broke softly, brightened here and there by golden splashes of the sun. for a mile baree made his way quietly through this forest. he saw nothing but a few winged flirtings of birds; there was almost no sound. then he came to a still larger pond. around this pond there was a thick growth of alders and willows where the larger trees had thinned out. he saw the glimmer of afternoon sunlight on the water--and then, all at once, he heard life. there had been few changes in beaver tooth's colony since the days of his feud with kazan and the otters. old beaver tooth was somewhat older. he was fatter. he slept a great deal, and perhaps he was less cautious. he was dozing on the great mud-and-brushwood dam of which he had been engineer-in-chief, when baree came out softly on a high bank thirty or forty feet away. so noiseless had baree been that none of the beavers had seen or heard him. he squatted himself flat on his belly, hidden behind a tuft of grass, and with eager interest watched every movement. beaver tooth was rousing himself. he stood on his short legs for a moment; then he tilted himself up on his broad, flat tail like a soldier at attention, and with a sudden whistle dived into the pond with a great splash. in another moment it seemed to baree that the pond was alive with beavers. heads and bodies appeared and disappeared, rushing this way and that through the water in a manner that amazed and puzzled him. it was the colony's evening frolic. tails hit the water like flat boards. odd whistlings rose above the splashing--and then as suddenly as it had begun, the play came to an end. there were probably twenty beavers, not counting the young, and as if guided by a common signal--something which baree had not heard--they became so quiet that hardly a sound could be heard in the pond. a few of them sank under the water and disappeared entirely, but most of them baree could watch as they drew themselves out on shore. the beavers lost no time in getting at their labor, and baree watched and listened without so much as rustling a blade of the grass in which he was concealed. he was trying to understand. he was striving to place these curious and comfortable-looking creatures in his knowledge of things. they did not alarm him; he felt no uneasiness at their number or size. his stillness was not the quiet of discretion, but rather of a strange and growing desire to get better acquainted with this curious four-legged brotherhood of the pond. already they had begun to make the big forest less lonely for him. and then, close under him--not more than ten feet from where he lay--he saw something that almost gave voice to the puppyish longing for companionship that was in him. down there, on a clean strip of the shore that rose out of the soft mud of the pond, waddled fat little umisk and three of his playmates. umisk was just about baree's age, perhaps a week or two younger. but he was fully as heavy, and almost as wide as he was long. nature can produce no four-footed creature that is more lovable than a baby beaver, unless it is a baby bear; and umisk would have taken first prize at any beaver baby show in the world. his three companions were a bit smaller. they came waddling from behind a low willow, making queer little chuckling noises, their little flat tails dragging like tiny sledges behind them. they were fat and furry, and mighty friendly looking to baree, and his heart beat a sudden swift-pit-a-pat of joy. but baree did not move. he scarcely breathed. and then, suddenly, umisk turned on one of his playmates and bowled him over. instantly the other two were on umisk, and the four little beavers rolled over and over, kicking with their short feet and spatting with their tails, and all the time emitting soft little squeaking cries. baree knew that it was not fight but frolic. he rose up on his feet. he forgot where he was--forgot everything in the world but those playing, furry balls. for the moment all the hard training nature had been giving him was lost. he was no longer a fighter, no longer a hunter, no longer a seeker after food. he was a puppy, and in him there rose a desire that was greater than hunger. he wanted to go down there with umisk and his little chums and roll and play. he wanted to tell them, if such a thing were possible, that he had lost his mother and his home, and that he had been having a mighty hard time of it, and that he would like to stay with them and their mothers and fathers if they didn't mind. in his throat there came the least bit of a whine. it was so low that umisk and his playmates did not hear it. they were tremendously busy. softly baree took his first step toward them, and then another--and at last he stood on the narrow strip of shore within half a dozen feet of them. his sharp little ears were pitched forward, and he was wiggling his tail as fast as he could, and every muscle in his body was trembling in anticipation. it was then that umisk saw him, and his fat little body became suddenly as motionless as a stone. "hello!" said baree, wiggling his whole body and talking as plainly as a human tongue could talk. "do you care if i play with you?" umisk made no response. his three playmates now had their eyes on baree. they didn't make a move. they looked stunned. four pairs of staring, wondering eyes were fixed on the stranger. baree made another effort. he groveled on his forelegs, while his tail and hind legs continued to wiggle, and with a sniff he grabbed a bit of stick between his teeth. "come on--let me in," he urged. "i know how to play!" he tossed the stick in the air as if to prove what he was saying, and gave a little yap. umisk and his brothers were like dummies. and then, of a sudden, someone saw baree. it was a big beaver swimming down the pond with a sapling timber for the new dam that was under way. instantly he loosed his hold and faced the shore. and then, like the report of a rifle, there came the crack of his big flat tail on the water--the beaver's signal of danger that on a quiet night can be heard half a mile away. "danger," it warned. "danger--danger--danger!" scarcely had the signal gone forth when tails were cracking in all directions--in the pond, in the hidden canals, in the thick willows and alders. to umisk and his companions they said: "run for your lives!" baree stood rigid and motionless now. in amazement he watched the four little beavers plunge into the pond and disappear. he heard the sounds of other and heavier bodies striking the water. and then there followed a strange and disquieting silence. softly baree whined, and his whine was almost a sobbing cry. why had umisk and his little mates run away from him? what had he done that they didn't want to make friends with him? a great loneliness swept over him--a loneliness greater even than that of his first night away from his mother. the last of the sun faded out of the sky as he stood there. darker shadows crept over the pond. he looked into the forest, where night was gathering--and with another whining cry he slunk back into it. he had not found friendship. he had not found comradeship. and his heart was very sad. chapter 7 for two or three days baree's excursions after food took him farther and farther away from the pond. but each afternoon he returned to it--until the third day, when he discovered a new creek, and wakayoo. the creek was fully two miles back in the forest. this was a different sort of stream. it sang merrily over a gravelly bed and between chasm walls of split rock. it formed deep pools and foaming eddies, and where baree first struck it, the air trembled with the distant thunder of a waterfall. it was much pleasanter than the dark and silent beaver stream. it seemed possessed of life, and the rush and tumult of it--the song and thunder of the water--gave to baree entirely new sensations. he made his way along it slowly and cautiously, and it was because of this slowness and caution that he came suddenly and unobserved upon wakayoo, the big black bear, hard at work fishing. wakayoo stood knee-deep in a pool that had formed behind a sand bar, and he was having tremendously good luck. even as baree shrank back, his eyes popping at sight of this monster he had seen but once before, in the gloom of night, one of wakayoo's big paws sent a great splash of water high in the air, and a fish landed on the pebbly shore. a little while before, the suckers had run up the creek in thousands to spawn, and the rapid lowering of the water had caught many of them in these prison pools. wakayoo's fat, sleek body was evidence of the prosperity this circumstance had brought him. although it was a little past the "prime" season for bearskins, wakayoo's coat was splendidly thick and black. for a quarter of an hour baree watched him while he knocked fish out of the pool. when at last he stopped, there were twenty or thirty fish among the stones, some of them dead and others still flopping. from where he lay flattened out between two rocks, baree could hear the crunching of flesh and bone as the bear devoured his dinner. it sounded good, and the fresh smell of fish filled him with a craving that had never been roused by crayfish or even partridge. in spite of his fat and his size, wakayoo was not a glutton, and after he had eaten his fourth fish he pawed all the others together in a pile, partly covered them by raking up sand and stones with his long claws, and finished his work of caching by breaking down a small balsam sapling so that the fish were entirely concealed. then he lumbered slowly away in the direction of the rumbling waterfall. twenty seconds after the last of wakayoo had disappeared in a turn of the creek, baree was under the broken balsam. he dragged out a fish that was still alive. he ate the whole of it, and it tasted delicious. baree now found that wakayoo had solved the food problem for him, and this day he did not return to the beaver pond, nor the next. the big bear was incessantly fishing up and down the creek, and day after day baree continued his feasts. it was not difficult for him to find wakayoo's caches. all he had to do was to follow along the shore of the stream, sniffing carefully. some of the caches were getting old, and their perfume was anything but pleasant to baree. these he avoided--but he never missed a meal or two out of a fresh one. for a week life continued to be exceedingly pleasant. and then came the break--the change that was destined to meant for kazan, his father, when he killed the man-brute at the edge of the wilderness. this change came or the day when, in trotting around a great rock near the waterfall, baree found himself face to face with pierrot the hunter and nepeese, the star-eyed girl who had shot him in the edge of the clearing. it was nepeese whom he saw first. if it had been pierrot, he would have turned back quickly. but again the blood of his forebear was rousing strange tremblings within him. was it like this that the first woman had looked to kazan? baree stood still. nepeese was not more than twenty feet from him. she sat on a rock, full in the early morning sun, and was brushing out her wonderful hair. her lips parted. her eyes shone in an instant like stars. one hand remained poised, weighted with the jet tresses. she recognized him. she saw the white star on his breast and the white tip on his ear, and under her breath she whispered "uchi moosis!"--"the dog pup!" it was the wild dog she had shot--and thought had died! the evening before pierrot and nepeese had built a shelter of balsams behind the big rock, and on a small white plot of sand pierrot was kneeling over a fire preparing breakfast while the willow arranged her hair. he raised his head to speak to her, and saw baree. in that instant the spell was broken. baree saw the man-beast as he rose to his feet. like a shot he was gone. scarcely swifter was he than nepeese. "depechez vous, mon pere!" she cried. "it is the dog pup! quick--" in the floating cloud of her hair she sped after baree like the wind. pierrot followed, and in going he caught up his rifle. it was difficult for him to catch up with the willow. she was like a wild spirit, her little moccasined feet scarcely touching the sand as she ran up the long bar. it was wonderful to see the lithe swiftness of her, and that glorious hair streaming out in the sun. even now, in this moment's excitement, it made pierrot think of mctaggart, the hudson's bay company's factor over at lac bain, and what he had said yesterday. half the night pierrot had lain awake, gritting his teeth at thought of it. and this morning, before baree ran upon them, he had looked at nepeese more closely than ever before in his life. she was beautiful. she was lovelier even than wyola, her princess mother, who was dead. that hair--which made men stare as if they could not believe! those eyes--like pools filled with wonderful starlight! her slimness, that was like a flower! and mctaggart had said-floating back to him there came an excited cry. "hurry, nootawe! he has turned into the blind canyon. he cannot escape us now." she was panting when he came up to her. the french blood in her glowed a vivid crimson in her cheeks and lips. her white teeth gleamed like pearls. "in there!" and she pointed. they went in. ahead of them baree was running for his life. he sensed instinctively the fact that these wonderful two-legged beings he had looked upon were all-powerful. and they were after him! he could hear them. nepeese was following almost as swiftly as he could run. suddenly he turned into a cleft between two great rocks. twenty feet in, his way was barred, and he ran back. when he darted out, straight up the canyon, nepeese was not a dozen yards behind him, and he saw pierrot almost at her side. the willow gave a cry. "mana--mana--there he is!" she caught her breath, and darted into a copse of young balsams where baree had disappeared. like a great entangling web her loose hair impeded her in the brush, and with an encouraging cry to pierrot she stopped to gather it over her shoulder as he ran past her. she lost only a moment or two, and then once again was after him. fifty yards ahead of her pierrot gave a warning shout. baree had turned. almost in the same breath he was tearing over his back trail, directly toward the willow. he did not see her in time to stop or swerve aside, and nepeese flung herself down in his path. for an instant or two they were together. baree felt the smother of her hair, and the clutch of her hands. then he squirmed away and darted again toward the blind end of the canyon. nepeese sprang to her feet. she was panting--and laughing. pierrot came back wildly, and the willow pointed beyond him. "i had him--and he didn't bite!" she said, breathing swiftly. she still pointed to the end of the canyon, and she said again: "i had him--and he didn't bite me, nootawe!" that was the wonder of it. she had been reckless--and baree had not bitten her! it was then, with her eyes shining at pierrot, and the smile fading slowly from her lips, that she spoke softly the word "baree," which in her tongue meant "the wild dog"--a little brother of the wolf. "come," cried pierrot, "or we will lose him!" pierrot was confident. the canyon had narrowed. baree could not get past them unseen. three minutes later baree came to the blind end of the canyon--a wall of rock that rose straight up like the curve of a dish. feasting on fish and long hours of sleep had fattened him, and he was half winded as he sought vainly for an exit. he was at the far end of the dishlike curve of rock, without a bush or a clump of grass to hide him, when pierrot and nepeese saw him again. nepeese made straight toward him. pierrot, foreseeing what baree would do, hurried to the left, at right angles to the end of the canyon. in and out among the rocks baree sought swiftly for a way of escape. in a moment more he had come to the "box," or cup of the canyon. this was a break in the wall, fifty or sixty feet wide, which opened into a natural prison about an acre in extent. it was a beautiful spot. on all sides but that leading into the coulee it was shut in by walls of rock. at the far end a waterfall broke down in a series of rippling cascades. the grass was thick underfoot and strewn with flowers. in this trap pierrot had got more than one fine haunch of venison. from it there was no escape, except in the face of his rifle. he called to nepeese as he saw baree entering it, and together they climbed the slope. baree had almost reached the edge of the little prison meadow when suddenly he stopped himself so quickly that he fell back on his haunches and his heart jumped up into his throat. full in his path stood wakayoo, the huge black bear! for perhaps a half-minute baree hesitated between the two perils. he heard the voices of nepeese and pierrot. he caught the rattle of stones under their feet. and he was filled with a great dread. then he looked at wakayoo. the big bear had not moved an inch. he, too, was listening. but to him there was a thing more disturbing than the sounds he heard. it was the scent which he caught in the air--the man scent. baree, watching him, saw his head swing slowly even as the footsteps of nepeese and pierrot became more and more distinct. it was the first time baree had ever stood face to face with the big bear. he had watched him fish; he had fattened on wakayoo's prowess; he had held him in splendid awe. now there was something about the bear that took away his fear and gave him in its place a new and thrilling confidence. wakayoo, big and powerful as he was, would not run from the two-legged creatures who pursued him! if baree could only get past wakayoo he was safe! baree darted to one side and ran for the open meadow. wakayoo did not stir as baree sped past him--no more than if he had been a bird or a rabbit. then came another breath of air, heavy with the scent of man. this, at last, put life into him. he turned and began lumbering after baree into the meadow trap. baree, looking back, saw him coming--and thought it was pursuit. nepeese and pierrot came over the slope, and at the same instant they saw both wakayoo and baree. where they entered into the grassy dip under the rock walls, baree turned sharply to the right. here was a great boulder, one end of it tilted up off the earth. it looked like a splendid hiding place, and baree crawled under it. but wakayoo kept straight ahead into the meadow. from where he lay baree could see what happened. scarcely had he crawled under the rock when nepeese and pierrot appeared through the break in the dip, and stopped. the fact that they stopped thrilled baree. they were afraid of wakayoo! the big bear was two thirds of the way across the meadow. the sun fell on him, so that his coat shone like black satin. pierrot stared at him for a moment. pierrot did not kill for the love of killing. necessity made him a conservationist. but he saw that in spite of the lateness of the season, wakayoo's coat was splendid--and he raised his rifle. baree saw this action. he saw, a moment later, something spit from the end of the gun, and then he heard that deafening crash that had come with his own hurt, when the willow's bullet had burned through his flesh. he turned his eyes swiftly to wakayoo. the big bear had stumbled; he was on his knees. and then he struggled to his feet and lumbered on. the roar of the rifle came again, and a second time wakayoo went down. pierrot could not miss at that distance. wakayoo made a splendid mark. it was slaughter. yet for pierrot and nepeese it was business--the business of life. baree was shivering. it was more from excitement than fear, for he had lost his own fear in the tragedy of these moments. a low whine rose in his throat as he looked at wakayoo, who had risen again and faced his enemies--his jaws gaping, his head swinging slowly, his legs weakening under him as the blood poured through his torn lungs. baree whined--because wakayoo had fished for him, because he had come to look on him as a friend, and because he knew it was death that wakayoo was facing now. there was a third shot--the last. wakayoo sank down in his tracks. his big head dropped between his forepaws. a racking cough or two came to baree's ears. and then there was silence. it was slaughter--but business. a minute later, standing over wakayoo, pierrot said to nepeese: "mon dieu, but it is a fine skin, sakahet! it is worth twenty dollars over at lac bain!" he drew forth his knife and began whetting it on a stone which he carried in his pocket. in these minutes baree might have crawled out from under his rock and escaped down the canyon; for a space he was forgotten. then nepeese thought of him, and in that same strange, wondering voice she spoke again the word "baree." pierrot, who was kneeling, looked up at her. "oui, sakahet. he was born of the wild. and now he is gone--" the willow shook her head. "non, he is not gone," she said, and her dark eyes searched the sunlit meadow. chapter 8 as nepeese gazed about the rock-walled end of the canyon, the prison into which they had driven wakayoo and baree, pierrot looked up again from his skinning of the big black bear, and he muttered something that no one but himself could have heard. "non, it is not possible," he had said a moment before; but to nepeese it was possible--the thought that was in her mind. it was a wonderful thought. it thrilled her to the depth of her wild, young soul. it sent a glow into her eyes and a deeper flush of excitement into her cheeks and lips. as she searched the ragged edges of the little meadow for signs of the dog pup, her thoughts flashed back swiftly. two years ago they had buried her princess mother under the tall spruce near their cabin. that day pierrot's sun had set for all time, and her own life became filled with a vast loneliness. there had been three at the graveside that afternoon as the sun went down--pierrot, herself, and a dog, a great, powerful husky with a white star on his breast and a white-tipped ear. he had been her dead mother's pet from puppyhood--her bodyguard, with her always, even with his head resting on the side of her bed as she died. and that night, the night of the day they buried her, the dog had disappeared. he had gone as quietly and as completely as her spirit. no one ever saw him after that. it was strange, and to pierrot it was a miracle. deep in his heart he was filled with the wonderful conviction that the dog had gone with his beloved wyola into heaven. but nepeese had spent three winters at the missioner's school at nelson house. she had learned a great deal about white people and the real god, and she knew that pierrot's idea was impossible. she believed that her mother's husky was either dead or had joined the wolves. probably he had gone to the wolves. so--was it not possible that this youngster she and her father had pursued was of the flesh and blood of her mother's pet? it was more than possible. the white star on his breast, the white-tipped ear--the fact that he had not bitten her when he might easily have buried his fangs in the soft flesh of her arms! she was convinced. while pierrot skinned the bear, she began hunting for baree. baree had not moved an inch from under his rock. he lay like a thing stunned, his eyes fixed steadily on the scene of the tragedy out in the meadow. he had seen something that he would never forget--even as he would never quite forget his mother and kazan and the old windfall. he had witnessed the death of the creature he had thought all-powerful. wakayoo, the big bear, had not even put up a fight. pierrot and nepeese had killed him without touching him. now pierrot was cutting him with a knife which shot silvery flashes in the sun; and wakayoo made no movement. it made baree shiver, and he drew himself an inch farther back under the rock, where he was already wedged as if he had been shoved there by a strong hand. he could see nepeese. she came straight back to the break through which his flight had taken him, and stood at last not more than twenty feet from where he was hidden. now that she stood where he could not escape, she began weaving her shining hair into two thick braids. baree had taken his eyes from pierrot, and he watched her curiously. he was not afraid now. his nerves tingled. in him a strange and growing force was struggling to solve a great mystery--the reason for his desire to creep out from under his rock and approach that wonderful creature with the shining eyes and the beautiful hair. baree wanted to approach. it was like an invisible string tugging at his very heart. it was kazan, and not gray wolf, calling to him back through the centuries, a "call" that was as old as the egyptian pyramids and perhaps ten thousand years older. but against that desire gray wolf was pulling from out the black ages of the forests. the wolf held him quiet and motionless. nepeese was looking about her. she was smiling. for a moment her face was turned toward him, and he saw the white shine of her teeth, and her beautiful eyes seemed glowing straight at him. and then, suddenly, she dropped on her knees and peered under the rock. their eyes met. for at least half a minute there was not a sound. nepeese did not move, and her breath came so softly that baree could not hear it. then she said, almost in a whisper: "baree! baree! upi baree!" it was the first time baree had heard his name, and there was something so soft and assuring in the sound of it that in spite of himself the dog in him responded to it in a whimper that just reached the willow's ears. slowly she stretched in an arm. it was bare and round and soft. he might have darted forward the length of his body and buried his fangs in it easily. but something held him back. he knew that it was not an enemy. he knew that the dark eyes shining at him so wonderfully were not filled with the desire to harm--and the voice that came to him softly was like a strange and thrilling music. "baree! baree! upi baree!" over and over again the willow called to him like that, while on her face she tried to draw herself a few inches farther under the rock. she could not reach him. there was still a foot between her hand and baree, and she could not wedge herself forward an inch more. and then she saw where on the other side of the rock there was a hollow, shut in by a stone. if she had removed the stone, and come in that way-she drew herself out and stood once more in the sunshine. her heart thrilled. pierrot was busy over his bear--and she would not call him. she made an effort to move the stone which closed in the hollow under the big boulder, but it was wedged in tightly. then she began digging with a stick. if pierrot had been there, his sharp eyes would have discovered the significance of that stone, which was not larger than a water pail. possibly for centuries it had lain there, its support keeping the huge rock from toppling down, just as an ounce weight may swing the balance of a wheel that weighs a ton. five minutes--and nepeese could move the stone. she tugged at it. inch by inch she dragged it out until at last it lay at her feet and the opening was ready for her body. she looked again toward pierrot. he was still busy, and she laughed softly as she untied a big red-and-white bay handkerchief from about her shoulders. with this she would secure baree. she dropped on her hands and knees and then lowered herself flat on the ground and began crawling into the hollow under the boulder. baree had moved. with the back of his head flattened against the rock, he had heard something which nepeese had not heard. he had felt a slow and growing pressure, and from this pressure he had dragged himself slowly--and the pressure still followed. the mass of rock was settling! nepeese did not see or hear or understand. she was calling to him more and more pleadingly: "baree--baree--baree--" her head and shoulders and both arms were under the rock now. the glow of her eyes was very close to baree. he whined. the thrill of a great and impending danger stirred in his blood. and then-in that moment nepeese felt the pressure of the rock on her shoulder, and into the eyes that had been glowing softly at baree there shot a sudden wild look of horror. and then there came from her lips a cry that was not like any other sound baree had ever heard in the wilderness--wild, piercing, filled with agonized fear. pierrot did not hear that first cry. but he heard the second and the third--and then scream after scream as the willow's tender body was slowly crushed under the settling mass. he ran toward it with the speed of the wind. the cries were now weaker--dying away. he saw baree as he came out from under the rock and ran into the canyon, and in the same instant he saw a part of the willow's dress and her moccasined feet. the rest of her was hidden under the deathtrap. like a madman pierrot began digging. when a few moments later he drew nepeese out from under the boulder she was white and deathly still. her eyes were closed. his hand could not feel that she was living, and a great moan of anguish rose out of his soul. but he knew how to fight for a life. he tore open her dress and found that she was not crushed as he had feared. then he ran for water. when he returned, the willow's eyes were open and she was gasping for breath. "the blessed saints be praised!" sobbed pierrot, falling on his knees at her side. "nepeese, ma nepeese!" she smiled at him, and pierrot drew her up to him, forgetting the water he had run so hard to get. still later, when he got down on his knees and peered under the rock, his face turned white and he said: "mon dieu, if it had not been for that little hollow in the earth, nepeese--" he shuddered, and said no more. but nepeese, happy in her salvation, made a movement with her hand and said, smiling at him: "i would have been like--that." and she held her thumb and forefinger close together. "but where did baree go, mon pere?" nepeese cried. chapter 9 impelled by the wild alarm of the willow's terrible cries and the sight of pierrot dashing madly toward him from the dead body of wakayoo, baree did not stop running until it seemed as though his lungs could not draw another breath. when he stopped, he was well out of the canyon and headed for the beaver pond. for almost a week baree had not been near the pond. he had not forgotten beaver tooth and umisk and the other little beavers, but wakayoo and his daily catch of fresh fish had been too big a temptation for him. now wakayoo was gone. he sensed the fact that the big black bear would never fish again in the quiet pools and shimmering eddies, and that where for many days there had been peace and plenty, there was now great danger. and just as in another country he would have fled for safety to the old windfall, he now fled desperately for the beaver pond. exactly wherein lay baree's fears it would be difficult to say--but surely it was not because of nepeese. the willow had chased him hard. she had flung herself upon him. he had felt the clutch of her hands and the smother of her soft hair, and yet of her he was not afraid! if he stopped now and then in his flight and looked back, it was to see if nepeese was following. he would not have run hard from her--alone. her eyes and voice and hands had set something stirring in him; he was filled with a greater yearning and a greater loneliness now. and that night he dreamed troubled dreams. he found himself a bed under a spruce root not far from the beaver pond, and all through the night his sleep was filled with that restless dreaming--dreams of his mother, of kazan, the old windfall, of umlsk--and of nepeese. once, when he awoke, he thought the spruce root was gray wolf; and when he found that she was not there, pierrot and the willow could have told what his crying meant if they had heard it. again and again he had visions of the thrilling happenings of that day. he saw the flight of wakayoo over the little meadow--he saw him die again. he saw the glow of the willow's eyes close to his own, heard her voice--so sweet and low that it seemed like strange music to him--and again he heard her terrible screams. baree was glad when the dawn came. he did not seek for food, but went down to the pond. there was little hope and anticipation in his manner now. he remembered that, as plainly as animal ways could talk, umisk and his playmates had told him they wanted nothing to do with him. and yet the fact that they were there took away some of his loneliness. it was more than loneliness. the wolf in him was submerged. the dog was master. and in these passing moments, when the blood of the wild was almost dormant in him, he was depressed by the instinctive and growing feeling that he was not of that wild, but a fugitive in it, menaced on all sides by strange dangers. deep in the northern forests the beaver does not work and play in darkness only, but uses day even more than night, and many of beaver tooth's people were awake when baree began disconsolately to investigate the shores of the pond. the little beavers were still with their mothers in the big houses that looked like great domes of sticks and mud out in the middle of the lake. there were three of these houses, one of them at least twenty feet in diameter. baree had some difficulty in following his side of the pond. when he got back among the willows and alders and birch, dozens of little canals crossed and crisscrossed in his path. some of these canals were a foot wide, and others three or four feet, and all were filled with water. no country in the world ever had a better system of traffic than this domain of the beavers, down which they brought their working materials and food into the main reservoir--the pond. in one of the larger canals baree surprised a big beaver towing a four-foot cutting of birch as thick through as a man's leg--half a dozen breakfasts and dinners and suppers in that one cargo. the four or five inner barks of the birch are what might be called the bread and butter and potatoes of the beaver menu, while the more highly prized barks of the willow and young alder take the place of meat and pie. baree smelled curiously of the birch cutting after the old beaver had abandoned it in flight, and then went on. he did not try to conceal himself now, and at least half a dozen beavers had a good look at him before he came to the point where the pond narrowed down to the width of the stream, almost half a mile from the dam. then he wandered back. all that morning he hovered about the pond, showing himself openly. in their big mud-and-stick strongholds the beavers held a council of war. they were distinctly puzzled. there were four enemies which they dreaded above all others: the otter, who destroyed their dams in the wintertime and brought death to them from cold and by lowering the water so they could not get to their food supplies; the lynx, who preyed on them all, young and old alike; and the fox and wolf, who would lie in ambush for hours in order to pounce on the very young, like umisk and his playmates. if baree had been any one of these four, wily beaver tooth and his people would have known what to do. but baree was surely not an otter, and if he was a fox or a wolf or a lynx, his actions were very strange, to say the least. half a dozen times he had had the opportunity to pounce on his prey, if he had been seeking prey. but at no time had he shown the least desire to harm them. it may be that the beavers discussed the matter fully among themselves. it is possible that umisk and his playmates told their parents of their adventure, and of how baree had made no move to harm them when he could quite easily have caught them. it is also more than likely that the older beavers who had fled from baree that morning gave an account of their adventures, again emphasizing the fact that the stranger, while frightening them, had shown no disposition to attack them. all this is quite possible, for if beavers can make a large part of a continent's history, and can perform engineering feats that nothing less than dynamite can destroy, it is only reasonable to suppose that they have some way of making one another understand. however this may be, courageous old beaver tooth took it upon himself to end the suspense. it was early in the afternoon that for the third or fourth time baree walked out on the dam. this dam was fully two hundred feet in length, but at no point did the water run over it, the overflow finding its way through narrow sluices. a week or two ago baree could have crossed to the opposite side of the pond on this dam, but now--at the far end--beaver tooth and his engineers were adding a new section of dam, and in order to accomplish their work more easily, they had flooded fully fifty yards of the low ground on which they were working. the main dam held a strange fascination for baree. it was strong with the smell of beaver. the top of it was high and dry, and there were dozens of smoothly worn little hollows in which the beavers had taken their sun baths. in one of these hollows baree stretched himself out, with his eyes on the pond. not a ripple stirred its velvety smoothness. not a sound broke the drowsy stillness of the afternoon. the beavers might have been dead or asleep, for all the stir they made. and yet they knew that baree was on the dam. where he lay, the sun fell in a warm flood, and it was so comfortable that after a time he had difficulty in keeping his eyes open to watch the pond. then he fell asleep. just how beaver tooth sensed this fact is a mystery. five minutes later he came up quietly, without a splash or a sound, within fifty yards of baree. for a few moments he scarcely moved in the water. then he swam very slowly parallel with the dam across the pond. at the other side he drew himself ashore, and for another minute sat as motionless as a stone, with his eyes on that part of the dam where baree was lying. not another beaver was moving, and it was very soon apparent that beaver tooth had but one object in mind--getting a closer observation of baree. when he entered the water again, he swam along close to the dam. ten feet beyond baree he began to climb out. he did this with great slowness and caution. at last he reached the top of the dam. a few yards away baree was almost hidden in his hollow, only the top of his shiny black body appearing to beaver tooth's scrutiny. to get a better look, the old beaver spread his flat tail out beyond him and rose to a sitting posture on his hindquarters, his two front paws held squirrel-like over his breast. in this pose he was fully three feet tall. he probably weighed forty pounds, and in some ways he resembled one of those fat, good-natured, silly-looking dogs that go largely to stomach. but his brain was working with amazing celerity. suddenly he gave the hard mud of the dam a single slap with his tail--and baree sat up. instantly he saw beaver tooth, and stared. beaver tooth stared. for a full half-minute neither moved the thousandth part of an inch. then baree stood up and wagged his tail. that was enough. dropping to his forefeet. beaver tooth waddled leisurely to the edge of the dam and dived over. he was neither cautious nor in very great haste now. he made a great commotion in the water and swam boldly back and forth under baree. when he had done this several times, he cut straight up the pond to the largest of the three houses and disappeared. five minutes after beaver tooth's exploit word was passing quickly among the colony. the stranger--baree--was not a lynx. he was not a fox. he was not a wolf. moreover, he was very young--and harmless. work could be resumed. play could be resumed. there was no danger. such was beaver tooth's verdict. if someone had shouted these facts in beaver language through a megaphone, the response could not have been quicker. all at once it seemed to baree, who was still standing on the edge of the dam, that the pond was alive with beavers. he had never seen so many at one time before. they were popping up everywhere, and some of them swam up within a dozen feet of him and looked him over in a leisurely and curious way. for perhaps five minutes the beavers seemed to have no particular object in view. then beaver tooth himself struck straight for the shore and climbed out. others followed him. half a dozen workers disappeared in the canals. as many more waddled out among the alders and willows. eagerly baree watched for umisk and his chums. at last he saw them, swimming forth from one of the smaller houses. they climbed out on their playground--the smooth bar above the shore of mud. baree wagged his tail so hard that his whole body shook, and hurried along the dam. when he came out on the level strip of shore, umisk was there alone, nibbling his supper from a long, freshly cut willow. the other little beavers had gone into a thick clump of young alders. this time umisk did not run. he looked up from his stick. baree squatted himself, wiggling in a most friendly and ingratiating manner. for a few seconds umisk regarded him. then, very coolly, he resumed his supper. chapter 10 just as in the life of every man there is one big, controlling influence, either for good or bad, so in the life of baree the beaver pond was largely an arbiter of destiny. where he might have gone if he had not discovered it, and what might have happened to him, are matters of conjecture. but it held him. it began to take the place of the old windfall, and in the beavers themselves he found a companionship which made up, in a way, for his loss of the protection and friendship of kazan and gray wolf. this companionship, if it could be called that, went just so far and no farther. with each day that passed the older beavers became more accustomed to seeing baree. at the end of two weeks, if baree had gone away, they would have missed him--but not in the same way that baree would have missed the beavers. it was a matter of good-natured toleration on their part. with baree it was different. he was still uskahis, as nepeese would have said. he still wanted mothering; he was still moved by the puppyish yearnings which he had not yet had the time to outgrow; and when night came--to speak that yearning quite plainly--he had the desire to go into the big beaver house with umisk and his chums and sleep. during this fortnight that followed beaver tooth's exploit on the dam baree ate his meals a mile up the creek, where there were plenty of crayfish. but the pond was home. night always found him there, and a large part of his day. he slept at the end of the dam, or on top of it on particularly clear nights, and the beavers accepted him as a permanent guest. they worked in his presence as if he did not exist. baree was fascinated by this work, and he never grew tired of watching it. it puzzled and bewildered him. day after day he saw them float timber and brush through the water for the new dam. he saw this dam growing steadily under their efforts. one day he lay within a dozen feet of an old beaver who was cutting down a tree six inches through. when the tree fell, and the old beaver scurried away, baree scurried, too. then he came back and smelled of the cutting, wondering what it was all about, and why umisk's uncle or grandfather or aunt had gone to all that trouble. he still could not induce umisk and the other young beavers to join him in play, and after the first week or so he gave up his efforts. in fact, their play puzzled him almost as much as the dam-building operations of the older beavers. umisk, for instance, was fond of playing in the mud at the edge of the pond. he was like a very small boy. where his elders floated timbers from three inches to a foot in diameter to the big dam, umisk brought small sticks and twigs no larger around than a lead pencil to his playground, and built a make-believe dam of his own. umisk would work an hour at a time on this play dam as industriously as his father and mother were working on the big dam, and baree would lie flat on his belly a few feet away, watching him and wondering mightily. and through this half-dry mud umisk would also dig his miniature canals, just as a small boy might have dug his mississippi river and pirate-infested oceans in the outflow of some back-lot spring. with his sharp little teeth he cut down his big timber--willow sprouts never more than an inch in diameter; and when one of these four or five-foot sprouts toppled down, he undoubtedly felt as great a satisfaction as beaver tooth felt when he sent a seventy-foot birch crashing into the edge of the pond. baree could not understand the fun of all this. he could see some reason for nibbling at sticks--he liked to sharpen his teeth on sticks himself; but it puzzled him to explain why umisk so painstakingly stripped the bark from the sticks and swallowed it. another method of play still further discouraged baree's advances. a short distance from the spot where he had first seen umisk there was a shelving bank that rose ten or twelve feet from the water, and this bank was used by the young beavers as a slide. it was worn smooth and hard. umisk would climb up the bank at a point where it was not so steep. at the top of the slide he would put his tail out flat behind him and give himself a shove, shooting down the toboggan and landing in the water with a big splash. at times there were from six to ten young beavers engaged in this sport, and now and then one of the older beavers would waddle to the top of the slide and take a turn with the youngsters. one afternoon, when the toboggan was particularly wet and slippery from recent use, baree went up the beaver path to the top of the bank, and began investigating. nowhere had he found the beaver smell so strong as on the slide. he began sniffing and incautiously went too far. in an instant his feet shot out from under him, and with a single wild yelp he went shooting down the toboggan. for the second time in his life he found himself struggling under water, and when a minute or two later he dragged himself up through the soft mud to the firmer footing of the shore, he had at last a very well-defined opinion of beaver play. it may be that umisk saw him. it may be that very soon the story of his adventure was known by all the inhabitants of beaver town. for when baree came upon umisk eating his supper of alder bark that evening, umisk stood his ground to the last inch, and for the first time they smelled noses. at least baree sniffed audibly, and plucky little umisk sat like a rolled-up sphinx. that was the final cementing of their friendship--on baree's part. he capered about extravagantly for a few moments, telling umisk how much he liked him, and that they'd be great chums. umisk didn't talk. he didn't make a move until he resumed his supper. but he was a companionable-looking little fellow, for all that, and baree was happier than he had been since the day he left the old windfall. this friendship, even though it outwardly appeared to be quite one-sided, was decidedly fortunate for umisk. when baree was at the pond, he always kept as near to umisk as possible, when he could find him. one day he was lying in a patch of grass, half asleep, while umisk busied himself in a clump of alder shoots a few yards away. it was the warning crack of a beaver tail that fully roused baree; and then another and another, like pistol shots. he jumped up. everywhere beavers were scurrying for the pond. just then umisk came out of the alders and hurried as fast as his short, fat legs would carry him toward the water. he had almost reached the mud when a lightning flash of red passed before baree's eyes in the afternoon sun, and in another instant napakasew--the he-fox--had fastened his sharp fangs in umisk's throat. baree heard his little friend's agonized cry; he heard the frenzied flap-flap-flap of many tails--and his blood pounded suddenly with the thrill of excitement and rage. as swiftly as the red fox himself, baree darted to the rescue. he was as big and as heavy as the fox, and when he struck napakasew, it was with a ferocious snarl that pierrot might have heard on the farther side of the pond, and his teeth sank like knives into the shoulder of umisk's assailant. the fox was of a breed of forest highwaymen which kills from behind. he was not a fighter when it came fang-to-fang, unless cornered--and so fierce and sudden was baree's assault that napakasew took to flight almost as quickly as he had begun his attack on umisk. baree did not follow him, but went to umisk, who lay half in the mud, whimpering and snuffling in a curious sort of way. gently baree nosed him, and after a moment or two umisk got up on his webbed feet, while fully twenty or thirty beavers were making a tremendous fuss in the water near the shore. after this the beaver pond seemed more than ever like home to baree. chapter 11 while lovely nepeese was still shuddering over her thrilling experience under the rock--while pierrot still offered grateful thanks in his prayers for her deliverance and baree was becoming more and more a fixture at the beaver pond--bush mctaggart was perfecting a little scheme of his own up at post lac bain, about forty miles north and west. mctaggart had been factor at lac bain for seven years. in the company's books down in winnipeg he was counted a remarkably successful man. the expense of his post was below the average, and his semiannual report of furs always ranked among the first. after his name, kept on file in the main office, was one notation which said: "gets more out of a dollar than any other man north of god's lake." the indians knew why this was so. they called him napao wetikoo--the man-devil. this was under their breath--a name whispered sinisterly in the glow of tepee fires, or spoken softly where not even the winds might carry it to the ears of bush mctaggart. they feared him; they hated him. they died of starvation and sickness, and the tighter bush mctaggart clenched the fingers of his iron rule, the more meekly, it seemed to him, did they respond to his mastery. his was a small soul, hidden in the hulk of a brute, which rejoiced in power. and here--with the raw wilderness on four sides of him--his power knew no end. the big company was behind him. it had made him king of a domain in which there was little law except his own. and in return he gave back to the company bales and bundles of furs beyond their expectation. it was not for them to have suspicions. they were a thousand or more miles away--and dollars were what counted. gregson might have told. gregson was the investigating agent of that district, who visited mctaggart once each year. he might have reported that the indians called mctaggart napao wetikoo because he gave them only half price for their furs. he might have told the company quite plainly that he kept the people of the trap lines at the edge of starvation through every month of the winter, that he had them on their knees with his hands at their throats--putting the truth in a mild and pretty way--and that he always had a woman or a girl, indian or half-breed, living with him at the post. but gregson enjoyed his visits too much at lac bain. always he could count on two weeks of coarse pleasures. and in addition to that, his own womenfolk at home wore a rich treasure of fur that came to them from mctaggart. one evening, a week after the adventure of nepeese and baree under the rock, mctaggart sat under the glow of an oil lamp in his "store." he had sent his little pippin-faced english clerk to bed, and he was alone. for six weeks there had been in him a great unrest. it was just six weeks ago that pierrot had brought nepeese on her first visit to lac bain since mctaggart had been factor there. she had taken his breath away. since then he had been able to think of nothing but her. twice in that six weeks he had gone down to pierrot's cabin. tomorrow he was going again. marie, the slim cree girl over in his cabin, he had forgotten--just as a dozen others before marie had slipped out of his memory. it was nepeese now. he had never seen anything quite so beautiful as pierrot's girl. audibly he cursed pierrot as he looked at a sheet of paper under his hand, on which for an hour or more he had been making notes out of worn and dusty company ledgers. it was pierrot who stood in his way. pierrot's father, according to those notes, had been a full-blooded frenchman. therefore pierrot was half french, and nepeese was quarter french--though she was so beautiful he could have sworn there was not more than a drop or two of indian blood in her veins. if they had been all indian--chipewyan, cree, ojibway, dog rib--anything--there would have been no trouble at all in the matter. he would have bent them to his power, and nepeese would have come to his cabin, as marie had come six months ago. but there was the accursed french of it! pierrot and nepeese were different. and yet-he smiled grimly, and his hands clenched tighter. after all, was not his power sufficient? would even pierrot dare stand up against that? if pierrot objected, he would drive him from the country--from the trapping regions that had come down to him as heritage from father and grandfather, and even before their day. he would make of pierrot a wanderer and an outcast, as he had made wanderers and outcasts of a score of others who had lost his favor. no other post would sell to or buy from pierrot if le bete--the black cross--was put after his name. that was his power--a law of the factors that had come down through the centuries. it was a tremendous power for evil. it had brought him marie, the slim, dark-eyed cree girl, who hated him--and who in spite of her hatred "kept house for him." that was the polite way of explaining her presence if explanations were ever necessary. mctaggart looked again at the notes he had made on the sheet of paper. pierrot's trapping country, his own property according to the common law of the wilderness, was very valuable. during the last seven years he had received an average of a thousand dollars a year for his furs, for mctaggart had been unable to cheat pierrot quite as completely as he had cheated the indians. a thousand dollars a year! pierrot would think twice before he gave that up. mctaggart chuckled as he crumpled the paper in his hand and prepared to put out the light. under his close-cropped beard his reddish face blazed with the fire that was in his blood. it was an unpleasant face--like iron, merciless, filled with the look that gave him his name of napao wetikoo. his eyes gleamed, and he drew a quick breath as he put out the light. he chuckled again as he made his way through the darkness to the door. nepeese as good as belonged to him. he, would have her if it cost--pierrot's life. and--why not? it was all so easy. a shot on a lonely trap line, a single knife thrust--and who would know? who would guess where pierrot had gone? and it would all be pierrot's fault. for the last time he had seen pierrot, he had made an honest proposition: he would marry nepeese. yes, even that. he had told pierrot so. he had told pierrot that when the latter was his father-in-law, he would pay him double price for furs. and pierrot had stared--had stared with that strange, stunned look in his face, like a man dazed by a blow from a club. and so if he did not get nepeese without trouble it would all be pierrot's fault. tomorrow mctaggart would start again for the half-breed's country. and the next day pierrot would have an answer for him. bush mctaggart chuckled again as he went to bed. until the next to the last day pierrot said nothing to nepeese about what had passed between him and the factor at lac bain. then he told her. "he is a beast--a man-devil," he said, when he had finished. "i would rather see you out there--with her--dead." and he pointed to the tall spruce under which the princess mother lay. nepeese had not uttered a sound. but her eyes had grown bigger and darker, and there was a flush in her cheeks which pierrot had never seen there before. she stood up when he had finished, and she seemed taller to him. never had she looked quite so much like a woman, and pierrot's eyes were deep-shadowed with fear and uneasiness as he watched her while she gazed off into the northwest--toward lac bain. she was wonderful, this slip of a girl-woman. her beauty troubled him. he had seen the look in bush mctaggart's eyes. he had heard the thrill in mctaggart's voice. he had caught the desire of a beast in mctaggart's face. it had frightened him at first. but now--he was not frightened. he was uneasy, but his hands were clenched. in his heart there was a smoldering fire. at last nepeese turned and came and sat down beside him again, at his feet. "he is coming tomorrow, ma cherie," he said. "what shall i tell him?" the willow's lips were red. her eyes shone. but she did not look up at her father. "nothing, nootawe--except that you are to say to him that i am the one to whom he must come--for what he seeks." pierrot bent over and caught her smiling. the sun went down. his heart sank with it, like cold lead. from lac bain to pierrot's cabin the trail cut within half a mile of the beaver pond, a dozen miles from where pierrot lived. and it was here, on a twist of the creek in which wakayoo had caught fish for baree, that bush mctaggart made his camp for the night. only twenty miles of the journey could be made by canoe, and as mctaggart was traveling the last stretch afoot, his camp was a simple affair--a few cut balsams, a light blanket, a small fire. before he prepared his supper, the factor drew a number of copper wire snares from his small pack and spent half an hour in setting them in rabbit runways. this method of securing meat was far less arduous than carrying a gun in hot weather, and it was certain. half a dozen snares were good for at least three rabbits, and one of these three was sure to be young and tender enough for the frying pan. after he had placed his snares mctaggart set a skillet of bacon over the coals and boiled his coffee. of all the odors of a camp, the smell of bacon reaches farthest in the forest. it needs no wind. it drifts on its own wings. on a still night a fox will sniff it a mile away--twice that far if the air is moving in the right direction. it was this smell of bacon that came to baree where he lay in his hollow on top of the beaver dam. since his experience in the canyon and the death of wakayoo, he had not fared particularly well. caution had kept him near the pond, and he had lived almost entirely on crayfish. this new aroma that came with the night wind roused his hunger. but it was elusive: now he could smell it--the next instant it was gone. he left the dam and began questing for the source of it in the forest, until after a time he lost it altogether. mctaggart had finished frying his bacon and was eating it. it was a splendid night that followed. perhaps baree would have slept through it in his nest on the top of the dam if the bacon smell had not stirred the new hunger in him. since his adventure in the canyon, the deeper forest had held a dread for him, especially at night. but this night was like a pale, golden day. it was moonless; but the stars shone like a billion distant lamps, flooding the world in a soft and billowy sea of light. a gentle whisper of wind made pleasant sounds in the treetops. beyond that it was very quiet, for it was puskowepesim--the molting moon--and the wolves were not hunting, the owls had lost their voice, the foxes slunk with the silence of shadows, and even the beavers had begun to cease their labors. the horns of the moose, the deer, and the caribou were in tender velvet, and they moved but little and fought not at all. it was late july, molting moon of the cree, moon of silence for the chipewyan. in this silence baree began to hunt. he stirred up a family of half-grown partridges, but they escaped him. he pursued a rabbit that was swifter than he. for an hour he had no luck. then he heard a sound that made every drop of blood in him thrill. he was close to mctaggart's camp, and what he had heard was a rabbit in one of mctaggart's snares. he came out into a little starlit open and there he saw the rabbit going through a most marvelous pantomime. it amazed him for a moment, and he stopped in his tracks. wapoos, the rabbit, had run his furry head into the snare, and his first frightened jump had "shot" the sapling to which the copper wire was attached so that he was now hung half in mid-air, with only his hind feet touching the ground. and there he was dancing madly while the noose about his neck slowly choked him to death. baree gave a sort of gasp. he could understand nothing of the part that the wire and the sapling were playing in this curious game. all he could see was that wapoos was hopping and dancing about on his hind legs in a most puzzling and unrabbitlike fashion. it may be that he thought it some sort of play. in this instance, however, he did not regard wapoos as he had looked on umisk the beaver. he knew that wapoos made mighty fine eating, and after another moment or two of hesitation he darted upon his prey. wapoos, half gone already, made almost no struggle, and in the glow of the stars baree finished him, and for half an hour afterward he feasted. mctaggart had heard no sound, for the snare into which wapoos had run his head was the one set farthest from his camp. beside the smoldering coals of his fire he sat with his back to a tree, smoking his black pipe and dreaming covetously of nepeese, while baree continued his night wandering. baree no longer had the desire to hunt. he was too full. but he nosed in and out of the starlit spaces, enjoying immensely the stillness and the golden glow of the night. he was following a rabbit-run when he came to a place where two fallen logs left a trail no wider than his body. he squeezed through; something tightened about his neck. there was a sudden snap--a swish as the sapling was released from its "trigger"--and baree was jerked off his feet so suddenly that he had no time to conjecture as to what was happening. the yelp in his throat died in a gurgle, and the next moment he was going through the pantomimic actions of wapoos, who was having his vengeance inside him. for the life of him baree could not keep from dancing about, while the wire grew tighter and tighter about his neck. when he snapped at the wire and flung the weight of his body to the ground, the sapling would bend obligingly, and then--in its rebound--would yank him for an instant completely off the earth. furiously he struggled. it was a miracle that the fine wire held him. in a few moments more it must have broken--but mctaggart had heard him! the factor caught up his blanket and a heavy stick as he hurried toward the snare. it was not a rabbit making those sounds--he knew that. perhaps a fishercat--a lynx, a fox, a young wolf-it was the wolf he thought of first when he saw baree at the end of the wire. he dropped the blanket and raised the club. if there had been clouds overhead, or the stars had been less brilliant, baree would have died as surely as wapoos had died. with the club raised over his head mctaggart saw in time the white star, the white-tipped ear, and the jet black of baree's coat. with a swift movement he exchanged the club for the blanket. in that hour, could mctaggart have looked ahead to the days that were to come, he would have used the club. could he have foreseen the great tragedy in which baree was to play a vital part, wrecking his hopes and destroying his world, he would have beaten him to a pulp there under the light of the stars. and baree, could he have foreseen what was to happen between this brute with a white skin and the most beautiful thing in the forests, would have fought even more bitterly before he surrendered himself to the smothering embrace of the factor's blanket. on this night fate had played a strange hand for them both, and only that fate, and perhaps the stars above, held a knowledge of what its outcome was to be. chapter 12 half an hour later bush mctaggart's fire was burning brightly again. in the glow of it baree lay trussed up like an indian papoose, tied into a balloon-shaped ball with babiche thong, his head alone showing where his captor had cut a hole for it in the blanket. he was hopelessly caught--so closely imprisoned in the blanket that he could scarcely move a muscle of his body. a few feet away from him mctaggart was bathing a bleeding hand in a basin of water. there was also a red streak down the side of mctaggart's bullish neck. "you little devil!" he snarled at baree. "you little devil!" he reached over suddenly and gave baree's head a vicious blow with his heavy hand. "i ought to beat your brains out, and--i believe i will!" baree watched him as he picked up a stick close at his side--a bit of firewood. pierrot had chased him, but this was the first time he had been near enough to the man-monster to see the red glow in his eyes. they were not like the eyes of the wonderful creature who had almost caught him in the web of her hair, and who had crawled after him under the rock. they were the eyes of a beast. they made him shrink and try to draw his head back into the blanket as the stick was raised. at the same time he snarled. his white fangs gleamed in the firelight. his ears were flat. he wanted to sink his teeth in the red throat where he had already drawn blood. the stick fell. it fell again and again, and when mctaggart was done, baree lay half stunned, his eyes partly closed by the blows, and his mouth bleeding. "that's the way we take the devil out of a wild dog," snarled mctaggart. "i guess you won't try the biting game again, eh, youngster? a thousand devils--but you went almost to the bone of this hand!" he began washing the wound again. baree's teeth had sunk deep, and there was a troubled look in the factor's face. it was july--a bad month for bites. from his kit he got a small flask of whisky and turned a bit of the raw liquor on the wound, cursing baree as it burned into his flesh. baree's half-shut eyes were fixed on him steadily. he knew that at last he had met the deadliest of all his enemies. and yet he was not afraid. the club in bush mctaggart's hand had not killed his spirit. it had killed his fear. it had roused in him a hatred such as he had never known--not even when he was fighting oohoomisew, the outlaw owl. the vengeful animosity of the wolf was burning in him now, along with the savage courage of the dog. he did not flinch when mctaggart approached him again. he made an effort to raise himself, that he might spring at this man-monster. in the effort, swaddled as he was in the blanket, he rolled over in a helpless and ludicrous heap. the sight of it touched mctaggart's risibilities, and he laughed. he sat down with his back to the tree again and filled his pipe. baree did not take his eyes from mctaggart as he smoked. he watched the man when the latter stretched himself out on the bare ground and went to sleep. he listened, still later, to the man-monster's heinous snoring. again and again during the long night he struggled to free himself. he would never forget that night. it was terrible. in the thick, hot folds of the blanket his limbs and body were suffocated until the blood almost stood still in his veins. yet he did not whine. they began to journey before the sun was up, for if baree's blood was almost dead within him, bush mctaggart's was scorching his body. he made his last plans as he walked swiftly through the forest with baree under his arm. he would send pierrot at once for father grotin at his mission seventy miles to the west. he would marry nepeese--yes, marry her! that would tickle pierrot. and he would be alone with nepeese while pierrot was gone for the missioner. this thought flamed mctaggart's blood like strong whisky. there was no thought in his hot and unreasoning brain of what nepeese might say--of what she might think. his hand clenched, and he laughed harshly as there flashed on him for an instant the thought that perhaps pierrot would not want to give her up. pierrot! bah! it would not be the first time he had killed a man--or the second. mctaggart laughed again, and he walked still faster. there was no chance of his losing--no chance for nepeese to get away from him. he--bush mctaggart--was lord of this wilderness, master of its people, arbiter of their destinies. he was power--and the law. the sun was well up when pierrot, standing in front of his cabin with nepeese, pointed to a rise in the trail three or four hundred yards away, over which mctaggart had just appeared. "he is coming." with a face which had aged since last night he looked at nepeese. again he saw the dark glow in her eyes and the deepening red of her parted lips, and his heart was sick again with dread. was it possible-she turned on him, her eyes shining, her voice trembling. "remember, nootawe--you must send him to me for his answer," she cried quickly, and she darted into the cabin. with a cold, gray face pierrot faced bush mctaggart. chapter 13 from the window, her face screened by the folds of the curtain which she had made for it, the willow could see what happened outside. she was not smiling now. she was breathing quickly, and her body was tense. bush mctaggart paused not a dozen feet from the window and shook hands with pierrot, her father. she heard mctaggart's coarse voice, his boisterous greeting, and then she saw him showing pierrot what he carried under his arm. there came to her distinctly his explanation of how he had caught his captive in a rabbit snare. he unwrapped the blanket. nepeese gave a cry of amazement. in an instant she was out beside them. she did not look at mctaggart's red face, blazing in its joy and exultation. "it is baree!" she cried. she took the bundle from mctaggart and turned to pierrot. "tell him that baree belongs to me," she said. she hurried into the cabin. mctaggart looked after her, stunned and amazed. then he looked at pierrot. a man half blind could have seen that pierrot was as amazed as he. nepeese had not spoken to him--the factor of lac bain! she had not looked at him! and she had taken the dog from him with as little concern as though he had been a wooden man. the red in his face deepened as he stared from pierrot to the door through which she had gone, and which she had closed behind her. on the floor of the cabin nepeese dropped on her knees and finished unwrapping the blanket. she was not afraid of baree. she had forgotten mctaggart. and then, as baree rolled in a limp heap on the floor, she saw his half-closed eyes and the dry blood on his jaws, and the light left her face as swiftly as the sun is shadowed by a cloud. "baree," she cried softly. "baree--baree!" she partly lifted him in her two hands. baree's head sagged. his body was numbed until he was powerless to move. his legs were without feeling. he could scarcely see. but he heard her voice! it was the same voice that had come to him that day he had felt the sting of the bullet, the voice that had pleaded with him under the rock! the voice of the willow thrilled baree. it seemed to stir the sluggish blood in his veins, and he opened his eyes wider and saw again the wonderful stars that had glowed at him so softly the day of wakayoo's death. one of the willow's long braids fell over her shoulder, and he smelled again the sweet scent of her hair as her hand caressed him and her voice talked to him. then she got up suddenly and left him, and he did not move while he waited for her. in a moment she was back with a basin of water and a cloth. gently she washed the blood from his eyes and mouth. and still baree made no move. he scarcely breathed. but nepeese saw the little quivers that shot through his body when her hand touched him, like electric shocks. "he beat you with a club," she was saying, her dark eyes within a foot of baree's. "he beat you! that man-beast!" there came an interruption. the door opened, and the man-beast stood looking down on them, a grin on his red face. instantly baree showed that he was alive. he sprang back from under the willow's hand with a sudden snarl and faced mctaggart. the hair of his spine stood up like a brush; his fangs gleamed menacingly, and his eyes burned like living coals. "there is a devil in him," said mctaggart. "he is wild--born of the wolf. you must be careful or he will take off a hand, kit sakahet." it was the first time he had called her that lover's name in cree--sweetheart! her heart pounded. she bent her head for a moment over her clenched hands, and mctaggart--looking down on what he thought was her confusion--laid his hand caressingly on her hair. from the door pierrot had heard the word, and now he saw the caress, and he raised a hand as if to shut out the sight of a sacrilege. "mon dieu!" he breathed. in the next instant he had given a sharp cry of wonder that mingled with a sudden yell of pain from mctaggart. like a flash baree had darted across the floor and fastened his teeth in the factor's leg. they had bitten deep before mctaggart freed himself with a powerful kick. with an oath he snatched his revolver from its holster. the willow was ahead of him. with a little cry she darted to baree and caught him in her arms. as she looked up at mctaggart, her soft, bare throat was within a few inches of baree's naked fangs. her eyes blazed. "you beat him!" she cried. "he hates you--hates you--" "let him go!" called pierrot in an agony of fear. "mon dieu! i say let him go, or he will tear the life from you!" "he hates you--hates you--hates you--" the willow was repeating over and over again into mctaggart's startled face. then suddenly she turned to her father. "no, he will not tear the life from me," she cried. "see! it is baree. did i not tell you that? it is baree! is it not proof that he defended me--" "from me!" gasped mctaggart, his face darkening. pierrot advanced and laid a hand on mctaggart's arm. he was smiling. "let us leave them to fight it out between themselves, m'sieu," he said. "they are two little firebrands, and we are not safe. if she is bitten--" he shrugged his shoulders. a great load had been lifted from them suddenly. his voice was soft and persuasive. and now the anger had gone out of the willow's face. a coquettish uplift of her eyes caught mctaggart, and she looked straight at him half smiling, as she spoke to her father: "i will join you soon, mon pere--you and m'sieu the factor from lac bain!" there were undeniable little devils in her eyes, mctaggart thought--little devils laughing full at him as she spoke, setting his brain afire and his blood to throbbing wildly. those eyes--full of dancing witches! how he would take pleasure in taming them--very soon now! he followed pierrot outside. in his exultation he no longer felt the smart of baree's teeth. "i will show you my new cariole that i have made for winter, m'sieu," said pierrot as the door closed behind them. half an hour later nepeese came out of the cabin. she could see that pierrot and the factor had been talking about something that had not been pleasant to her father. his face was strained. she caught in his eyes the smolder of fire which he was trying to smother, as one might smother flames under a blanket. mctaggart's jaws were set, but his eyes lighted up with pleasure when he saw her. she knew what it was about. the factor from lac bain had been demanding his answer of pierrot, and pierrot had been telling him what she had insisted upon--that he must come to her. and he was coming! she turned with a quick beating of the heart and hurried down a little path. she heard mctaggart's footsteps behind her, and threw the flash of a smile over her shoulder. but her teeth were set tight. the nails of her fingers were cutting into the palms of her hands. pierrot stood without moving. he watched them as they disappeared into the edge of the forest, nepeese still a few steps ahead of mctaggart. out of his breast rose a sharp breath. "par les milles cornes du diable!" he swore softly. "is it possible--that she smiles from her heart at that beast? non! it is impossible. and yet--if it is so--" one of his brown hands tightened convulsively about the handle of the knife in his belt, and slowly he began to follow them. mctaggart did not hurry to overtake nepeese. she was following the narrow path deeper into the forest, and he was glad of that. they would be alone--away from pierrot. he was ten steps behind her, and again the willow smiled at him over her shoulder. her body moved sinuously and swiftly. she was keeping accurate measurement of the distance between them--but mctaggart did not guess that this was why she looked back every now and then. he was satisfied to let her go on. when she turned from the narrow trail into a side path that scarcely bore the mark of travel, his heart gave an exultant jump. if she kept on, he would very soon have her alone--a good distance from the cabin. the blood ran hot in his face. he did not speak to her, through fear that she would stop. ahead of them he heard the rumble of water. it was the creek running through the chasm. nepeese was making straight for that sound. with a little laugh she started to run, and when she stood at the edge of the chasm, mctaggart was fully fifty yards behind her. twenty feet sheer down there was a deep pool between the rock walls, a pool so deep that the water was the color of blue ink. she turned to face the factor from lac bain. he had never looked more like a red beast to her. until this moment she had been unafraid. but now--in an instant--he terrified her. before she could speak what she had planned to say, he was at her side, and had taken her face between his two great hands, his coarse fingers twining in the silken strands of her thick braids where they fell over her shoulders at the neck. "ka sakahet!" he cried passionately. "pierrot said you would have an answer for me. but i need no answer now. you are mine! mine!" she gave a cry. it was a gasping, broken cry. his arms were about her like bands of iron, crushing her slender body, shutting off her breath, turning the world almost black before her eyes. she could neither struggle nor cry out. she felt the hot passion of his lips on her face, heard his voice--and then came a moment's freedom, and air into her strangled lungs. pierrot was calling! he had come to the fork in the trail, and he was calling the willow's name! mctaggart's hot hand came over her mouth. "don't answer," she heard him say. strength--anger--hatred flared up in her, and fiercely she struck the hand down. something in her wonderful eyes held mctaggart. they blazed into his very soul. "bete noir!" she panted at him, freeing herself from the last touch of his hands. "beast--black beast!" her voice trembled, and her face flamed. "see--i came to show you my pool--and tell you what you wanted to hear--and you--you--have crushed me like a beast--like a great rock-see! down there--it is my pool!" she had not planned it like this. she had intended to be smiling, even laughing, in this moment. but mctaggart had spoiled them--her carefully made plans! and yet, as she pointed, the factor from lac bain looked for an instant over the edge of the chasm. and then she laughed--laughed as she gave him a sudden shove from behind. "and that is my answer, m'sieu le facteur from lac bain!" she cried tauntingly as he plunged headlong into the deep pool between the rock walls. chapter 14 from the edge of the open pierrot saw what had happened, and he gave a great gasp of horror. he drew back among the balsams. this was not a moment for him to show himself. while his heart drummed like a hammer, his face was filled with joy. on her hands and knees the willow was peering over the edge. bush mctaggart had disappeared. he had gone down like the great clod he was. the water of her pool had closed over him with a dull splash that was like a chuckle of triumph. he appeared now, beating out with his arms and legs to keep himself afloat, while the willow's voice came to him in taunting cries. "bete noir! bete noir! beast! beast--" savagely she flung small sticks and tufts of earth down at him; and mctaggart, looking up as he gained his equilibrium, saw her leaning so far over that she seemed almost about to fall. her long braids hung down into the chasm, gleaming in the sun. her eyes were laughing while her lips taunted him. he could see the flash of her white teeth. "beast! beast!" he began swimming, still looking up at her. it was a hundred yards down the slow-going current to the beach of shale where he could climb out, and a half of that distance she followed him, laughing and taunting him, and flinging down sticks and pebbles. he noted that none of the sticks or stones was large enough to hurt him. when at last his feet touched bottom, she was gone. swiftly nepeese ran back over the trail, and almost into pierrot's arms. she was panting and laughing when for a moment she stopped. "i have given him the answer, nootawe! he is in the pool!" into the balsams she disappeared like a bird. pierrot made no effort to stop her or to follow. "tonnerre de dieu," he chuckled--and cut straight across for the other trail. nepeese was out of breath when she reached the cabin. baree, fastened to a table leg by a babiche thong, heard her pause for a moment at the door. then she entered and came straight to him. during the half-hour of her absence baree had scarcely moved. that half-hour, and the few minutes that had preceded it, had made tremendous impressions upon him. nature, heredity, and instinct were at work, clashing and readjusting, impinging on him a new intelligence--the beginning of a new understanding. a swift and savage impulse had made him leap at bush mctaggart when the factor put his hand on the willow's head. it was not reason. it was a hearkening back of the dog to that day long ago when kazan, his father, had lulled the man-brute in the tent, the man-brute who had dared to molest thorpe's wife, whom kazan worshiped. then it had been the dog--and the woman. and here again it was the woman. she had appealed to the great hidden passion that was in baree and that had come to him from kazan. of all the living things in the world, he knew that he must not hurt this creature that appeared to him through the door. he trembled as she knelt before him again, and up through the years came the wild and glorious surge of kazan's blood, overwhelming the wolf, submerging the savagery of his birth--and with his head flat on the floor he whined softly, and wagged his tail. nepeese gave a cry of joy. "baree!" she whispered, taking his head in her hands. "baree!" her touch thrilled him. it sent little throbs through his body, a tremulous quivering which she could feel and which deepened the glow in her eyes. gently her hand stroked his head and his back. it seemed to nepeese that he did not breathe. under the caress of her hand his eyes closed. in another moment she was talking to him, and at the sound of her voice his eyes shot open. "he will come here--that beast--and he will kill us," she was saying. "he will kill you because you bit him, baree. ugh, i wish you were bigger, and stronger, so that you could take off his head for me!" she was untying the babiche from about the table leg, and under her breath she laughed. she was not frightened. it was a tremendous adventure--and she throbbed with exultation at the thought of having beaten the man-beast in her own way. she could see him in the pool struggling and beating about like a great fish. he was just about crawling out of the chasm now--and she laughed again as she caught baree up under her arm. "oh--oopi-nao--but you are heavy!" she gasped, "and yet i must carry you--because i am going to run!" she hurried outside. pierrot had not come, and she darted swiftly into the balsams back of the cabin, with baree hung in the crook of her arm, like a sack filled at both ends and tied in the middle. he felt like that, too. but he still had no inclination to wriggle himself free. nepeese ran with him until her arm ached. then she stopped and put him down on his feet, holding to the end of the caribou-skin thong that was tied about his neck. she was prepared for any lunge he might make to escape. she expected that he would make an attempt, and for a few moments she watched him closely, while baree, with his feet on earth once more, looked about him. and then the willow spoke to him softly. "you are not going to run away, baree. non, you are going to stay with me, and we will kill that man-beast if he dares do to me again what he did back there." she flung back the loose hair from about her flushed face, and for a moment she forgot baree as she thought of that half-minute at the edge of the chasm. he was looking straight up at her when her glance fell on him again. "non, you are not going to run away--you are going to follow me," she whispered. "come." the babiche string tightened about baree's neck as she urged him to follow. it was like another rabbit snare, and he braced his forefeet and bared his fangs just a little. the willow did not pull. fearlessly she put her hand on his head again. from the direction of the cabin came a shout, and at the sound of it she took baree up under her arm once more. "bete noir--bete noir!" she called back tauntingly, but only loud enough to be heard a few yards away. "go back to lac bain--owases--you wild beast!" nepeese began to make her way swiftly through the forest. it grew deeper and darker, and there were no trails. three times in the next half-hour she stopped to put baree down and rest her arm. each time she pleaded with him coaxingly to follow her. the second and third times baree wriggled and wagged his tail, but beyond those demonstrations of his satisfaction with the turn his affairs had taken he would not go. when the string tightened around his neck, he braced himself; once he growled--again he snapped viciously at the babiche. so nepeese continued to carry him. they came at last into a clearing. it was a tiny meadow in the heart of the forest, not more than three or four times as big as the cabin. underfoot the grass was soft and green, and thickly strewn with flowers. straight through the heart of this little oasis trickled a streamlet across which the willow jumped with baree under her arm, and on the edge of the rill was a small wigwam made of freshly cut spruce and balsam boughs. into her diminutive mekewap the willow thrust her head to see that things were as she had left them yesterday. then, with a long breath of relief, she put down her four-legged burden and fastened the end of the babiche to one of the cut spruce limbs. baree burrowed himself back into the wall of the wigwam, and with head alert--and eyes wide open--watched his companion attentively. not a movement of the willow escaped him. she was radiant--and happy. her laugh, sweet and wild as a bird's trill, set baree's heart throbbing with a desire to jump about with her among the flowers. for a time nepeese seemed to forget baree. her wild blood raced with the joy of her triumph over the factor from lac bain. she saw him again, floundering about in the pool--pictured him at the cabin now, soaked and angry, demanding of mon pere where she had gone. and mon pere, with a shrug of his shoulders, was telling him that he didn't know--that probably she had run off into the forest. it did not enter into her head that in tricking bush mctaggart in that way she was playing with dynamite. she did not foresee the peril that in an instant would have stamped the wild flush from her face and curdled the blood in her veins--she did not guess that mctaggart had become for her a deadlier menace than ever. nepeese knew that he must be angry. but what had she to fear? mon pere would be angry, too, if she told him what had happened at the edge of the chasm. but she would not tell him. he might kill the man from lac bain. a factor was great. but pierrot, her father, was greater. it was an unlimited faith in her, born of her mother. perhaps even now pierrot was sending him back to lac bain, telling him that his business was there. but she would not return to the cabin to see. she would wait here. mon pere would understand--and he knew where to find her when the man was gone. but it would have been such fun to throw sticks at him as he went! after a little nepeese returned to baree. she brought him water and gave him a piece of raw fish. for hours they were alone, and with each hour there grew stronger in baree the desire to follow the girl in every movement she made, to crawl close to her when she sat down, to feel the touch of her dress, of her hand--and to hear her voice. but he did not show this desire. he was still a little savage of the forests--a four-footed barbarian born half of a wolf and half of a dog; and he lay still. with umisk he would have played. with oohoomisew he would have fought. at bush mctaggart he would have bared his fangs, and buried them deep when the chance came. but the girl was different. like the kazan of old, he had begun to worship. if the willow had freed baree, he would not have run away. if she had left him, he would possibly have followed her--at a distance. his eyes were never away from her. he watched her build a small fire and cook a piece of the fish. he watched her eat her dinner. it was quite late in the afternoon when she came and sat down close to him, with her lap full of flowers which she twined in the long, shining braids of her hair. then, playfully, she began beating baree with the end of one of these braids. he shrank under the soft blows, and with that low, birdlike laughter in her throat, nepeese drew his head into her lap where the scatter of flowers lay. she talked to him. her hand stroked his head. then it remained still, so near that he wanted to thrust out his warm red tongue and caress it. he breathed in the flower-scented perfume of it--and lay as if dead. it was a glorious moment. nepeese, looking down on him, could not see that he was breathing. there came an interruption. it was the snapping of a dry stick. through the forest pierrot had come with the stealth of a cat, and when they looked up, he stood at the edge of the open. baree knew that it was not bush mctaggart. but it was a man-beast! instantly his body stiffened under the willow's hand. he drew back slowly and cautiously from her lap, and as pierrot advanced, baree snarled. the next instant nepeese had risen and had run to pierrot. the look in her father's face alarmed her. "what has happened, mon pere?" she cried. pierrot shrugged his shoulders. "nothing, ma nepeese--except that you have roused a thousand devils in the heart of the factor from lac barn, and that--" he stopped as he saw baree, and pointed at him. "last night when m'sieu the factor caught him in a snare, he bit m'sieu's hand. m'sieu's hand is swollen twice its size, and i can see his blood turning black. it is pechipoo." "pechipoo!" gasped nepeese. she looked into pierrot's eyes. they were dark, and filled with a sinister gleam--a flash of exultation, she thought. "yes, it is the blood poison," said pierrot. a gleam of cunning shot into his eyes as he looked over his shoulder, and nodded. "i have hidden the medicine--and told him there is no time to lose in getting back to lac bain. and he is afraid--that devil! he is waiting. with that blackening hand, he is afraid to start back alone--and so i go with him. and--listen, ma nepeese. we will be away by sundown, and there is something you must know before i go." baree saw them there, close together in the shadows thrown by the tall spruce trees. he heard the low murmur of their voices--chiefly of pierrot's, and at last he saw nepeese put her two arms up around the man-beast's neck, and then pierrot went away again into the forest. he thought that the willow would never turn her face toward him after that. for a long time she stood looking in the direction which pierrot had taken. and when after a time she turned and came back to baree, she did not look like the nepeese who had been twining flowers in her hair. the laughter was gone from her face and eyes. she knelt down beside him and with sudden fierceness she cried: "it is pechipoo, baree! it was you--you--who put the poison in his blood. and i hope he dies! for i am afraid--afraid!" she shivered. perhaps it was in this moment that the great spirit of things meant baree to understand--that at last it was given him to comprehend that his day had dawned, that the rising and the setting of his sun no longer existed in the sky but in this girl whose hand rested on his head. he whined softly, and inch by inch he dragged himself nearer to her until again his head rested in the hollow of her lap. chapter 15 for a long time after pierrot left them the willow did not move from the spot where she had seated herself beside baree. it was at last the deepening shadows and a low rumble in the sky that roused her from the fear of the things pierrot had told her. when she looked up, black clouds were massing slowly over the open space above the spruce tops. darkness was falling. in the whisper of the wind and the dead stillness of the thickening gloom there was the sullen brewing of storm. tonight there would be no glorious sunset. there would be no twilight hour in which to follow the trail, no moon, no stars--and unless pierrot and the factor were already on their way, they would not start in the face of the pitch blackness that would soon shroud the forest. nepeese shivered and rose to her feet. for the first time baree got up, and he stood close at her side. above them a flash of lightning cut the clouds like a knife of fire, followed in an instant by a terrific crash of thunder. baree shrank back as if struck a blow. he would have slunk into the shelter of the brush wall of the wigwam, but there was something about the willow as he looked at her which gave him confidence. the thunder crashed again. but he retreated no farther. his eyes were fixed on nepeese. she stood straight and slim in that gathering gloom riven by the lightning, her beautiful head thrown back, her lips parted, and her eyes glowing with an almost eager anticipation--a sculptured goddess welcoming with bated breath the onrushing forces of the heavens. perhaps it was because she was born during a night of storm. many times pierrot and the dead princess mother had told her that--how on the night she had come into the world the crash of thunder and the flare of lightning had made the hours an inferno, how the streams had burst over their banks and the stems of ten thousand forest trees had snapped in its fury--and the beat of the deluge on their cabin roof had drowned the sound of her mother's pain, and of her own first babyish cries. on that night, it may be, the spirit of storm was born in nepeese. she loved to face it, as she was facing it now. it made her forget all things but the splendid might of nature. her half-wild soul thrilled to the crash and fire of it. often she had reached up her bare arms and laughed with joy as the deluge burst about her. even now she might have stood there in the little open until the rain fell, if a whine from baree had not caused her to turn. as the first big drops struck with the dull thud of leaden bullets about them, she went with him into the balsam shelter. once before baree had passed through a night of terrible storm--the night he had hidden himself under a root and had seen the tree riven by lightning; but now he had company, and the warmth and soft pressure of the willow's hand on his head and neck filled him with a strange courage. he growled softly at the crashing thunder. he wanted to snap at the lightning flashes. under her hand nepeese felt the stiffening of his body, and in a moment of uncanny stillness she heard the sharp, uneasy click of his teeth. then the rain fell. it was not like other rains baree had known. it was an inundation sweeping down out of the blackness of the skies. within five minutes the interior of the balsam shelter was a shower bath. after half an hour of that torrential downpour, nepeese was soaked to the skin. the water ran in little rivulets down her body. it trickled in tiny streams from her drenched braids and dropped from her long lashes, and the blanket under her became wet as a mop. to baree it was almost as bad as his near-drowning in the stream after his fight with papayuchisew, and he snuggled closer and closer under the sheltering arm of the willow. it seemed an interminable time before the thunder rolled far to the east, and the lightning died away into distant and intermittent flashings. even after that the rain fell for another hour. then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. with a laughing gasp nepeese rose to her feet. the water gurgled in her moccasins as she walked out into the open. she paid no attention to baree--and he followed her. across the open in the treetops the last of the storm clouds were drifting away. a star shone--then another; and the willow stood watching them as they appeared until there were so many she could not count. it was no longer black. a wonderful starlight flooded the open after the inky gloom of the storm. nepeese looked down and saw baree. he was standing quietly and unleashed, with freedom on all sides of him. yet he did not run. he was waiting, wet as a water rat, with his eyes fixed on her expectantly. nepeese made a movement toward him, and hesitated. "no, you will not run away, baree. i will leave you free. and now we must have a fire!" a fire! anyone but pierrot might have said that she was crazy. not a stem or twig in the forest that was not dripping! they could hear the trickle of running water all about them. "a fire," she said again. "let us hunt for the wuskisi, baree." with her wet clothes clinging to her lightly, she was like a slim shadow as she crossed the soggy clearing and lost herself among the forest trees. baree still followed. she went straight to a birch tree that she had located that day and began tearing off the loose bark. an armful of this bark she carried close to the wigwam, and on it she heaped load after load of wet wood until she had a great pile. from a bottle in the wigwam she secured a dry match, and at the first touch of its tiny flame the birch bark flared up like paper soaked in oil. half an hour later the willow's fire--if there had been no forest walls to hide it--could have been seen at the cabin a mile away. not until it was blazing a dozen feet into the air did she cease piling wood on it. then she drove sticks into the soft ground and over these sticks she stretched the blanket out to dry. so their first night passed--storm, the cool, deep pool, the big fire; and later, when the willow's clothes and the blanket had dried, a few hours' sleep. at dawn they returned to the cabin. it was a cautious approach. there was no smoke coming from the chimney. the door was closed. pierrot and bush mctaggart were gone. chapter 16 it was the beginning of august--the flying-up moon--when pierrot returned from lac bain, and in three days more it would be the willow's seventeenth birthday. he brought back with him many things for nepeese--ribbons for her hair, real shoes, which she wore at times like the two englishwomen at nelson house, and chief glory of all, some wonderful red cloth for a dress. in the three winters she had spent at the mission these women had made much of nepeese. they had taught her to sew as well as to spell and read and pray, and at times there came to the willow a compelling desire to do as they did. so for three days nepeese worked hard on her new dress and on her birthday she stood before pierrot in a fashion that took his breath away. she had piled her hair in great coils on the crown of her head, as yvonne, the younger of the englishwomen, had taught her, and in the rich jet of it had half buried a vivid sprig of the crimson fireflower. under this, and the glow in her eyes, and the red flush of her lips and cheeks came the wonderful red dress, fitted to the slim and sinuous beauty of her form--as the style had been two winters ago at nelson house. and below the dress, which reached just below the knees--nepeese had quite forgotten the proper length, or else her material had run out--came the coup de maitre of her toilet, real stockings and the gay shoes with high heels! she was a vision before which the gods of the forests might have felt their hearts stop beating. pierrot turned her round and round without a word, but smiling. when she left him, however, followed by baree, and limping a little because of the tightness of her shoes, the smile faded from his face, leaving it cold and bleak. "mon dieu," he whispered to himself in french, with a thought that was like a sharp stab at his heart, "she is not of her mother's blood--non. it is french. she is--yes--like an angel." a change had come over pierrot. during the three days she had been engaged in her dressmaking, nepeese had been quite too excited to notice this change, and pierrot had tried to keep it from her. he had been away ten days on the trip to lac bain, and he brought back to nepeese the joyous news that m'sieu mctaggart was very sick with pechipoo--the blood poison--news that made the willow clap her hands and laugh happily. but he knew that the factor would get well, and that he would come again to their cabin on the gray loon. and when next time he came-it was while he was thinking of this that his face grew cold and hard, and his eyes burned. and he was thinking of it on this her birthday, even as her laughter floated to him like a song. dieu, in spite of her seventeen years, she was nothing but a child--a baby! she could not guess his horrible visions. and the dread of awakening her for all time from that beautiful childhood kept him from telling her the whole truth so that she might have understood fully and completely. non, it should not be that. his soul beat with a great and gentle love. he, pierrot du quesne, would do the watching. and she should laugh and sing and play--and have no share in the black forebodings that had come to spoil his life. on this day there came up from the south macdonald, the government map maker. he was gray and grizzled, with a great, free laugh and a clean heart. two days he remained with pierrot. he told nepeese of his daughters at home, of their mother, whom he worshiped more than anything else on earth--and before he went on in his quest of the last timber line of banksian pine, he took pictures of the willow as he had first seen her on her birthday: her hair piled in glossy coils, her red dress, the high-heeled shoes. he carried the negatives on with him, promising pierrot that he would get a picture back in some way. thus fate works in its strange and apparently innocent ways as it spins its webs of tragedy. for many weeks after macdonald's visit there followed tranquil days on the gray loon. they were wonderful days for baree. at first he was suspicious of pierrot. after a little he tolerated him, and at last accepted him as a part of the cabin--and nepeese. it was the willow whose shadow he became. pierrot noted the attachment with the deepest satisfaction. "ah, in a few months more, if he should leap at the throat of m'sieu the factor," he said to himself one day. in september, when he was six months old, baree was almost as large as gray wolf--big-boned, long-fanged, with a deep chest, and jaws that could already crack a bone as if it were a stick. he was with nepeese whenever and wherever she moved. they swam together in the two pools--the pool in the forest and the pool between the chasm walls. at first it alarmed baree to see nepeese dive from the rock wall over which she had pushed mctaggart, but at the end of a month she had taught him to plunge after her through that twenty feet of space. it was late in august when baree saw the first of his kind outside of kazan and gray wolf. during the summer pierrot allowed his dogs to run at large on a small island in the center of a lake two or three miles away, and twice a week he netted fish for them. on one of these trips nepeese accompanied him and took baree with her. pierrot carried his long caribou-gut whip. he expected a fight. but there was none. baree joined the pack in their rush for fish, and ate with them. this pleased pierrot more than ever. "he will make a great sledge dog," he chuckled. "it is best to leave him for a week with the pack, ma nepeese." reluctantly nepeese gave her consent. while the dogs were still at their fish, they started homeward. their canoe had slipped away before baree discovered the trick they had played on him. instantly he leaped into the water and swam after them--and the willow helped him into his canoe. early in september a passing indian brought pierrot word of bush mctaggart. the factor had been very sick. he had almost died from the blood poison, but he was well now. with the first exhilarating tang of autumn in the air a new dread oppressed pierrot. but at present he said nothing of what was in his mind to nepeese. the willow had almost forgotten the factor from lac bain, for the glory and thrill of wilderness autumn was in her blood. she went on long trips with pierrot, helping him to blaze out the new trap lines that would be used when the first snows came, and on these journeys she was always accompanied by baree. most of nepeese's spare hours she spent in training him for the sledge. she began with a babiche string and a stick. it was a whole day before she could induce baree to drag this stick without turning at every other step to snap and growl at it. then she fastened another length of babiche to him, and made him drag two sticks. thus little by little she trained him to the sledge harness, until at the end of a fortnight he was tugging heroically at anything she had a mind to fasten him to. pierrot brought home two of the dogs from the island, and baree was put into training with these, and helped to drag the empty sledge. nepeese was delighted. on the day the first light snow fell she clapped her hands and cried to pierrot: "by midwinter i will have him the finest dog in the pack, mon pere!" this was the time for pierrot to say what was in his mind. he smiled. diantre--would not that beast the factor fall into the very devil of a rage when he found how he had been cheated! and yet-he tried to make his voice quiet and commonplace. "i am going to send you down to the school at nelson house again this winter, ma cherie," he said. "baree will help draw you down on the first good snow." the willow was tying a knot in baree's babiche, and she rose slowly to her feet and looked at pierrot. her eyes were big and dark and steady. "i am not going, mon pere!" it was the first time nepeese had ever said that to pierrot--in just that way. it thrilled him. and he could scarcely face the look in her eyes. he was not good at bluffing. she saw what was in his face; it seemed to him that she was reading what was in his mind, and that she grew a little taller as she stood there. certainly her breath came quicker, and he could see the throb of her breast. nepeese did not wait for him to gather speech. "i am not going!" she repeated with even greater finality, and bent again over baree. with a shrug of his shoulders pierrot watched her. after all, was he not glad? would his heart not have turned sick if she had been happy at the thought of leaving him? he moved to her side and with great gentleness laid a hand on her glossy head. up from under it the willow smiled at him. between them they heard the click of baree's jaws as he rested his muzzle on the willow's arm. for the first time in weeks the world seemed suddenly filled with sunshine for pierrot. when he went back to the cabin he held his head higher. nepeese would not leave him! he laughed softly. he rubbed his hands together. his fear of the factor from lac bain was gone. from the cabin door he looked back at nepeese and baree. "the saints be blessed!" he murmured. "now--now--it is pierrot du quesne who knows what to do!" chapter 17 back to lac bain, late in september, came macdonald the map maker. for ten days gregson, the investigating agent, had been bush mctaggart's guest at the post, and twice in that time it had come into marie's mind to creep upon him while he slept and kill him. the factor himself paid little attention to her now, a fact which would have made her happy if it had not been for gregson. he was enraptured with the wild, sinuous beauty of the cree girl, and mctaggart, without jealousy, encouraged him. he was tired of marie. mctaggart told gregson this. he wanted to get rid of her, and if he--gregson--could possibly take her along with him it would be a great favor. he explained why. a little later, when the deep snows came, he was going to bring the daughter of pierrot du quesne to the post. in the rottenness of their brotherhood he told of his visit, of the manner of his reception, and of the incident at the chasm. in spite of all this, he assured gregson, pierrot's girl would soon be at lac bain. it was at this time that macdonald came. he remained only one night, and without knowing that he was adding fuel to a fire already dangerously blazing, he gave the photograph he had taken of nepeese to the factor. it was a splendid picture. "if you can get it down to that girl some day i'll be mightily obliged," he said to mctaggart. "i promised her one. her father's name is du quesne--pierrot du quesne. you probably know them. and the girl--" his blood warmed as he described to mctaggart how beautiful she was that day in her red dress, which appeared black in the photograph. he did not guess how near mctaggart's blood was to the boiling point. the next day macdonald started for norway house. mctaggart did not show gregson the picture. he kept it to himself and at night, under the glow of his lamp, he looked at it with thoughts that filled him with a growing resolution. there was but one way. the scheme had been in his mind for weeks--and the picture determined him. he dared not whisper his secret even to gregson. but it was the one way. it would give him nepeese. only--he must wait for the deep snows, the midwinter snows. they buried their tragedies deepest. mctaggart was glad when gregson followed the map maker to norway house. out of courtesy he accompanied him a day's journey on his way. when he returned to the post, marie was gone. he was glad. he sent off a runner with a load of presents for her people, and the message: "don't beat her. keep her. she is free." along with the bustle and stir of the beginning of the trapping season mctaggart began to prepare his house for the coming of nepeese. he knew what she liked in the way of cleanliness and a few other things. he had the log walls painted white with the lead and oil that were intended for his york boats. certain partitions were torn down, and new ones were built. the indian wife of his chief runner made curtains for the windows, and he confiscated a small phonograph that should have gone on to lac la biche. he had no doubts, and he counted the days as they passed. down on the gray loon pierrot and nepeese were busy at many things, so busy that at times pierrot's fears of the factor at lac bain were almost forgotten, and they slipped out of the willow's mind entirely. it was the red moon, and both thrilled with the anticipation and excitement of the winter hunt. nepeese carefully dipped a hundred traps in boiling caribou fat mixed with beaver grease, while pierrot made fresh deadfalls ready for setting on his trails. when he was gone more than a day from the cabin, she was always with him. but at the cabin there was much to do, for pierrot, like all his northern brotherhood, did not begin to prepare until the keen tang of autumn was in the air. there were snowshoes to be rewebbed with new babiche; there was wood to be cut in readiness for the winter storms. the cabin had to be banked, a new harness made, skinning knives sharpened and winter moccasins to be manufactured--a hundred and one affairs to be attended to, even to the repairing of the meat rack at the back of the cabin, where, from the beginning of cold weather until the end, would hang the haunches of deer, caribou, and moose for the family larder and, when fish were scarce, the dogs' rations. in the bustle of all these preparations nepeese was compelled to give less attention to baree than she had during the preceding weeks. they did not play so much; they no longer swam, for with the mornings there was deep frost on the ground, and the water was turning icy cold. they no longer wandered deep in the forest after flowers and berries. for hours at a time baree would now lie at the willow's feet, watching her slender fingers as they weaved swiftly in and out with her snowshoe babiche. and now and then nepeese would pause to lean over and put her hand on his head, and talk to him for a moment--sometimes in her soft cree, sometimes in english or her father's french. it was the willow's voice which baree had learned to understand, and the movement of her lips, her gestures, the poise of her body, the changing moods which brought shadow or sunlight into her face. he knew what it meant when she smiled. he would shake himself, and often jump about her in sympathetic rejoicing, when she laughed. her happiness was such a part of him that a stern word from her was worse than a blow. twice pierrot had struck him, and twice baree had leaped back and faced him with bared fangs and an angry snarl, the crest along his back standing up like a brush. had one of the other dogs done this, pierrot would have half-killed him. it would have been mutiny, and the man must be master. but baree was always safe. a touch of the willow's hand, a word from her lips, and the crest slowly settled and the snarl went out of his throat. pierrot was not at all displeased. "dieu. i will never go so far as to try and whip that out of him," he told himself. "he is a barbarian--a wild beast--and her slave. for her he would kill!" so it turned out, through pierrot himself--and without telling his reason for it--that baree did not become a sledge dog. he was allowed his freedom, and was never tied, like the others. nepeese was glad, but did not guess the thought that was in pierrot's mind. to himself pierrot chuckled. she would never know why he kept baree always suspicious of him, even to the point of hating him. it required considerable skill and cunning on his part. with himself he reasoned: "if i make him hate me, he will hate all men. mey-oo! that is good." so he looked into the future--for nepeese. now the tonic-filled days and cold, frosty nights of the red moon brought about the big change in baree. it was inevitable. pierrot knew that it would come, and the first night that baree settled back on his haunches and howled up at the red moon, pierrot prepared nepeese for it. "he is a wild dog, ma nepeese," he said to her. "he is half wolf, and the call will come to him strong. he will go into the forests. he will disappear at times. but we must not fasten him. he will come back. ka, he will come back!" and he rubbed his hands in the moonglow until his knuckles cracked. the call came to baree like a thief entering slowly and cautiously into a forbidden place. he did not understand it at first. it made him nervous and uneasy, so restless that nepeese frequently heard him whine softly in his sleep. he was waiting for something. what was it? pierrot knew, and smiled in his inscrutable way. and then it came. it was night, a glorious night filled with moon and stars, under which the earth was whitening with a film of frost, when they heard the first hunt call of the wolves. now and then during the summer there had come the lone wolf howl, but this was the tonguing of the pack; and as it floated through the vast silence and mystery of the night, a song of savagery that had come with each red moon down through unending ages, pierrot knew that at last had come that for which baree had been waiting. in an instant baree had sensed it. his muscles grew taut as pieces of stretched rope as he stood up in the moonlight, facing the direction from which floated the mystery and thrill of the sound. they could hear him whining softly; and pierrot, bending down so that he caught the light of the night properly, could see him trembling. "it is mee-koo!" he said in a whisper to nepeese. that was it, the call of the blood that was running swift in baree's veins--not alone the call of his species, but the call of kazan and gray wolf and of his forbears for generations unnumbered. it was the voice of his people. so pierrot had whispered, and he was right. in the golden night the willow was waiting, for it was she who had gambled most, and it was she who must lose or win. she uttered no sound, replied not to the low voice of pierrot, but held her breath and watched baree as he slowly faded away, step by step, into the shadows. in a few moments more he was gone. it was then that she stood straight, and flung back her head, with eyes that glowed in rivalry with the stars. "baree!" she called. "baree! baree! baree!" he must have been near the edge of the forest, for she had drawn a slow, waiting breath or two before he was and he whined up into her face. nepeese put her hands to his head. "you are right, mon pere," she said. "he will go to the wolves, but he will come back. he will never leave me for long." with one hand still on baree's head, she pointed with the other into the pitlike blackness of the forest. "go to them, baree!" she whispered. "but you must come back. you must. cheamao!" with pierrot she went into the cabin; the door closed silence. in it he could hear the soft night sounds: the clinking of the chains to which the dogs were fastened, the restless movement of their bodies, the throbbing whir of a pair of wings, the breath of the night itself. for to him this night, even in its stillness, seemed alive. again he went into it, and close to the forest once more he stopped to listen. the wind had turned, and on it rode the wailing, blood-thrilling cry of the pack. far off to the west a lone wolf turned his muzzle to the sky and answered that gathering call of his clan. and then out of the east came a voice, so far beyond the cabin that it was like an echo dying away in the vastness of the night. a choking note gathered in baree's throat. he threw up his head. straight above him was the red moon, inviting him to the thrill and mystery of the open world. the sound grew in his throat, and slowly it rose in volume until his answer was rising to the stars. in their cabin pierrot and the willow heard it. pierrot shrugged his shoulders. "he is gone," he said. "oui, he is gone, mon pere" replied nepeese, peering through the window. chapter 18 no longer, as in the days of old, did the darkness of the forests hold a fear for baree. this night his hunt cry had risen to the stars and the moon, and in that cry he had, for the first time, sent forth his defiance of night and space, his warning to all the wild, and his acceptance of the brotherhood. in that cry, and the answers that came back to him, he sensed a new power--the final triumph of nature in telling him that the forests and the creatures they held were no longer to be feared, but that all things feared him. off there, beyond the pale of the cabin and the influence of nepeese, were all the things that the wolf blood in him found now most desirable: companionship of his kind, the lure of adventure, the red, sweet blood of the chase--and matehood. this last, after all, was the dominant mystery that was urging him, and yet least of all did he understand it. he ran straight into the darkness to the north and west, slinking low under the bushes, his tail drooping, his ears aslant--the wolf as the wolf runs on the night trail. the pack had swung due north, and was traveling faster than he, so that at the end of half an hour he could no longer hear it. but the lone wolf howl to the west was nearer, and three times baree gave answer to it. at the end of an hour he heard the pack again, swinging southward. pierrot would easily have understood. their quarry had found safety beyond water, or in a lake, and the muhekuns were on a fresh trail. by this time not more than a quarter of a mile of the forest separated baree from the lone wolf, but the lone wolf was also an old wolf, and with the directness and precision of long experience, he swerved in the direction of the hunters, compassing his trail so that he was heading for a point half or three-quarters of a mile in advance of the pack. this was a trick of the brotherhood which baree had yet to learn; and the result of his ignorance, and lack of skill, was that twice within the next half-hour he found himself near to the pack without being able to join it. then came a long and final silence. the pack had pulled down its kill, and in their feasting they made no sound. the rest of the night baree wandered alone, or at least until the moon was well on the wane. he was a long way from the cabin, and his trail had been an uncertain and twisting one, but he was no longer possessed with the discomforting sensation of being lost. the last two or three months had been developing strongly in him the sense of orientation, that "sixth sense" which guides the pigeon unerringly on its way and takes a bear straight as a bird might fly to its last year's denning place. baree had not forgotten nepeese. a dozen times he turned his head back and whined, and always he picked out accurately the direction in which the cabin lay. but he did not turn back. as the night lengthened, his search for that mysterious something which he had not found continued. his hunger, even with the fading-out of the moon and the coming of the gray dawn, was not sufficiently keen to make him hunt for food. it was cold, and it seemed colder when the glow of the moon and stars died out. under his padded feet, especially in the open spaces, was a thick white frost in which he left clearly at times the imprint of his toes and claws. he had traveled steadily for hours, a great many miles in all, and he was tired when the first light of the day came. and then there came the time when, with a sudden sharp click of his jaws, he stopped like a shot in his tracks. at last it had come--the meeting with that for which he had been seeking. it was in a clearing, lighted by the cold dawn--a tiny amphitheater that lay on the side of a ridge, facing the east. with her head toward him, and waiting for him as he came out of the shadows, his scent strong in her keen nose, stood maheegun, the young wolf. baree had not smelled her, but he saw her directly he came out of the rim of young balsams that fringed the clearing. it was then that he stopped, and for a full minute neither of them moved a muscle or seemed to breathe. there was not a fortnight's difference in their age and yet maheegun was much the smaller of the two. her body was as long, but she was slimmer; she stood on slender legs that were almost like the legs of a fox, and the curve of her back was that of a slightly bent bow, a sign of swiftness almost equal to the wind. she stood poised for flight even as baree advanced his first step toward her, and then very slowly her body relaxed, and in a direct ratio as he drew nearer her ears lost their alertness and dropped aslant. baree whined. his own ears were up, his head alert, his tail aloft and bushy. cleverness, if not strategy, had already become a part of his masculine superiority, and he did not immediately press the affair. he was within five feet of maheegun when he casually turned away from her and faced the east, where a faint penciling of red and gold was heralding the day. for a few moments he sniffed and looked around and pointed the wind with much seriousness, as though impressing on his fair acquaintance--as many a two-legged animal has done before him--his tremendous importance in the world at large. and maheegun was properly impressed. baree's bluff worked as beautifully as the bluffs of the two-legged animals. he sniffed the air with such thrilling and suspicious zeal that maheegun's ears sprang alert, and she sniffed it with him. he turned his head from point to point so sharply and alertly that her feminine curiosity, if not anxiety, made her turn her own head in questioning conjunction. and when he whined, as though in the air he had caught a mystery which she could not possibly understand, a responsive note gathered in her throat, but smothered and low as a woman's exclamation when she is not quite sure whether she should interrupt her lord or not. at this sound, which baree's sharp ears caught, he swung up to her with a light and mincing step, and in another moment they were smelling noses. when the sun rose, half an hour later, it found them still in the small clearing on the side of the ridge, with a deep fringe of forest under them, and beyond that a wide, timbered plain which looked like a ghostly shroud in its mantle of frost. up over this came the first red glow of the day, filling the clearing with a warmth that grew more and more comfortable as the sun crept higher. neither baree nor maheegun were inclined to move for a while, and for an hour or two they lay basking in a cup of the slope, looking down with questing and wide-awake eyes upon the wooded plain that stretched away under them like a great sea. maheegun, too, had sought the hunt pack, and like baree had failed to catch it. they were tired, a little discouraged for the time, and hungry--but still alive with the fine thrill of anticipation, and restlessly sensitive to the new and mysterious consciousness of companionship. half a dozen times baree got up and nosed about maheegun as she lay in the sun, whining to her softly and touching her soft coat with his muzzle, but for a long time she paid little attention to him. at last she followed him. all that day they wandered and rested together. once more the night came. it was without moon or stars. gray masses of clouds swept slowly down out of the north and east, and in the treetops there was scarcely a whisper of wind as night gathered in. the snow began to fall at dusk, thickly, heavily, without a breath of sound. it was not cold, but it was still--so still that baree and maheegun traveled only a few yards at a time, and then stopped to listen. in this way all the night prowlers of the forest were traveling, if they were moving at all. it was the first of the big snow. to the flesh-eating wild things of the forests, clawed and winged, the big snow was the beginning of the winter carnival of slaughter and feasting, of wild adventure in the long nights, of merciless warfare on the frozen trails. the days of breeding, of motherhood--the peace of spring and summer--were over. out of the sky came the wakening of the northland, the call of all flesh-eating creatures to the long hunt, and in the first thrill of it living things were moving but little this night, and that watchfully and with suspicion. youth made it all new to baree and maheegun. their blood ran swiftly; their feet fell softly; their ears were attuned to catch the slightest sounds. in this first of the big snow they felt the exciting pulse of a new life. it lured them on. it invited them to adventure into the white mystery of the silent storm; and inspired by that restlessness of youth and its desires, they went on. the snow grew deeper under their feet. in the open spaces they waded through it to their knees, and it continued to fall in a vast white cloud that descended steadily out of the sky. it was near midnight when it stopped. the clouds drifted away from under the stars and the moon, and for a long time baree and maheegun stood without moving, looking down from the bald crest of a ridge upon a wonderful world. never had they been able to see so far, except in the light of day. under them was a plain. they could make out forests, lone trees that stood up like shadows out of the snow, a stream--still unfrozen--shimmering like glass with the flicker of firelight on it. toward this stream baree led the way. he no longer thought of nepeese, and he whined with pent-up happiness as he stopped halfway down and turned to muzzle maheegun. he wanted to roll in the snow and frisk about with his companion; he wanted to bark, to put up his head and howl as he had howled at the red moon back at the cabin. something held him from doing any of these things. perhaps it was maheegun's demeanor. she accepted his attentions rigidly. once or twice she had seemed almost frightened; twice baree had heard the sharp clicking of her teeth. the previous night, and all through tonight's storm, their companionship had grown more intimate, but now there was taking its place a mysterious aloofness on the part of maheegun. pierrot could have explained. with moon and stars above him, baree, like the night, had undergone a transformation which even the sunlight of day had not made in him before. his coat was like polished jet. every hair in his body glistened black. black! that was it. and nature was trying to tell maheegun that of all the creatures hated by her kind, the creature which they feared and hated most was black. with her it was not experience, but instinct--telling her of the age-old feud between the gray wolf and the black bear. and baree's coat, in the moonlight and the snow, was blacker than wakayoo's had ever been in the fish-fattening days of may. until they struck the broad openings of the plain, the young she-wolf had followed baree without hesitation; now there was a gathering strangeness and indecision in her manner, and twice she stopped and would have let baree go on without her. an hour after they entered the plain there came suddenly out of the west the tonguing of the wolf pack. it was not far distant, probably not more than a mile along the foot of the ridge, and the sharp, quick yapping that followed the first outburst was evidence that the long-fanged hunters had put up sudden game, a caribou or young moose, and were close at its heels. at the voice of her own people maheegun laid her ears close to her head and was off like an arrow from a bow. the unexpectedness of her movement and the swiftness of her flight put baree well behind her in the race over the plain. she was running blindly, favored by luck. for an interval of perhaps five minutes the pack were so near to their game that they made no sound, and the chase swung full into the face of maheegun and baree. the latter was not half a dozen lengths behind the young wolf when a crashing in the brush directly ahead stopped them so sharply that they tore up the snow with their braced forefeet and squat haunches. ten seconds later a caribou burst through and flashed across a clearing not more than twenty yards from where they stood. they could hear its swift panting as it disappeared. and then came the pack. at sight of those swiftly moving gray bodies baree's heart leaped for an instant into his throat. he forgot maheegun, and that she had run away from him. the moon and the stars went out of existence for him. he no longer sensed the chill of the snow under his feet. he was wolf--all wolf. with the warm scent of the caribou in his nostrils, and the passion to kill sweeping through him like fire, he darted after the pack. even at that, maheegun was a bit ahead of him. he did not miss her. in the excitement of his first chase he no longer felt the desire to have her at his side. very soon he found himself close to the flanks of one of the gray monsters of the pack. half a minute later a new hunter swept in from the bush behind him, and then a second, and after that a third. at times he was running shoulder to shoulder with his new companions. he heard the whining excitement in their throats; the snap of their jaws as they ran--and in the golden moonlight ahead of him the sound of a caribou as it plunged through thickets and over windfalls in its race for life. it was as if baree had belonged to the pack always. he had joined it naturally, as other stray wolves had joined it from out of the bush. there had been no ostentation, no welcome such as maheegun had given him in the open, and no hostility. he belonged with these slim, swift-footed outlaws of the old forests, and his own jaws snapped and his blood ran hot as the smell of the caribou grew heavier, and the sound of its crashing body nearer. it seemed to him they were almost at its heels when they swept into an open plain, a stretch of barren without a tree or a shrub, brilliant in the light of the stars and moon. across its unbroken carpet of snow sped the caribou a spare hundred yards ahead of the pack. now the two leading hunters no longer followed directly in the trail, but shot out at an angle, one to the right and the other to the left of the pursued, and like well-trained soldiers the pack split in halves and spread out fan shape in the final charge. the two ends of the fan forged ahead and closed in, until the leaders were running almost abreast of the caribou, with fifty or sixty feet separating them from the pursued. thus, adroitly and swiftly, with deadly precision, the pack had formed a horseshoe cordon of fangs from which there was but one course of flight--straight ahead. for the caribou to swerve half a degree to the right or left meant death. it was the duty of the leaders to draw in the ends of the horseshoe now, until one or both of them could make the fatal lunge for the hamstrings. after that it would be a simple matter. the pack would close in over the caribou like an inundation. baree had found his place in the lower rim of the horseshoe, so that he was fairly well in the rear when the climax came. the plain made a sudden dip. straight ahead was the gleam of water--water shimmering softly in the starglow, and the sight of it sent a final great spurt of blood through the caribou's bursting heart. forty seconds would tell the story--forty seconds of a last spurt for life, of a final tremendous effort to escape death. baree felt the sudden thrill of these moments, and he forged ahead with the others in that lower rim of the horseshoe as one of the leading wolves made a lunge for the young bull's hamstring. it was a clean miss. a second wolf darted in. and this one also missed. there was no time for others to take their place. from the broken end of the horseshoe baree heard the caribou's heavy plunge into water. when baree joined the pack, a maddened, mouth-frothing, snarling horde, napamoos, the young bull, was well out in the river and swimming steadily for the opposite shore. it was then that baree found himself at the side of maheegun. she was panting; her red tongue hung from her open jaws. but at his presence she brought her fangs together with a snap and slunk from him into the heart of the wind-run and disappointed pack. the wolves were in an ugly temper, but baree did not sense the fact. nepeese had trained him to take to water like an otter, and he did not understand why this narrow river should stop them as it had. he ran down to the water and stood belly deep in it, facing for an instant the horde of savage beasts above him, wondering why they did not follow. and he was black--black. he came among them again, and for the first time they noticed him. the restless movements of the waters ceased now. a new and wondering interest held them rigid. fangs closed sharply. a little in the open baree saw maheegun, with a big gray wolf standing near her. he went to her again, and this time she remained with flattened ears until he was sniffing her neck. and then, with a vicious snarl, she snapped at him. her teeth sank deep in the soft flesh of his shoulder, and at the unexpectedness and pain of her attack, he let out a yelp. the next instant the big gray wolf was at him. again caught unexpectedly, baree went down with the wolf's fangs at his throat. but in him was the blood of kazan, the flesh and bone and sinew of kazan, and for the first time in his life he fought as kazan fought on that terrible day at the top of the sun rock. he was young; he had yet to learn the cleverness and the strategy of the veteran. but his jaws were like the iron clamps with which pierrot set his bear traps, and in his heart was sudden and blinding rage, a desire to kill that rose above all sense of pain or fear. that fight, if it had been fair, would have been a victory for baree, even in his youth and inexperience. in fairness the pack should have waited. it was a law of the pack to wait--until one was done for. but baree was black. he was a stranger, an interloper, a creature whom they noticed now in a moment when their blood was hot with the rage and disappointment of killers who had missed their prey. a second wolf sprang in, striking baree treacherously from the flank. and while he was in the snow, his jaws crushing the foreleg of his first foe, the pack was on him en masse. such an attack on the young caribou bull would have meant death in less than a minute. every fang would have found its hold. baree, by the fortunate circumstance that he was under his first two assailants and protected by their bodies, was saved from being torn instantly into pieces. he knew that he was fighting for his life. over him the horde of beasts rolled and twisted and snarled. he felt the burning pain of teeth sinking into his flesh. he was smothered; a hundred knives seemed cutting him into pieces; yet no sound--not a whimper or a cry--came from him now in the horror and hopelessness of it all. it would have ended in another half-minute had the struggle not been at the very edge of the bank. undermined by the erosion of the spring floods, a section of this bank suddenly gave way, and with it went baree and half the pack. in a flash baree thought of the water and the escaping caribou. for a bare instant the cave-in had set him free of the pack, and in that space he gave a single leap over the gray backs of his enemies into the deep water of the stream. close behind him half a dozen jaws snapped shut on empty air. as it had saved the caribou, so this strip of water shimmering in the glow of the moon and stars had saved baree. the stream was not more than a hundred feet in width, but it cost baree close to a losing struggle to get across it. until he dragged himself out on the opposite shore, the extent of his injuries was not impressed upon him fully. one hind leg, for the time, was useless. his forward left shoulder was laid open to the bone. his head and body were torn and cut; and as he dragged himself slowly away from the stream, the trail he left in the snow was a red path of blood. it trickled from his panting jaws, between which his tongue was bleeding. it ran down his legs and flanks and belly, and it dripped from his ears, one of which was slit clean for two inches as though cut with a knife. his instincts were dazed, his perception of things clouded as if by a veil drawn close over his eyes. he did not hear, a few minutes later, the howling of the disappointed wolf horde on the other side of the river, and he no longer sensed the existence of moon or stars. half dead, he dragged himself on until by chance he came to a clump of dwarf spruce. into this he struggled, and then he dropped exhausted. all that night and until noon the next day baree lay without moving. the fever burned in his blood. it flamed high and swift toward death; then it ebbed slowly, and life conquered. at noon he came forth. he was weak, and he wobbled on his legs. his hind leg still dragged, and he was racked with pain. but it was a splendid day. the sun was warm; the snow was thawing; the sky was like a great blue sea; and the floods of life coursed warmly again through baree's veins. but now, for all time, his desires were changed, and his great quest at an end. a red ferocity grew in baree's eyes as he snarled in the direction of last night's fight with the wolves. they were no longer his people. they were no longer of his blood. never again could the hunt call lure him or the voice of the pack rouse the old longing. in him there was a thing newborn, an undying hatred for the wolf, a hatred that was to grow in him until it became like a disease in his vitals, a thing ever present and insistent, demanding vengeance on their kind. last night he had gone to them a comrade. today he was an outcast. cut and maimed, bearing with him scars for all time, he had learned his lesson of the wilderness. tomorrow, and the next day, and for days after that without number, he would remember the lesson well. chapter 19 at the cabin on the gray loon, on the fourth night of baree's absence, pierrot was smoking his pipe after a great supper of caribou tenderloin he had brought in from the trail, and nepeese was listening to his tale of the remarkable shot he had made, when a sound at the door interrupted them. nepeese opened it, and baree came in. the cry of welcome that was on the girl's lips died there instantly, and pierrot stared as if he could not quite believe this creature that had returned was the wolf dog. three days and nights of hunger in which he could not hunt because of the leg that dragged had put on him the marks of starvation. battle-scarred and covered with dried blood clots that still clung tenaciously to his long hair, he was a sight that drew at last a long despairing breath from nepeese. a queer smile was growing in pierrot's face as he leaned forward in his chair. then slowly rising to his feet and looking closer, he said to nepeese: "ventre saint gris! oui, he has been to the pack, nepeese, and the pack turned on him. it was not a two-wolf fight--non! it was the pack. he is cut and torn in fifty places. and--mon dieu, he is alive!" in pierrot's voice there was growing wonder and amazement. he was incredulous, and yet he could not disbelieve what his eyes told him. what had happened was nothing short of a miracle, and for a time he uttered not a word more but remained staring in silence while nepeese recovered from her astonishment to give baree doctoring and food. after he had eaten ravenously of cold boiled mush she began bathing his wounds in warm water, and after that she soothed them with bear grease, talking to him all the time in her soft cree. after the pain and hunger and treachery of his adventure, it was a wonderful homecoming for baree. he slept that night at the foot of the willow's bed. the next morning it was the cool caress of his tongue on her hand that awakened her. with this day they resumed the comradeship interrupted by baree's temporary desertion. the attachment was greater than ever on baree's part. it was he who had run away from the willow, who had deserted her at the call of the pack, and it seemed at times as though he sensed the depths of his perfidy and was striving to make amends. there was indubitably a very great change in him. he clung to nepeese like a shadow. instead of sleeping at night in the spruce shelter pierrot made for him, he made himself a little hollow in the earth close to the cabin door. pierrot thought that he understood, and nepeese thought that she understood even more; but in reality the key to the mystery remained with baree himself. he no longer played as he had played before he went off alone into the forest. he did not chase sticks, or run until he was winded, for the pure joy of running. his puppyishness was gone. in its place was a great worship and a rankling bitterness, a love for the girl and a hatred for the pack and all that it stood for. whenever he heard the wolf howl, it brought an angry snarl into his throat, and he would bare his fangs until even pierrot would draw a little away from him. but a touch of the girl's hand would quiet him. in a week or two the heavier snows came, and pierrot began making his trips over the trap lines. nepeese had entered into an exciting bargain with him this winter. pierrot had taken her into partnership. every fifth trap, every fifth deadfall, and every fifth poison bait was to be her own, and what they caught or killed was to bring a bit nearer to realization a wonderful dream that was growing in the willow's heart. pierrot had promised. if they had great luck that winter, they would go down together on the last snows to nelson house and buy the little old organ that was for sale there. and if the organ was sold, they would work another winter, and get a new one. this plan gave nepeese an enthusiastic and tireless interest in the trap line. with pierrot it was more or less a fine bit of strategy. he would have sold his hand to give nepeese the organ. he was determined that she should have it, whether the fifth traps and the fifth deadfalls and fifth poison baits caught the fur or not. the partnership meant nothing so far as the actual returns were concerned. but in another way it meant to nepeese a business interest, the thrill of personal achievement. pierrot impressed on her that it made a comrade and coworker of her on the trail. his scheme was to keep her with him when he was away from the cabin. he knew that bush mctaggart would come again to the gray loon, probably more than once during the winter. he had swift dogs, and it was a short journey. and when mctaggart came, nepeese must not be at the cabin--alone. pierrot's trap line swung into the north and west, covering in all a matter of fifty miles, with an average of two traps, one deadfall, and a poison bait to each mile. it was a twisting line blazed along streams for mink, otter, and marten, piercing the deepest forests for fishercat and lynx and crossing lakes and storm-swept strips of barrens where poison baits could be set for fox and wolf. halfway over this line pierrot had built a small log cabin, and at the end of it another, so that a day's work meant twenty-five miles. this was easy for pierrot, and not hard on nepeese after the first few days. all through october and november they made the trips regularly, making the round every six days, which gave one day of rest at the cabin on the gray loon and another day in the cabin at the end of the trail. to pierrot the winter's work was business, the labor of his people for many generations back. to nepeese and baree it was a wild and joyous adventure that never for a day grew tiresome. even pierrot could not quite immunize himself against their enthusiasm. it was infectious, and he was happier than he had been since his sun had set that evening the princess mother died. they were glorious months. fur was thick, and it was steadily cold without any bad storms. nepeese not only carried a small pack on her shoulders in order that pierrot's load might be lighter, but she trained baree to bear tiny shoulder panniers which she manufactured. in these panniers baree carried the bait. in at least a third of the total number of traps set there was always what pierrot called trash--rabbits, owls, whisky jacks, jays, and squirrels. these, with the skin or feathers stripped off, made up the bulk of the bait for the traps ahead. one afternoon early in december, as they were returning to the gray loon, pierrot stopped suddenly a dozen paces ahead of nepeese and stared at the snow. a strange snowshoe trail had joined their own and was heading toward the cabin. for half a minute pierrot was silent and scarcely moved a muscle as he stared. the trail came straight out of the north--and off there was lac bain. also they were the marks of large snowshoes, and the stride indicated was that of a tall man. before pierrot had spoken, nepeese had guessed what they meant. "m'sieu the factor from lac bain!" she said. baree was sniffing suspiciously at the strange trail. they heard the low growl in his throat, and pierrot's shoulders stiffened. "yes, the m'sieu," he said. the willow's heart beat more swiftly as they went on. she was not afraid of mctaggart, not physically afraid. and yet something rose up in her breast and choked her at the thought of his presence on the gray loon. why was he there? it was not necessary for pierrot to answer the question, even had she given voice to it. she knew. the factor from lac bain had no business there--except to see her. the blood burned red in her cheeks as she thought again of that minute on the edge of the chasm when he had almost crushed her in his arms. would he try that again? pierrot, deep in his own somber thoughts, scarcely heard the strange laugh that came suddenly from her lips. nepeese was listening to the growl that was again in baree's throat. it was a low but terrible sound. when half a mile from the cabin, she unslung the panniers from his shoulders and carried them herself. ten minutes later they saw a man advancing to meet them. it was not mctaggart. pierrot recognized him, and with an audible breath of relief waved his hand. it was debar, who trapped in the barren country north of lac bain. pierrot knew him well. they had exchanged fox poison. they were friends, and there was pleasure in the grip of their hands. debar stared then at nepeese. "tonnerre, she has grown into a woman!" he cried, and like a woman nepeese looked at him straight, with the color deepening in her cheeks, as he bowed low with a courtesy that dated back a couple of centuries beyond the trap line. debar lost no time in explaining his mission, and before they reached the cabin pierrot and nepeese knew why he had come. m'sieu, the factor at lac bain, was leaving on a journey in five days, and he had sent debar as a special messenger to request pierrot to come up to assist the clerk and the half-breed storekeeper in his absence. pierrot made no comment at first. but he was thinking. why had bush mctaggart sent for him? why had he not chosen some one nearer? not until a fire was crackling in the sheet-iron stove in the cabin, and nepeese was busily engaged getting supper, did he voice these questions to the fox hunter. debar shrugged his shoulders. "he asked me, at first, if i could stay. but i have a wife with a bad lung, pierrot. it was caught by frost last winter, and i dare not leave her long alone. he has great faith in you. besides, you know all the trappers on the company's books at lac bain. so he sent for you, and begs you not to worry about your fur lines, as he will pay you double what you would catch in the time you are at the post." "and--nepeese?" said pierrot. "m'sieu expects me to bring her?" from the stove the willow bent her head to listen, and her heart leaped free again at debar's answer. "he said nothing about that. but surely--it will be a great change for li'le m'selle." pierrot nodded. "possibly, netootam." they discussed the matter no more that night. but for hours pierrot was still, thinking, and a hundred times he asked himself that same question: why had mctaggart sent for him? he was not the only man well known to the trappers on the company's books. there was wassoon, for instance, the half-breed scandinavian whose cabin was less than four hours' journey from the post--or baroche, the white-bearded old frenchman who lived yet nearer and whose word was as good as the bible. it must be, he told himself finally, that m'sieu had sent for him because he wanted to win over the father of nepeese and gain the friendship of nepeese herself. for this was undoubtedly a very great honor that the factor was conferring on him. and yet, deep down in his heart, he was filled with suspicion. when debar was about to leave the next morning, pierrot said: "tell m'sieu that i will leave for lac bain the day after tomorrow." after debar had gone, he said to nepeese: "and you shall remain here, ma cherie. i will not take you to lac bain. i have had a dream that m'sieu will not go on a journey, but that he has lied, and that he will be sick when i arrive at the post. and yet, if it should happen that you care to go--" nepeese straightened suddenly, like a reed that has been caught by the wind. "non!" she cried, so fiercely that pierrot laughed, and rubbed his hands. so it happened that on the second day after the fox hunter's visit pierrot left for lac bain, with nepeese in the door waving him good-bye until he was out of sight. on the morning of this same day bush mctaggart rose from his bed while it was still dark. the time had come. he had hesitated at murder--at the killing of pierrot; and in his hesitation he had found a better way. there could be no escape for nepeese. it was a wonderful scheme, so easy of accomplishment, so inevitable in its outcome. and all the time pierrot would think he was away to the east on a mission! he ate his breakfast before dawn, and was on the trail before it was yet light. purposely he struck due east, so that in coming up from the south and west pierrot would not strike his sledge tracks. for he had made up his mind now that pierrot must never know and must never have a suspicion, even though it cost him so many more miles to travel that he would not reach the gray loon until the second day. it was better to be a day late, after all, as it was possible that something might have delayed pierrot. so he made no effort to travel fast. mctaggart took a vast amount of brutal satisfaction in anticipating what was about to happen, and he reveled in it to the full. there was no chance for disappointment. he was positive that nepeese would not accompany her father to lac bain. she would be at the cabin on the gray loon--alone. this aloneness to nepeese was burdened with no thought of danger. there were times, now, when the thought of being alone was pleasant to her, when she wanted to dream by herself, when she visioned things into the mysteries of which she would not admit even pierrot. she was growing into womanhood--just the sweet, closed bud of womanhood as yet--still a girl with the soft velvet of girlhood in her eyes, yet with the mystery of woman stirring gently in her soul, as if the great hand were hesitating between awakening her and letting her sleep a little longer. at these times, when the opportunity came to steal hours by herself, she would put on the red dress and do up her wonderful hair as she saw it in the pictures of the magazines pierrot had sent up twice a year from nelson house. on the second day of pierrot's absence nepeese dressed herself like this, but today she let her hair cascade in a shining glory about her, and about her forehead bound a circlet of red ribbon. she was not yet done. today she had marvelous designs. on the wall close to her mirror she had tacked a large page from a woman's magazine, and on this page was a lovely vision of curls. fifteen hundred miles north of the sunny california studio in which the picture had been taken, nepeese, with pouted red lips and puckered forehead, was struggling to master the mystery of the other girl's curls! she was looking into her mirror, her face flushed and her eyes aglow in the excitement of the struggle to fashion one of the coveted ringlets from a tress that fell away below her hips, when the door opened behind her, and bush mctaggart walked in. chapter 20 the willow's back was toward the door when the factor from lac bain entered the cabin, and for a few startled seconds she did not turn. her first thought was of pierrot--for some reason he had returned. but even as this thought came to her, she heard in baree's throat a snarl that brought her suddenly to her feet, facing the door. mctaggart had not entered unprepared. he had left his pack, his gun, and his heavy coat outside. he was standing with his back against the door; and at nepeese--in her wonderful dress and flowing hair--he was staring as if stunned for a space at what he saw. fate, or accident, was playing against the willow now. if there had been a spark of slumbering chivalry, of mercy, even, in bush mctaggart's soul, it was extinguished by what he saw. never had nepeese looked more beautiful, not even on that day when macdonald the map maker had taken her picture. the sun, flooding through the window, lighted up her marvelous hair. her flushed face was framed in its lustrous darkness like a tinted cameo. he had dreamed, but he had pictured nothing like this woman who stood before him now, her eyes widening with fear and the flush leaving her face even as he looked at her. it was not a long interval in which their eyes met in that terrible silence. words were unnecessary. at last she understood--understood what her peril had been that day at the edge of the chasm and in the forest, when fearlessly she had played with the menace that was confronting her now. a breath that was like a sob broke from her lips. "m'sieu!" she tried to say. but it was only a gasp--an effort. plainly she heard the click of the iron bolt as it locked the door. mctaggart advanced a step. only a single step mctaggart advanced. on the floor baree had remained like something carved out of stone. he had not moved. he had not made a sound but that one warning snarl--until mctaggart took the step. and then, like a flash, he was up and in front of nepeese, every hair of his body on end; and at the fury in his growl mctaggart lunged back against the barred door. a word from nepeese in that moment, and it would have been over. but an instant was lost--an instant before her cry came. in that moment man's hand and brain worked swifter than brute understanding; and as baree launched himself at the factor's throat, there came a flash and a deafening explosion almost in the willow's eyes. it was a chance shot, a shot from the hip with mctaggart's automatic. baree fell short. he struck the floor with a thud and rolled against the log wall. there was not a kick or a quiver left in his body. mctaggart laughed nervously as he shoved his pistol back in its holster. he knew that only a brain shot could have done that. with her back against the farther wall, nepeese was waiting. mctaggart could hear her panting breath. he advanced halfway to her. "nepeese, i have come to make you my wife," he said. she did not answer. he could see that her breath was choking her. she raised a hand to her throat. he took two more steps, and stopped. he had never seen such eyes. "i have come to make you my wife, nepeese. tomorrow you will go on to nelson house with me, and then back to lac bain--forever." he added the last word as an afterthought. "forever," he repeated. he did not mince words. his courage and his determination rose as he saw her body droop a little against the wall. she was powerless. there was no escape. pierrot was gone. baree was dead. he had thought that no living creature could move as swiftly as the willow when his arms reached out for her. she made no sound as she darted under one of his outstretched arms. he made a lunge, a savage grab, and his fingers caught a bit of hair. he heard the snap of it as she tore herself free and flew to the door. she had thrown back the bolt when he caught her and his arms closed about her. he dragged her back, and now she cried out--cried out in her despair for pierrot, for baree, for some miracle of god that might save her. and nepeese fought. she twisted in his arms until she was facing him. she could no longer see. she was smothered in her own hair. it covered her face and breast and body, suffocating her, entangling her hands and arms--and still she fought. in the struggle mctaggart stumbled over the body of baree, and they went down. nepeese was up fully five seconds ahead of the man. she could have reached the door. but again it was her hair. she paused to fling back the thick masses of it so that she could see, and mctaggart was at the door ahead of her. he did not lock it again, but stood facing her. his face was scratched and bleeding. he was no longer a man but a devil. nepeese was broken, panting--a low sobbing came with every breath. she bent down, and picked up a piece of firewood. mctaggart could see that her strength was almost gone. she clutched the stick as he approached her again. but mctaggart had lost all thought of fear or caution. he sprang upon her like an animal. the stick of firewood fell. and again fate played against the girl. in her terror and hopelessness she had caught up the first stick her hand had touched--a light one. with her last strength she hurled it at mctaggart, and as it struck his head, he staggered back. but it did not make him loose his hold. vainly she was fighting now, not to strike him or to escape, but to get her breath. she tried to cry out again, but this time no sound came from between her gasping lips. again he laughed, and as he laughed, he heard the door open. was it the wind? he turned, still holding her in his arms. in the open door stood pierrot. chapter 21 during that terrible interval which followed an eternity of time passed slowly through the little cabin on the gray loon--that eternity which lies somewhere between life and death and which is sometimes meted out to a human life in seconds instead of years. in those seconds pierrot did not move from where he stood in the doorway. mctaggart, encumbered with the weight in his arms, and staring at pierrot, did not move. but the willow's eyes were opening. and at the same moment a convulsive quiver ran through the body of baree, where he lay near the wall. there was not the sound of a breath. and then, in that silence, a great gasping sob came from nepeese. then pierrot stirred to life. like mctaggart, he had left his coat and mittens outside. he spoke, and his voice was not like pierrot's. it was a strange voice. "the great god has sent me back in time, m'sieu," he said. "i, too, traveled by way of the east, and saw your trail where it turned this way." no, that was not like pierrot's voice! a chill ran through mctaggart now, and slowly he let go of nepeese. she fell to the floor. slowly he straightened. "is it not true, m'sieu?" said pierrot again. "i have come in time?" what power was it--what great fear, perhaps, that made mctaggart nod his head, that made his thick lips form huskily the words, "yes--in time." and yet it was not fear. it was something greater, something more all-powerful than that. and pierrot said, in that same strange voice: "i thank the great god!" the eyes of madman met the eyes of madman now. between them was death. both saw it. both thought that they saw the direction in which its bony finger pointed. both were certain. mctaggart's hand did not go to the pistol in his holster, and pierrot did not touch the knife in his belt. when they came together, it was throat to throat--two beasts now, instead of one, for pierrot had in him the fury and strength of the wolf, the cat, and the panther. mctaggart was the bigger and heavier man, a giant in strength; yet in the face of pierrot's fury he lurched back over the table and went down with a crash. many times in his life he had fought, but he had never felt a grip at his throat like the grip of pierrot's hands. they almost crushed the life from him at once. his neck snapped--a little more, and it would have broken. he struck out blindly, and twisted himself to throw off the weight of the half-breed's body. but pierrot was fastened there, as sekoosew the ermine had fastened itself at the jugular of the partridge, and bush mctaggart's jaws slowly swung open, and his face began to turn from red to purple. cold air rushing through the door, pierrot's voice and the sound of battle roused nepeese quickly to consciousness and the power to raise herself from the floor. she had fallen near baree, and as she lifted her head, her eyes rested for a moment on the dog before they went to the fighting men. baree was alive! his body was twitching; his eyes were open. he made an effort to raise his head as she was looking at him. then she dragged herself to her knees and turned to the men, and pierrot, even in the blood-red fury of his desire to kill, must have heard the sharp cry of joy that came from her when she saw that it was the factor from lac bain who was underneath. with a tremendous effort she staggered to her feet, and for a few moments she stood swaying unsteadily as her brain and her body readjusted themselves. even as she looked down upon the blackening face from which pierrot's fingers were choking the life, bush mctaggart's hand was groping blindly for his pistol. he found it. unseen by pierrot, he dragged it from its holster. it was one of the black devils of chance that favored him again, for in his excitement he had not snapped the safety shut after shooting baree. now he had only strength left to pull the trigger. twice his forefinger closed. twice there came deadened explosion close to pierrot's body. in pierrot's face nepeese saw what had happened. her heart died in her breast as she looked upon the swift and terrible change wrought by sudden death. slowly pierrot straightened. his eyes were wide for a moment--wide and staring. he made no sound. she could not see his lips move. and then he fell toward her, so that mctaggart's body was free. blindly and with an agony that gave no evidence in cry or word she flung herself down beside her father. he was dead. how long nepeese lay there, how long she waited for pierrot to move, to open his eyes, to breathe, she would never know. in that time mctaggart rose to his feet and stood leaning against the wall, the pistol in his hand, his brain clearing itself as he saw his final triumph. his work did not frighten him. even in that tragic moment as he stood against the wall, his defense--if it ever came to a defense--framed itself in his mind. pierrot had murderously assaulted him--without cause. in self-defense he had killed him. was he not the factor of lac bain? would not the company and the law believe his word before that of this girl? his brain leaped with the old exultation. it would never come to that--to a betrayal of this struggle and death in the cabin--after he had finished with her! she would not be known for all time as la bete noir. no, they would bury pierrot, and she would return to lac bain with him. if she had been helpless before, she was ten times more helpless now. she would never tell of what had happened in the cabin. he forgot the presence of death as he looked at her, bowed over her father so that her hair covered him like a silken-shroud. he replaced the pistol in its holster and drew a deep breath into his lungs. he was still a little unsteady on his feet, but his face was again the face of a devil. he took a step, and it was then there came a sound to rouse the girl. in the shadow of the farther wall baree had struggled to his haunches, and now he growled. slowly nepeese lifted her head. a power which she could not resist drew her eyes up until she was looking into the face of bush mctaggart. she had almost lost consciousness of his presence. her senses were cold and deadened--it was as if her own heart had stopped beating along with pierrot's. what she saw in the factor's face dragged her out of the numbness of her grief back into the shadow of her own peril. he was standing over her. in his face there was no pity, nothing of horror at what he had done--only an insane exultation as he looked--not at pierrot's dead body, but at her. he put out a hand, and it rested on her head. she felt his thick fingers crumpling her hair, and his eyes blazed like embers of fire behind watery films. she struggled to rise, but with his hands at her hair he held her down. "great god!" she breathed. she uttered no other words, no plea for mercy, no other sound but a dry, hopeless sob. in that moment neither of them heard or saw baree. twice in crossing the cabin his hindquarters had sagged to the floor. now he was close to mctaggart. he wanted to give a single lunge to the man-brute's back and snap his thick neck as he would have broken a caribou bone. but he had no strength. he was still partially paralyzed from his foreshoulder back. but his jaws were like iron, and they closed savagely on mctaggart's leg. with a yell of pain the factor released his hold on the willow, and she staggered to her feet. for a precious half-minute she was free, and as the factor kicked and struck to loose baree's hold, she ran to the cabin door and out into the day. the cold air struck her face. it filled her lungs with new strength; and without thought of where hope might lie she ran through the snow into the forest. mctaggart appeared at the door just in time to see her disappear. his leg was torn where baree had fastened his fangs, but he felt no pain as he ran in pursuit of the girl. she could not go far. an exultant cry, inhuman as the cry of a beast, came in a great breath from his gaping mouth as he saw that she was staggering weakly as she fled. he was halfway to the edge of the forest when baree dragged himself over the threshold. his jaws were bleeding where mctaggart had kicked him again and again before his fangs gave way. halfway between his ears was a seared spot, as if a red-hot poker had been laid there for an instant. this was where mctaggart's bullet had gone. a quarter of an inch deeper, and it would have meant death. as it was, it had been like the blow of a heavy club, paralyzing his senses and sending him limp and unconscious against the wall. he could move on his feet now without falling, and slowly he followed in the tracks of the man and the girl. as she ran, nepeese's mind became all at once clear and reasoning. she turned into the narrow trail over which mctaggart had followed her once before, but just before reaching the chasm, she swung sharply to the right. she could see mctaggart. he was not running fast, but was gaining steadily, as if enjoying the sight of her helplessness, as he had enjoyed it in another way on that other day. two hundred yards below the deep pool into which she had pushed the factor--just beyond the shallows out of which he had dragged himself to safety--was the beginning of blue feather's gorge. an appalling thing was shaping itself in her mind as she ran to it--a thing that with each gasping breath she drew became more and more a great and glorious hope. at last she reached it and looked down. and as she looked, there whispered up out of her soul and trembled on her lips the swan song of her mother's people. our fathers--come! come from out of the valley. guide us--for today we die, and the winds whisper of death! she had raised her arms. against the white wilderness beyond the chasm she stood tall and slim. fifty yards behind her the factor from lac bain stopped suddenly in his tracks. "ah," he mumbled. "is she not wonderful!" and behind mctaggart, coming faster and faster, was baree. again the willow looked down. she was at the edge, for she had no fear in this hour. many times she had clung to pierrot's hand as she looked over. down there no one could fall and live. fifty feet below her the water which never froze was smashing itself into froth among the rocks. it was deep and black and terrible, for between the narrow rock walls the sun did not reach it. the roar of it filled the willow's ears. she turned and faced mctaggart. even then he did not guess, but came toward her again, his arms stretched out ahead of him. fifty yards! it was not much, and shortening swiftly. once more the willow's lips moved. after all, it is the mother soul that gives us faith to meet eternity--and it was to the spirit of her mother that the willow called in the hour of death. with the call on her lips she plunged into the abyss, her wind-whipped hair clinging to her in a glistening shroud. chapter 22 a moment later the factor from lac bain stood at the edge of the chasm. his voice had called out in a hoarse bellow--a wild cry of disbelief and horror that had formed the willow's name as she disappeared. he looked down, clutching his huge red hands and staring in ghastly suspense at the boiling water and black rocks far below. there was nothing there now--no sign of her, no last flash of her pale face and streaming hair in the white foam. and she had done that--to save herself from him! the soul of the man-beast turned sick within him, so sick that he staggered back, his vision blinded and his legs tottering under him. he had killed pierrot, and it had been a triumph. all his life he had played the part of the brute with a stoicism and cruelty that had known no shock--nothing like this that overwhelmed him now, numbing him to the marrow of his bones until he stood like one paralyzed. he did not see baree. he did not hear the dog's whining cries at the edge of the chasm. for a few moments the world turned black for him. and then, dragging himself out of his stupor, he ran frantically along the edge of the gorge, looking down wherever his eyes could see the water, striving for a glimpse of her. at last it grew too deep. there was no hope. she was gone--and she had faced that to escape him! he mumbled that fact over and over again, stupidly, thickly, as though his brain could grasp nothing beyond it. she was dead. and pierrot was dead. and he, in a few minutes, had accomplished it all. he turned back toward the cabin--not by the trail over which he had pursued nepeese, but straight through the thick bush. great flakes of snow had begun to fall. he looked at the sky, where banks of dark clouds were rolling up from the south and east. the sun disappeared. soon there would be a storm--a heavy snowstorm. the big flakes falling on his naked hands and face set his mind to work. it was lucky for him, this storm. it would cover everything--the fresh trails, even the grave he would dig for pierrot. it does not take such a man as the factor long to recover from a moral concussion. by the time he came in sight of the cabin his mind was again at work on physical things--on the necessities of the situation. the appalling thing, after all, was not that both pierrot and nepeese were dead, but that his dream was shattered. it was not that nepeese was dead, but that he had lost her. this was his vital disappointment. the other thing--his crime--it was easy to destroy all traces of that. it was not sentiment that made him dig pierrot's grave close to the princess mother's under the tall spruce. it was not sentiment that made him dig the grave at all, but caution. he buried pierrot decently. then he poured pierrot's stock of kerosene where it would be most effective and touched a match to it. he stood in the edge of the forest until the cabin was a mass of flames. the snow was falling thickly. the freshly made grave was a white mound, and the trails were filling up with new snow. for the physical things he had done there was no fear in bush mctaggart's heart as he turned back toward lac bain. no one would ever look into the grave of pierrot du quesne. and there was no one to betray him if such a miracle happened. but of one thing his black soul would never be able to free itself. always he would see the pale, triumphant face of the willow as she stood facing him in that moment of her glory when, even as she was choosing death rather than him, he had cried to himself: "ah! is she not wonderful!" as bush mctaggart had forgotten baree, so baree had forgotten the factor from lac bain. when mctaggart had run along the edge of the chasm, baree had squatted himself in the trodden plot of snow where nepeese had last stood, his body stiffened and his forefeet braced as he looked down. he had seen her take the leap. many times that summer he had followed her in her daring dives into the deep, quiet water of the pool. but this was a tremendous distance. she had never dived into a place like that before. he could see the black shapes of the rocks, appearing and disappearing in the whirling foam like the heads of monsters at play. the roar of the water filled him with dread. his eyes caught the swift rush of crumbled ice between the rock walls. and she had gone down there! he had a great desire to follow her, to jump in, as he had always jumped in after her in previous times. she was surely down there, even though he could not see her. probably she was playing among the rocks and hiding herself in the white froth and wondering why he didn't come. but he hesitated--hesitated with his head and neck over the abyss, and his forefeet giving way a little in the snow. with an effort he dragged himself back and whined. he caught the fresh scent of mctaggart's moccasins in the snow, and the whine changed slowly into a long snarl. he looked over again. still he could not see her. he barked--the short, sharp signal with which he always called her. there was no answer. again and again he barked, and always there was nothing but the roar of the water that came back to him. then for a few moments he stood back, silent and listening, his body shivering with the strange dread that was possessing him. the snow was falling now, and mctaggart had returned to the cabin. after a little baree followed in the trail he had made along the edge of the chasm, and wherever mctaggart had stopped to peer over, baree paused also. for a space his hatred of the man was lost in his desire to join the willow, and he continued along the gorge until, a quarter of a mile beyond where the factor had last looked into it, he came to the narrow trail down which he and nepeese had many time adventured in quest of rock violets. the twisting path that led down the face of the cliff was filled with snow now, but baree made his way through it until at last he stood at the edge of the unfrozen torrent. nepeese was not here. he whined, and barked again, but this time there was in his signal to her an uneasy repression, a whimpering note which told that he did not expect a reply. for five minutes after that he sat on his haunches in the snow, stolid as a rock. what it was that came down out of the dark mystery and tumult of the chasm to him, what spirit whispers of nature that told him the truth, it is beyond the power of reason to explain. but he listened, and he looked; and his muscles twitched as the truth grew in him. and at last he raised his head slowly until his black muzzle pointed to the white storm in the sky, and out of his throat there went forth the quavering, long-drawn howl of the husky who mourns outside the tepee of a master who is newly dead. on the trail, heading for lac bain, bush mctaggart heard that cry and shivered. it was the smell of smoke, thickening in the air until it stung his nostrils, that drew baree at last away from the chasm and back to the cabin. there was not much left when he came to the clearing. where the cabin had been was a red-hot, smoldering mass. for a long time he sat watching it, still waiting and still listening. he no longer felt the effect of the bullet that had stunned him, but his senses were undergoing another change now, as strange and unreal as their struggle against that darkness of near death in the cabin. in a space that had not covered more than an hour the world had twisted itself grotesquely for baree. that long ago the willow was sitting before her little mirror in the cabin, talking to him and laughing in her happiness, while he lay in vast contentment on the floor. and now there was no cabin, no nepeese, no pierrot. quietly he struggled to comprehend. it was some time before he moved from under the thick balsams, for already a deep and growing suspicion began to guide his movements. he did not go nearer to the smoldering mass of the cabin, but slinking low, made his way about the circle of the clearing to the dog corral. this took him under the tall spruce. for a full minute he paused here, sniffing at the freshly made mound under its white mantle of snow. when he went on, he slunk still lower, and his ears were flat against his head. the dog corral was open and empty. mctaggart had seen to that. again baree squatted back on his haunches and sent forth the death howl. this time it was for pierrot. in it there was a different note from that of the howl he had sent forth from the chasm: it was positive, certain. in the chasm his cry had been tempered with doubt--a questioning hope, something that was so almost human that mctaggart had shivered on the trail. but baree knew what lay in that freshly dug snow-covered grave. a scant three feet of earth could not hide its secret from him. there was death--definite and unequivocal. but for nepeese he was still hoping and seeking. until noon he did not go far from the site of the cabin, but only once did he actually approach and sniff about the black pile of steaming timbers. again and again he circled the edge of the clearing, keeping just within the bush and timber, sniffing the air and listening. twice he went hack to the chasm. late in the afternoon there came to him a sudden impulse that carried him swiftly through the forest. he did not run openly now. caution, suspicion, and fear had roused in him afresh the instincts of the wolf. with his ears flattened against the side of his head, his tail drooping until the tip of it dragged the snow and his back sagging in the curious, evasive gait of the wolf, he scarcely made himself distinguishable from the shadows of the spruce and balsams. there was no faltering in the trail baree made; it was straight as a rope might have been drawn through the forest, and it brought him, early in the dusk, to the open spot where nepeese had fled with him that day she had pushed mctaggart over the edge of the precipice into the pool. in the place of the balsam shelter of that day there was now a watertight birchbark tepee which pierrot had helped the willow to make during the summer. baree went straight to it and thrust in his head with a low and expectant whine. there was no answer. it was dark and cold in the tepee. he could make out indistinctly the two blankets that were always in it, the row of big tin boxes in which nepeese kept their stores, and the stove which pierrot had improvised out of scraps of iron and heavy tin. but nepeese was not there. and there was no sign of her outside. the snow was unbroken except by his own trail. it was dark when he returned to the burned cabin. all that night he hung about the deserted dog corral, and all through the night the snow fell steadily, so that by dawn he sank into it to his shoulders when he moved out into the clearing. but with day the sky had cleared. the sun came up, and the world was almost too dazzling for the eyes. it warmed baree's blood with new hope and expectation. his brain struggled even more eagerly than yesterday to comprehend. surely the willow would be returning soon! he would hear her voice. she would appear suddenly out of the forest. he would receive some signal from her. one of these things, or all of them, must happen. he stopped sharply in his tracks at every sound, and sniffed the air from every point of the wind. he was traveling ceaselessly. his body made deep trails in the snow around and over the huge white mound where the cabin had stood. his tracks led from the corral to the tall spruce, and they were as numerous as the footprints of a wolf pack for half a mile up and down the chasm. on the afternoon of this day the second strong impulse came to him. it was not reason, and neither was it instinct alone. it was the struggle halfway between, the brute mind righting at its best with the mystery of an intangible thing--something that could not be seen by the eye or heard by the ear. nepeese was not in the cabin, because there was no cabin. she was not at the tepee. he could find no trace of her in the chasm. she was not with pierrot under the big spruce. therefore, unreasoning but sure, he began to follow the old trap line into the north and west. chapter 23 no man has ever looked clearly into the mystery of death as it is impressed upon the senses of the northern dog. it comes to him, sometimes, with the wind. most frequently it must come with the wind, and yet there are ten thousand masters in the northland who will swear that their dogs have given warning of death hours before it actually came; and there are many of these thousands who know from experience that their teams will stop a quarter or half a mile from a strange cabin in which there lies unburied dead. yesterday baree had smelled death, and he knew without process of reasoning that the dead was pierrot. how he knew this, and why he accepted the fact as inevitable, is one of the mysteries which at times seems to give the direct challenge to those who concede nothing more than instinct to the brute mind. he knew that pierrot was dead without exactly knowing what death was. but of one thing he was sure: he would never see pierrot again. he would never hear his voice again; he would never hear again the swish-swish-swish of his snowshoes in the trail ahead, and so on the trap line he did not look for pierrot. pierrot was gone forever. but baree had not yet associated death with nepeese. he was filled with a great uneasiness. what came to him from out of the chasm had made him tremble with fear and suspense. he sensed the thrill of something strange, of something impending, and yet even as he had given the death howl in the chasm, it must have been for pierrot. for he believed that nepeese was alive, and he was now just as sure that he would overtake her on the trap line as he was positive yesterday that he would find her at the birchbark tepee. since yesterday morning's breakfast with the willow, baree had gone without eating. to appease his hunger meant to hunt, and his mind was too filled with his quest of nepeese for that. he would have gone hungry all that day, but in the third mile from the cabin he came to a trap in which there was a big snowshoe rabbit. the rabbit was still alive, and he killed it and ate his fill. until dark he did not miss a trap. in one of them there was a lynx; in another a fishercat. out on the white surface of a lake he sniffed at a snowy mound under which lay the body of a red fox killed by one of pierrot's poison baits. both the lynx and the fishercat were alive, and the steel chains of their traps clanked sharply as they prepared to give baree battle. but baree was uninterested. he hurried on, his uneasiness growing as the day darkened and he found no sign of the willow. it was a wonderfully clear night after the storm--cold and brilliant, with the shadows standing out as clearly as living things. the third suggestion came to baree now. he was, like all animals, largely of one idea at a time--a creature with whom all lesser impulses were governed by a single leading impulse. and this impulse, in the glow of the starlit night, was to reach as quickly as possible the first of pierrot's two cabins on the trap line. there he would find nepeese! we won't call the process by which baree came to this conclusion a process of reasoning. instinct or reasoning, whatever it was, a fixed and positive faith came to baree just the same. he began to miss the traps in his haste to cover distance--to reach the cabin. it was twenty-five miles from pierrot's burned home to the first trap cabin, and baree had made ten of these by nightfall. the remaining fifteen were the most difficult. in the open spaces the snow was belly-deep and soft. frequently he plunged through drifts in which for a few moments he was buried. three times during the early part of the night baree heard the savage dirge of the wolves. once it was a wild paean of triumph as the hunters pulled down their kill less than half a mile away in the deep forest. but the voice no longer called to him. it was repellent--a voice of hatred and of treachery. each time that he heard it he stopped in his tracks and snarled, while his spine stiffened. at midnight baree came to the tiny amphitheater in the forest where pierrot had cut the logs for the first of his trapline cabins. for at least a minute baree stood at the edge of the clearing, his ears very alert, his eyes bright with hope and expectation, while he sniffed the air. there was no smoke, no sound, no light in the one window of the log shack. his disappointment fell on him even as he stood there. again he sensed the fact of his aloneness, of the barrenness of his quest. there was a disheartened slouch to his door. he had traveled twenty-five miles, and he was tired. the snow was drifted deep at the doorway, and here baree sat down and whined. it was no longer the anxious, questing whine of a few hours ago. now it voiced hopelessness and a deep despair. for half an hour he sat shivering with his back to the door and his face to the starlit wilderness, as if there still remained the fleeting hope that nepeese might follow after him over the trail. then he burrowed himself a hole deep in the snowdrift and passed the remainder of the night in uneasy slumber. with the first light of day baree resumed the trail. he was not so alert this morning. there was the disconsolate droop to his tail which the indians call the akoosewin--the sign of the sick dog. and baree was sick--not of body but of soul. the keenness of his hope had died, and he no longer expected to find the willow. the second cabin at the far end of the trap line drew him on, but it inspired in him none of the enthusiasm with which he had hurried to the first. he traveled slowly and spasmodically, his suspicions of the forests again replacing the excitement of his quest. he approached each of pierrot's traps and the deadfalls cautiously, and twice he showed his fangs--once at a marten that snapped at him from under a root where it had dragged the trap in which it was caught, and the second time at a big snowy owl that had come to steal bait and was now a prisoner at the end of a steel chain. it may be that baree thought it was oohoomisew and that he still remembered vividly the treacherous assault and fierce battle of that night when, as a puppy, he was dragging his sore and wounded body through the mystery and fear of the big timber. for he did more than to show his fangs. he tore the owl into pieces. there were plenty of rabbits in pierrot's traps, and baree did not go hungry. he reached the second trap-line cabin late in the afternoon, after ten hours of traveling. he met with no very great disappointment here, for he had not anticipated very much. the snow had banked this cabin even higher than the other. it lay three feet deep against the door, and the window was white with a thick coating of frost. at this place, which was close to the edge of a big barren, and unsheltered by the thick forests farther back, pierrot had built a shelter for his firewood, and in this shelter baree made his temporary home. all the next day he remained somewhere near the end of the trap line, skirting the edge of the barren and investigating the short side line of a dozen traps which pierrot and nepeese had strung through a swamp in which there had been many signs of lynx. it was the third day before he set out on his return to the gray loon. he did not travel very fast, spending two days in covering the twenty-five miles between the first and the second trap-line cabins. at the second cabin he remained for three days, and it was on the ninth day that he reached the gray loon. there was no change. there were no tracks in the snow but his own, made nine days ago. baree's quest for nepeese became now more or less involuntary, a sort of daily routine. for a week he made his burrow in the dog corral, and at least twice between dawn and darkness he would go to the birchbark tepee and the chasm. his trail, soon beaten hard in the snow, became as fixed as pierrot's trap line. it cut straight through the forest to the tepee, swinging slightly to the east so that it crossed the frozen surface of the willow's swimming pool. from the tepee it swung in a circle through a part of the forest where nepeese had frequently gathered armfuls of crimson fireflowers, and then to the chasm. up and down the edge of the gorge it went, down into the little cup at the bottom of the chasm, and thence straight back to the dog corral. and then, of a sudden, baree made a change. he spent a night in the tepee. after that, whenever he was at the gray loon, during the day he always slept in the tepee. the two blankets were his bed--and they were a part of nepeese. and there, all through the long winter, he waited. if nepeese had returned in february and could have taken him unaware, she would have found a changed baree. he was more than ever like a wolf; yet he never gave the wolf howl now, and always he snarled deep in his throat when he heard the cry of the pack. for several weeks the old trap line had supplied him with meat, but now he hunted. the tepee, in and out, was scattered with fur and bones. once--alone--he caught a young deer in deep snow and killed it. again, in the heart of a fierce february storm, he pursued a bull caribou so closely that it plunged over a cliff and broke its neck. he lived well, and in size and strength he was growing swiftly into a giant of his kind. in another six months he would be as large as kazan, and his jaws were almost as powerful, even now. three times that winter baree fought--once with a lynx that sprang down upon him from a windfall while he was eating a freshly killed rabbit, and twice with two lone wolves. the lynx tore him unmercifully before it fled into the windfall. the younger of the wolves he killed; the other fight was a draw. more and more he became an outcast, living alone with his dreams and his smoldering hopes. and baree did dream. many times, as he lay in the tepee, he would hear the voice of nepeese. he would hear her sweet voice calling, her laughter, the sound of his name, and often he would start up to his feet--the old baree for a thrilling moment or two--only to lie down in his nest again with a low, grief-filled whine. and always when he heard the snap of a twig or some other sound in the forest, it was thought of nepeese that flashed first into his brain. some day she would return. that belief was a part of his existence as much as the sun and the moon and the stars. the winter passed, and spring came, and still baree continued to haunt his old trails, even going now and then over the old trap line as far as the first of the two cabins. the traps were rusted and sprung now; the thawing snow disclosed bones and feathers between their jaws. under the deadfalls were remnants of fur, and out on the ice of the lakes were picked skeletons of foxes and wolves that had taken the poison baits. the last snow went. the swollen streams sang in the forests and canyons. the grass turned green, and the first flowers came. surely this was the time for nepeese to come home! he watched for her expectantly. he went still more frequently to their swimming pool in the forest, and he hung closely to the burned cabin and the dog corral. twice he sprang into the pool and whined as he swam about, as though she surely must join him in their old water frolic. and now, as the spring passed and summer came, there settled upon him slowly the gloom and misery of utter hopelessness. the flowers were all out now, and even the bakneesh vines glowed like red fire in the woods. patches of green were beginning to hide the charred heap where the cabin had stood, and the blue-flower vines that covered the princess mother's grave were reaching out toward pierrot's, as if the princess mother herself were the spirit of them. all these things were happening, and the birds had mated and nested, and still nepeese did not come! and at last something broke inside of baree, his last hope, perhaps, his last dream; and one day he bade good-bye to the gray loon. no one can say what it cost him to go. no one can say how he fought against the things that were holding him to the tepee, the old swimming pool, the familiar paths in the forest, and the two graves that were not so lonely now under the tall spruce. he went. he had no reason--simply went. it may be that there is a master whose hand guides the beast as well as the man, and that we know just enough of this guidance to call it instinct. for, in dragging himself away, baree faced the great adventure. it was there, in the north, waiting for him--and into the north he went. chapter 24 it was early in august when baree left the gray loon. he had no objective in view. but there was still left upon his mind, like the delicate impression of light and shadow on a negative, the memories of his earlier days. things and happenings that he had almost forgotten recurred to him now, as his trail led him farther and farther away from the gray loon. and his earlier experiences became real again, pictures thrown out afresh in his mind by the breaking of the last ties that held him to the home of the willow. involuntarily he followed the trail of these impressions--of these past happenings, and slowly they helped to build up new interests for him. a year in his life was a long time--a decade of man's experience. it was more than a year ago that he had left kazan and gray wolf and the old windfall, and yet now there came back to him indistinct memories of those days of his earliest puppyhood, of the stream into which he had fallen, and of his fierce battle with papayuchisew. it was his later experiences that roused the older memories. he came to the blind canyon up which nepeese and pierrot had chased him. that seemed but yesterday. he entered the little meadow, and stood beside the great rock that had almost crushed the life out of the willow's body; and then he remembered where wakayoo, his big bear friend, had died under pierrot's rifle--and he smelled of wakayoo's whitened bones where they lay scattered in the green grass, with flowers growing up among them. a day and night he spent in the little meadow before he went back out of the canyon and into his old haunts along the creek, where wakayoo had fished for him. there was another bear here now, and he also was fishing. perhaps he was a son or a grandson of wakayoo. baree smelled where he had made his fish caches, and for three days he lived on fish before he struck out for the north. and now, for the first time in many weeks, a bit of the old-time eagerness put speed into baree's feet. memories that had been hazy and indistinct through forgetfulness were becoming realities again, and as he would have returned to the gray loon had nepeese been there so now, with something of the feeling of a wanderer going home, he returned to the old beaver pond. it was that most glorious hour of a summer's day--sunset--when he reached it. he stopped a hundred yards away, with the pond still hidden from his sight, and sniffed the air, and listened. the pond was there. he caught the cool, honey smell of it. but umisk, and beaver tooth, and all the others? would he find them? he strained his ears to catch a familiar sound, and after a moment or two it came--a hollow splash in the water. he went quietly through the alders and stood at last close to the spot where he had first made the acquaintance of umisk. the surface of the pond was undulating slightly, two or three heads popped up. he saw the torpedolike wake of an old beaver towing a stick close to the opposite shore. he looked toward the dam, and it was as he had left it almost a year ago. he did not show himself for a time, but stood concealed in the young alders. he felt growing in him more and more a feeling of restfulness, a relaxation from the long strain of the lonely months during which he had waited for nepeese. with a long breath he lay down among the alders, with his head just enough exposed to give him a clear view. as the sun settled lower the pond became alive. out on the shore where he had saved umisk from the fox came another generation of young beavers--three of them, fat and waddling. very softly baree whined. all that night he lay in the alders. the beaver pond became his home again. conditions were changed, of course, and as days grew into weeks the inhabitants of beaver tooth's colony showed no signs of accepting the grown-up baree as they had accepted the baby baree of long ago. he was big, black, and wolfish now--a long-fanged and formidable-looking creature, and though he offered no violence he was regarded by the beavers with a deep-seated feeling of fear and suspicion. on the other hand, baree no longer felt the old puppyish desire to play with the baby beavers, so their aloofness did not trouble him as in those other days. umisk was grown up, too, a fat and prosperous young buck who was just taking unto himself this year a wife, and who was at present very busy gathering his winter's rations. it is entirely probable that he did not associate the big black beast he saw now and then with the little baree with whom he had smelled noses once upon a time, and it is quite likely that baree did not recognize umisk except as a part of the memories that had remained with him. all through the month of august baree made the beaver pond his headquarters. at times his excursions kept him away for two or three days at a time. these journeys were always into the north, sometimes a little east and sometimes a little west, but never again into the south. and at last, early in september, he left the beaver pond for good. for many days his wanderings carried him in no one particular direction. he followed the hunting, living chiefly on rabbits and that simple-minded species of partridge known as the "fool hen." this diet, of course, was given variety by other things as they happened to come his way. wild currants and raspberries were ripening, and baree was fond of these. he also liked the bitter berries of the mountain ash, which, along with the soft balsam and spruce pitch which he licked with his tongue now and then, were good medicine for him. in shallow water he occasionally caught a fish. now and then he hazarded a cautious battle with a porcupine, and if he was successful he feasted on the tenderest and most luscious of all the flesh that made up his menu. twice in september he killed young deer. the big "burns" that he occasionally came to no longer held terrors for him; in the midst of plenty he forgot the days in which he had gone hungry. in october he wandered as far west as the geikie river, and then northward to wollaston lake, which was a good hundred miles north of the gray loon. the first week in november he turned south again, following the canoe river for a distance, and then swinging westward along a twisting creek called the little black bear with no tail. more than once during these weeks baree came into touch with man, but, with the exception of the cree hunter at the upper end of wollaston lake, no man had seen him. three times in following the geikie he lay crouched in the brush while canoes passed. half a dozen times, in the stillness of night, he nosed about cabins and tepees in which there was life, and once he came so near to the hudson's bay company post at wollaston that he could hear the barking of dogs and the shouting of their masters. and always he was seeking--questing for the thing that had gone out of his life. at the thresholds of the cabins he sniffed; outside of the tepees he circled close, gathering the wind. the canoes he watched with eyes in which there was a hopeful gleam. once he thought the wind brought him the scent of nepeese, and all at once his legs grew weak under his body and his heart seemed to stop beating. it was only for a moment or two. she came out of the tepee--an indian girl with her hands full of willow work--and baree slunk away unseen. it was almost december when lerue, a half-breed from lac bain, saw baree's footprints in freshly fallen snow, and a little later caught a flash of him in the bush. "mon dieu, i tell you his feet are as big as my hand, and he is as black as a raven's wing with the sun on it!" he exclaimed in the company's store at lac bain. "a fox? non! he is half as big as a bear. a wolf--oui! and black as the devil, m'sieus." mctaggart was one of those who heard. he was putting his signature in ink to a letter he had written to the company when lerue's words came to him. his hand stopped so suddenly that a drop of ink spattered on the letter. through him there ran a curious shiver as he looked over at the half-breed. just then marie came in. mctaggart had brought her back from her tribe. her big, dark eyes had a sick look in them, and some of her wild beauty had gone since a year ago. "he was gone like--that!" lerue was saying, with a snap of his fingers. he saw marie, and stopped. "black, you say?" mctaggart said carelessly, without lifting his eyes from his writing. "did he not bear some dog mark?" lerue shrugged his shoulders. "he was gone like the wind, m'sieu. but he was a wolf." with scarcely a sound that the others could hear marie had whispered into the factor's ear, and folding his letter mctaggart rose quickly and left the store. he was gone an hour. lerue and the others were puzzled. it was not often that marie came into the store. it was not often that they saw her at all. she remained hidden in the factor's log house, and each time that he saw her lerue thought that her face was a little thinner than the last, and her eyes bigger and hungrier looking. in his own heart there was a great yearning. many a night he passed the little window beyond which he knew that she was sleeping. often he looked to catch a glimpse of her pale face, and he lived in the one happiness of knowing that marie understood, and that into her eyes there came for an instant a different light when their glances met. no one else knew. the secret lay between them--and patiently lerue waited and watched. "some day," he kept saying to himself--"some day"--and that was all. the one word carried a world of meaning and of hope. when that day came he would take marie straight to the missioner over at fort churchill, and they would be married. it was a dream--a dream that made the long days and the longer nights on the trap line patiently endured. now they were both slaves to the environing power. but--some day-lerue was thinking of this when mctaggart returned at the end of the hour. the factor came straight up to where the half dozen of them were seated about the big box stove, and with a grunt of satisfaction shook the freshly fallen snow from his shoulders. "pierre eustach has accepted the government's offer and is going to guide that map-making party up into the barrens this winter," he announced. "you know, lerue--he has a hundred and fifty traps and deadfalls set, and a big poison-bait country. a good line, eh? and i have leased it of him for the season. it will give me the outdoor work i need--three days on the trail, three days here. eh, what do you say to the bargain?" "it is good," said lerue. "yes, it is good," said roget. "a wide fox country," said mons roule. "and easy to travel," murmured valence in a voice that was almost like a woman's. chapter 25 the trap line of pierre eustach ran thirty miles straight west of lac bain. it was not as long a line as pierrot's had been, but it was like a main artery running through the heart of a rich fur country. it had belonged to pierre eustach's father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and beyond that it reached, pierre averred, back to the very pulse of the finest blood in france. the books at mctaggart's post went back only as far as the great-grandfather end of it, the older evidence of ownership being at churchill. it was the finest game country between reindeer lake and the barren lands. it was in december that baree came to it. again he was traveling southward in a slow and wandering fashion, seeking food in the deep snows. the kistisew kestin, or great storm, had come earlier than usual this winter, and for a week after it scarcely a hoof or claw was moving. baree, unlike the other creatures, did not bury himself in the snow and wait for the skies to clear and crust to form. he was big, and powerful, and restless. less than two years old, he weighed a good eighty pounds. his pads were broad and wolfish. his chest and shoulders were like a malemute's, heavy and yet muscled for speed. he was wider between the eyes than the wolf-breed husky, and his eyes were larger, and entirely clear of the wuttooi, or blood film, that marks the wolf and also to an extent the husky. his jaws were like kazan's, perhaps even more powerful. through all that week of the big storm he traveled without food. there were four days of snow, with driving blizzards and fierce winds, and after that three days of intense cold in which every living creature kept to its warm dugout in the snow. even the birds had burrowed themselves in. one might have walked on the backs of caribou and moose and not have guessed it. baree sheltered himself during the worst of the storm but did not allow the snow to gather over him. every trapper from hudson's bay to the country of the athabasca knew that after the big storm the famished fur animals would be seeking food, and that traps and deadfalls properly set and baited stood the biggest chance of the year of being filled. some of them set out over their trap lines on the sixth day; some on the seventh, and others on the eighth. it was on the seventh day that bush mctaggart started over pierre eustach's line, which was now his own for the season. it took him two days to uncover the traps, dig the snow from them, rebuild the fallen "trap houses," and rearrange the baits. on the third day he was back at lac bain. it was on this day that baree came to the cabin at the far end of mctaggart's line. mctaggart's trail was fresh in the snow about the cabin, and the instant baree sniffed of it every drop of blood in his body seemed to leap suddenly with a strange excitement. it took perhaps half a minute for the scent that filled his nostrils to associate itself with what had gone before, and at the end of that half-minute there rumbled in baree's chest a deep and sullen growl. for many minutes after that he stood like a black rock in the snow, watching the cabin. then slowly he began circling about it, drawing nearer and nearer, until at last he was sniffing at the threshold. no sound or smell of life came from inside, but he could smell the old smell of mctaggart. then he faced the wilderness--the direction in which the trap line ran back to lac bain. he was trembling. his muscles twitched. he whined. pictures were assembling more and more vividly in his mind--the fight in the cabin, nepeese, the wild chase through the snow to the chasm's edge--even the memory of that age-old struggle when mctaggart had caught him in the rabbit snare. in his whine there was a great yearning, almost expectation. then it died slowly away. after all, the scent in the snow was of a thing that he had hated and wanted to kill, and not of anything that he had loved. for an instant nature had impressed on him the significance of associations--a brief space only, and then it was gone. the whine died away, but in its place came again that ominous growl. slowly he followed the trail and a quarter of a mile from the cabin struck the first trap on the line. hunger had caved in his sides until he was like a starved wolf. in the first trap house mctaggart had placed as bait the hindquarter of a snowshoe rabbit. baree reached in cautiously. he had learned many things on pierrot's line: he had learned what the snap of a trap meant. he had felt the cruel pain of steel jaws; he knew better than the shrewdest fox what a deadfall would do when the trigger was sprung--and nepeese herself had taught him that he was never to touch a poison bait. so he closed his teeth gently in the rabbit flesh and drew it forth as cleverly as mctaggart himself could have done. he visited five traps before dark, and ate the five baits without springing a pan. the sixth was a deadfall. he circled about this until he had beaten a path in the snow. then he went on into a warm balsam swamp and found himself a bed for the night. the next day saw the beginning of the struggle that was to follow between the wits of man and beast. to baree the encroachment of bush mctaggart's trap line was not war; it was existence. it was to furnish him food, as pierrot's line had furnished him food for many weeks. but he sensed the fact that in this instance he was lawbreaker and had an enemy to outwit. had it been good hunting weather he might have gone on, for the unseen hand that was guiding his wanderings was drawing him slowly but surely back to the old beaver pond and the gray loon. as it was, with the snow deep and soft under him--so deep that in places he plunged into it over his ears--mctaggart's trap line was like a trail of manna made for his special use. he followed in the factor's snowshoe tracks, and in the third trap killed a rabbit. when he had finished with it nothing but the hair and crimson patches of blood lay upon the snow. starved for many days, he was filled with a wolfish hunger, and before the day was over he had robbed the bait from a full dozen of mctaggart's traps. three times he struck poison baits--venison or caribou fat in the heart of which was a dose of strychnine, and each time his keen nostrils detected the danger. pierrot had more than once noted the amazing fact that baree could sense the presence of poison even when it was most skillfully injected into the frozen carcass of a deer. foxes and wolves ate of flesh from which his supersensitive power of detecting the presence of deadly danger turned him away. so he passed bush mctaggart's poisoned tidbits, sniffing them on the way, and leaving the story of his suspicion in the manner of his footprints in the snow. where mctaggart had halted at midday to cook his dinner baree made these same cautious circles with his feet. the second day, being less hungry and more keenly alive to the hated smell of his enemy, baree ate less but was more destructive. mctaggart was not as skillful as pierre eustach in keeping the scent of his hands from the traps and "houses," and every now and then the smell of him was strong in baree's nose. this wrought in baree a swift and definite antagonism, a steadily increasing hatred where a few days before hatred was almost forgotten. there is, perhaps, in the animal mind a process of simple computation which does not quite achieve the distinction of reason, and which is not altogether instinct, but which produces results that might be ascribed to either. baree did not add two and two together to make four. he did not go back step by step to prove to himself that the man to whom this trap line belonged was the cause of all hit, griefs and troubles--but he did find himself possessed of a deep and yearning hatred. mctaggart was the one creature except the wolves that he had ever hated. it was mctaggart who had hurt him, mctaggart who had hurt pierrot, mctaggart who had made him lose his beloved nepeese--and mctaggart was here on this trap line! if he had been wandering before, without object or destiny, he was given a mission now. it was to keep to the traps. to feed himself. and to vent his hatred and his vengeance as he lived. the second day, in the center of a lake, he came upon the body of a wolf that had died of one of the poison baits. for a half-hour he mauled the dead beast until its skin was torn into ribbons. he did not taste the flesh. it was repugnant to him. it was his vengeance on the wolf breed. he stopped when he was half a dozen miles from lac bain, and turned back. at this particular point the line crossed a frozen stream beyond which was an open plain, and over that plain came--when the wind was right--the smoke and smell of the post. the second night baree lay with a full stomach in a thicket of banksian pine; the third day he was traveling westward over the trap line again. early on this morning bush mctaggart started out to gather his catch, and where he crossed the stream six miles from lac bain he first saw baree's tracks. he stopped to examine them with sudden and unusual interest, falling at last on his knees, whipping off the glove from his right hand, and picking up a single hair. "the black wolf!" he uttered the words in an odd, hard voice, and involuntarily his eyes turned straight in the direction of the gray loon. after that, even more carefully than before, he examined one of the clearly impressed tracks in the snow. when he rose to his feet there was in his face the look of one who had made an unpleasant discovery. "a black wolf!" he repeated, and shrugged his shoulders. "bah! lerue is a fool. it is a dog." and then, after a moment, he muttered in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, "her dog." he went on, traveling in the trail of the dog. a new excitement possessed him that was more thrilling than the excitement of the hunt. being human, it was his privilege to add two and two together, and out of two and two he made--baree. there was little doubt in his mind. the thought had flashed on him first when lerue had mentioned the black wolf. he was convinced after his examination of the tracks. they were the tracks of a dog, and the dog was black. then he came to the first trap that had been robbed of its bait. under his breath he cursed. the bait was gone, and the trap was unsprung. the sharpened stick that had transfixed the bait was pulled out clean. all that day bush mctaggart followed a trail where baree had left traces of his presence. trap after trap he found robbed. on the lake he came upon the mangled wolf. from the first disturbing excitement of his discovery of baree's presence his humor changed slowly to one of rage, and his rage increased as the day dragged out. he was not unacquainted with four-footed robbers of the trap line, but usually a wolf or a fox or a dog who had grown adept in thievery troubled only a few traps. but in this case baree was traveling straight from trap to trap, and his footprints in the snow showed that he had stopped at each one. there was, to mctaggart, almost a human devilishness to his work. he evaded the poisons. not once did he stretch his head or paw within the danger zone of a deadfall. for apparently no reason whatever he had destroyed a splendid mink, whose glossy fur lay scattered in worthless bits over the snow. toward the end of the day mctaggart came to a deadfall in which a lynx had died. baree had torn the silvery flank of the animal until the skin was of less than half value. mctaggart cursed aloud, and his breath came hot. at dusk he reached the shack pierre eustach had built midway of his line, and took inventory of his fur. it was not more than a third of a catch; the lynx was half-ruined, a mink was torn completely in two. the second day he found still greater ruin, still more barren traps. he was like a madman. when he arrived at the second cabin, late in the afternoon, baree's tracks were not an hour old in the snow. three times during the night he heard the dog howling. the third day mctaggart did not return to lac bain, but began a cautious hunt for baree. an inch or two of fresh snow had fallen, and as if to take even greater measure of vengeance from his man enemy baree had left his footprints freely within a radius of a hundred yards of the cabin. it was half an hour before mctaggart could pick out the straight trail, and he followed it for two hours into a thick banksian swamp. baree kept with the wind. now and then he caught the scent of his pursuer. a dozen times he waited until the other was so close he could hear the snap of brush, or the metallic click of twigs against his rifle barrel. and then, with a sudden inspiration that brought the curses afresh to mctaggart's lips, he swung in a wide circle and cut straight back for the trap line. when the factor reached the line, along toward noon, baree had already begun his work. he had killed and eaten a rabbit. he had robbed three traps within the distance of a mile, and he was headed again straight over the trap line for post lac bain. it was the fifth day that bush mctaggart returned to his post. he was in an ugly mood. only valence of the four frenchmen was there, and it was valence who heard his story, and afterward heard him cursing marie. she came into the store a little later, big-eyed and frightened, one of her cheeks flaming red where mctaggart had struck her. while the storekeeper was getting her the canned salmon mctaggart wanted for his dinner valence found the opportunity to whisper softly in her ear: "m'sieu lerue has trapped a silver fox," he said with low triumph. "he loves you, cherie, and he will have a splendid catch by spring--and sends you this message from his cabin up on the little black bear with no tail: be ready to fly when the soft snows come!" marie did not look at him, but she heard, and her eyes shone so like stars when the young storekeeper gave her the salmon that he said to valence, when she had gone: "blue death, but she is still beautiful at times. valence!" to which valence nodded with an odd smile. chapter 26 by the middle of january the war between baree and bush mctaggart had become more than an incident--more than a passing adventure to the beast, and more than an irritating happening to the man. it was, for the time, the elemental raison d'etre of their lives. baree hung to the trap line. he haunted it like a devastating specter, and each time that he sniffed afresh the scent of the factor from lac bain he was impressed still more strongly with the instinct that he was avenging himself upon a deadly enemy. again and again he outwitted mctaggart. he continued to strip his traps of their bait and the humor grew in him more strongly to destroy the fur he came across. his greatest pleasure came to be--not in eating--but in destroying. the fires of his hatred burned fiercer as the weeks passed, until at last he would snap and tear with his long fangs at the snow where mctaggart's feet had passed. and all of the time, away back of his madness, there was a vision of nepeese that continued to grow more and more clearly in his brain. that first great loneliness--the loneliness of the long days and longer nights of his waiting and seeking on the gray loon, oppressed him again as it had oppressed him in the early days of her disappearance. on starry or moonlit nights he sent forth his wailing cries for her again, and bush mctaggart, listening to them in the middle of the night, felt strange shivers run up his spine. the man's hatred was different than the beast's, but perhaps even more implacable. with mctaggart it was not hatred alone. there was mixed with it an indefinable and superstitious fear, a thing he laughed at, a thing he cursed at, but which clung to him as surely as the scent of his trail clung to baree's nose. baree no longer stood for the animal alone; he stood for nepeese. that was the thought that insisted in growing in mctaggart's ugly mind. never a day passed now that he did not think of the willow; never a night came and went without a visioning of her face. he even fancied, on a certain night of storm, that he heard her voice out in the wailing of the wind--and less than a minute later he heard faintly a distant howl out in the forest. that night his heart was filled with a leaden dread. he shook himself. he smoked his pipe until the cabin was blue. he cursed baree, and the storm--but there was no longer in him the bullying courage of old. he had not ceased to hate baree; he still hated him as he had never hated a man, but he had an even greater reason now for wanting to kill him. it came to him first in his sleep, in a restless dream, and after that it lived, and lived--the thought that the spirit of nepeese was guiding baree in the ravaging of his trap line! after a time he ceased to talk at the post about the black wolf that was robbing his line. the furs damaged by baree's teeth he kept out of sight, and to himself he kept his secret. he learned every trick and scheme of the hunters who killed foxes and wolves along the barrens. he tried three different poisons, one so powerful that a single drop of it meant death. he tried strychnine in gelatin capsules, in deer fat, caribou fat, moose liver, and even in the flesh of porcupine. at last, in preparing his poisons, he dipped his hands in beaver oil before he handled the venoms and flesh so that there could be no human smell. foxes, wolves, and even the mink and ermine died of these baits, but baree came always so near--and no nearer. in january mctaggart poisoned every bait in his trap houses. this produced at least one good result for him. from that day baree no longer touched his baits, but ate only the rabbits he killed in the traps. it was in january that mctaggart caught his first glimpse of baree. he had placed his rifle against a tree, and was a dozen feet away from it at the time. it was as if baree knew, and had come to taunt him. for when the factor suddenly looked up baree was standing out clear from the dwarf spruce not twenty yards away from him, his white fangs gleaming and his eyes burning like coals. for a space mctaggart stared as if turned into stone. it was baree. he recognized the white star, the white-tipped ear, and his heart thumped like a hammer in his breast. very slowly he began to creep toward his rifle. his hand was reaching for it when like a flash baree was gone. this gave mctaggart his new idea. he blazed himself a fresh trail through the forests parallel with his trap line but at least five hundred yards distant from it. wherever a trap or deadfall was set this new trail struck sharply in, like the point of a v, so that he could approach his line unobserved. by this strategy he believed that in time he was sure of getting a shot at the dog. again it was the man who was reasoning, and again it was the man who was defeated. the first day that mctaggart followed his new trail baree also struck that trail. for a little while it puzzled him. three times he cut back and forth between the old and the new trail. then there was no doubt. the new trail was the fresh trail, and he followed in the footsteps of the factor from lac bain. mctaggart did not know what was happening until his return trip, when he saw the story told in the snow. baree had visited each trap, and without exception he had approached each time at the point of the inverted v. after a week of futile hunting, of lying in wait, of approaching at every point of the wind--a period during which mctaggart had twenty times cursed himself into fits of madness, another idea came to him. it was like an inspiration, and so simple that it seemed almost inconceivable that he had not thought of it before. he hurried back to post lac bain. the second day after he was on the trail at dawn. this time he carried a pack in which there were a dozen strong wolf traps freshly dipped in beaver oil, and a rabbit which he had snared the previous night. now and then he looked anxiously at the sky. it was clear until late in the afternoon, when banks of dark clouds began rolling up from the east. half an hour later a few flakes of snow began falling. mctaggart let one of these drop on the back of his mittened hand, and examined it closely. it was soft and downy, and he gave vent to his satisfaction. it was what he wanted. before morning there would be six inches of freshly fallen snow covering the trails. he stopped at the next trap house and quickly set to work. first he threw away the poisoned bait in the "house" and replaced it with the rabbit. then he began setting his wolf traps. three of these he placed close to the "door" of the house, through which baree would have to reach for the bait. the remaining nine he scattered at intervals of a foot or sixteen inches apart, so that when he was done a veritable cordon of traps guarded the house. he did not fasten the chains, but let them lay loose in the snow. if baree got into one trap he would get into others and there would be no use of toggles. his work done, mctaggart hurried on through the thickening twilight of winter night to his shack. he was highly elated. this time there could be no such thing as failure. he had sprung every trap on his way from lac bain. in none of those traps would baree find anything to eat until he came to the "nest" of twelve wolf traps. seven inches of snow fell that night, and the whole world seemed turned into a wonderful white robe. like billows of feathers the snow clung to the trees and shrubs. it gave tall white caps to the rocks, and underfoot it was so light that a cartridge dropped from the hand sank out of sight. baree was on the trap line early. he was more cautious this morning, for there was no longer the scent or snowshoe track of mctaggart to guide him. he struck the first trap about halfway between lac bain and the shack in which the factor was waiting. it was sprung, and there was no bait. trap after trap he visited, and all of them he found sprung, and all without bait. he sniffed the air suspiciously, striving vainly to catch the tang of smoke, a whiff of the man smell. along toward noon he came to the "nest"--the twelve treacherous traps waiting for him with gaping jaws half a foot under the blanket of snow. for a full minute he stood well outside the danger line, sniffing the air, and listening. he saw the rabbit, and his jaws closed with a hungry click. he moved a step nearer. still he was suspicious--for some strange and inexplicable reason he sensed danger. anxiously he sought for it with his nose, his eyes, and his ears. and all about him there was a great silence and a great peace. his jaws clicked again. he whined softly. what was it stirring him? where was the danger he could neither see nor smell? slowly he circled about the trap house. three times he circled round it, each circle drawing him a little nearer--until at last his feet almost touched the outer cordon of traps. another minute he stood still; his ears flattened; in spite of the rich aroma of the rabbit in his nostrils something was drawing him away. in another moment he would have gone, but there came suddenly--and from directly behind the trap house--a fierce little ratlike squeak, and the next instant baree saw an ermine whiter than the snow tearing hungrily at the flesh of the rabbit. he forgot his strange premonition of danger. he growled fiercely, but his plucky little rival did not budge from his feast. and then he sprang straight into the "nest" that bush mctaggart had made for him. chapter 27 the next morning bush mctaggart heard the clanking of a chain when he was still a good quarter of a mile from the "nest." was it a lynx? was it a fishercat? was it a wolf or a fox? or was it baree? he half ran the rest of the distance, and it last he came to where he could see, and his heart leaped into his throat when he saw that he had caught his enemy. he approached, holding his rifle ready to fire if by any chance the dog should free himself. baree lay on his side, panting from exhaustion and quivering with pain. a hoarse cry of exultation burst from mctaggart's lips as he drew nearer and looked at the snow. it was packed hard for many feet about the trap house, where baree had struggled, and it was red with blood. the blood had come mostly from baree's jaws. they were dripping now as he glared at his enemy. the steel jaws hidden under the snow had done their merciless work well. one of his forefeet was caught well up toward the first joint; both hind feet were caught. a fourth trap had closed on his flank, and in tearing the jaws loose he had pulled off a patch of skin half as big as mctaggart's hand. the snow told the story of his desperate fight all through the night. his bleeding jaws showed how vainly he had tried to break the imprisoning steel with his teeth. he was panting. his eyes were bloodshot. but even now, after all his hours of agony, neither his spirit nor his courage was broken. when he saw mctaggart he made a lunge to his feet, almost instantly crumpling down into the snow again. but his forefeet were braced. his head and chest remained up, and the snarl that came from his throat was tigerish in its ferocity. here, at last--not more than a dozen feet from him--was the one thing in all the world that he hated more than he hated the wolf breed. and again he was helpless, as he had been helpless that other time in the rabbit snare. the fierceness of his snarl did not disturb bush mctaggart now. he saw how utterly the other was at his mercy, and with an exultant laugh he leaned his rifle against a tree, pulled oft his mittens, and began loading his pipe. this was the triumph he had looked forward to, the torture he had waited for. in his soul there was a hatred as deadly as baree's, the hatred that a man might have for a man. he had expected to send a bullet through the dog. but this was better--to watch him dying by inches, to taunt him as he would have taunted a human, to walk about him so that he could hear the clank of the traps and see the fresh blood drip as baree twisted his tortured legs and body to keep facing him. it was a splendid vengeance. he was so engrossed in it that he did not hear the approach of snowshoes behind him. it was a voice--a man's voice--that turned him round in his tracks. the man was a stranger, and he was younger than mctaggart by ten years. at least he looked no more than thirty-five or six, even with the short growth of blond beard he wore. he was of that sort that the average man would like at first glance; boyish, and yet a man; with clear eyes that looked out frankly from under the rim of his fur cap, a form lithe as an indian's, and a face that did not bear the hard lines of the wilderness. yet mctaggart knew before he had spoken that this man was of the wilderness, that he was heart and soul a part of it. his cap was of fisher skin. he wore a windproof coat of softly tanned caribou skin, belted at the waist with a long sash, and indian fringed. the inside of the coat was furred. he was traveling on the long, slender bush country snowshoe. his pack, strapped over the shoulders, was small and compact; he was carrying his rifle in a cloth jacket. and from cap to snowshoes he was travel worn. mctaggart, at a guess, would have said that he had traveled a thousand miles in the last few weeks. it was not this thought that sent the strange and chilling thrill up his back; but the sudden fear that in some strange way a whisper of the truth might have found its way down into the south--the truth of what had happened on the gray loon--and that this travel-worn stranger wore under his caribou-skin coat the badge of the royal northwest mounted police. for that instant it was almost a terror that possessed him, and he stood mute. the stranger had uttered only an amazed exclamation before. now he said, with his eyes on baree: "god save us, but you've got the poor devil in a right proper mess, haven't you?" there was something in the voice that reassured mctaggart. it was not a suspicious voice, and he saw that the stranger was more interested in the captured animal than in himself. he drew a deep breath. "a trap robber," he said. the stranger was staring still more closely at baree. he thrust his gun stock downward in the snow and drew nearer to him. "god save us again--a dog!" he exclaimed. from behind, mctaggart was watching the man with the eyes of a ferret. "yes, a dog," he answered. "a wild dog, half wolf at least. he's robbed me of a thousand dollars' worth of fur this winter." the stranger squatted himself before baree, with his mittened hands resting on his knees, and his white teeth gleaming in a half smile. "you poor devil!" he said sympathetically. "so you're a trap robber, eh? an outlaw? and--the police have got you! and--god save us once more--they haven't played you a very square game!" he rose and faced mctaggart. "i had to set a lot of traps like that," the factor apologized, his face reddening slightly under the steady gaze of the stranger's blue eyes. suddenly his animus rose. "and he's going to die there, inch by inch. i'm going to let him starve, and rot in the traps, to pay for all he's done." he picked up his gun, and added, with his eyes on the stranger and his finger ready at the trigger, "i'm bush mctaggart, the factor at lac bain. are you bound that way, m'sieu?" "a few miles. i'm bound upcountry--beyond the barrens." mctaggart felt again the strange thrill. "government?" he asked. the stranger nodded. "the--police, perhaps," persisted mctaggart. "why, yes--of course--the police," said the stranger, looking straight into the factor's eyes. "and now, m'sieu, as a very great courtesy to the law i'm going to ask you to send a bullet through that beast's head before we go on. will you? or shall i?" "it's the law of the line," said mctaggart, "to let a trap robber rot in the traps. and that beast was a devil. listen--" swiftly, and yet leaving out none of the fine detail, he told of the weeks and months of strife between himself and baree; of the maddening futility of all his tricks and schemes and the still more maddening cleverness of the beast he had at last succeeded in trapping. "he was a devil--that clever," he cried fiercely when he had finished. "and now--would you shoot him, or let him lie there and die by inches, as the devil should?" the stranger was looking at baree. his face was turned away from mctaggart. he said: "i guess you are right. let the devil rot. if you're heading for lac bain, m'sieu, i'll travel a short distance with you now. it will take a couple of miles to straighten out the line of my compass." he picked up his gun. mctaggart led the way. at the end of half an hour the stranger stopped, and pointed north. "straight up there--a good five hundred miles," he said, speaking as lightly as though he would reach home that night. "i'll leave you here." he made no offer to shake hands. but in going, he said: "you might report that john madison has passed this way." after that he traveled straight northward for half a mile through the deep forest. then he swung westward for two miles, turned at a sharp angle into the south, and an hour after he had left mctaggart he was once more squatted on his heels almost within arms' reach of baree. and he was saying, as though speaking to a human companion: "so that's what you've been, old boy. a trap robber, eh? an outlaw? and you beat him at the game for two months! and for that, because you're a better beast than he is, he wants to let you die here as slow as you can. an outlaw!" his voice broke into a pleasant laugh, the sort of laugh that warms one, even a beast. "that's funny. we ought to shake hands, boy, by george, we had! you're a wild one, he says. well, so am i. told him my name was john madison. it ain't. i'm jim carvel. and, oh lord!--all i said was 'police.' and that was right. it ain't a lie. i'm wanted by the whole corporation--by every danged policeman between hudson's bay and the mackenzie river. shake, old man. we're in the same boat, an' i'm glad to meet you!" chapter 28 jim carvel held out his hand, and the snarl that was in baree's throat died away. the man rose to his feet. he stood there, looking in the direction taken by bush mctaggart, and chuckled in a curious, exultant sort of way. there was friendliness even in that chuckle. there was friendliness in his eyes and in the shine of his teeth as he looked again at baree. about him there was something that seemed to make the gray day brighter, that seemed to warm the chill air--a strange something that radiated cheer and hope and comradeship just as a hot stove sends out the glow of heat. baree felt it. for the first time since the two men had come his trap-torn body lost its tenseness; his back sagged; his teeth clicked as he shivered in his agony. to this man he betrayed his weakness. in his bloodshot eyes there was a hungering look as he watched carvel--the self-confessed outlaw. and jim carvel again held out his hand--much nearer this time. "you poor devil," he said, the smile going out of his face. "you poor devil!" the words were like a caress to baree--the first he had known since the loss of nepeese and pierrot. he dropped his head until his jaw lay flat in the snow. carvel could see the blood dripping slowly from it. "you poor devil!" he repeated. there was no fear in the way he put forth his hand. it was the confidence of a great sincerity and a great compassion. it touched baree's head and patted it in a brotherly fashion, and then--slowly and with a bit more caution--it went to the trap fastened to baree's forepaw. in his half-crazed brain baree was fighting to understand things, and the truth came finally when he felt the steel jaws of the trap open, and he drew forth his maimed foot. he did then what he had done to no other creature but nepeese. just once his hot tongue shot out and licked carvel's hand. the man laughed. with his powerful hands he opened the other traps, and baree was free. for a few moments he lay without moving, his eyes fixed on the man. carvel had seated himself on the snow-covered end of a birch log and was filling his pipe. baree watched him light it; he noted with new interest the first purplish cloud of smoke that left carvel's mouth. the man was not more than the length of two trap chains away--and he grinned at baree. "screw up your nerve, old chap," he encouraged. "no bones broke. just a little stiff. mebby we'd better--get out." he turned his face in the direction of lac bain. the suspicion was in his mind that mctaggart might turn back. perhaps that same suspicion was impressed upon baree, for when carvel looked at him again he was on his feet, staggering a bit as he gained his equilibrium. in another moment the outlaw had swung the packsack from his shoulders and was opening it. he thrust in his hand and drew out a chunk of raw, red meat. "killed it this morning," he explained to baree. "yearling bull, tender as partridge--and that's as fine a sweetbread as ever came out from under a backbone. try it!" he tossed the flesh to baree. there was no equivocation in the manner of its acceptance. baree was famished--and the meat was flung to him by a friend. he buried his teeth in it. his jaws crunched it. new fire leapt into his blood as he feasted, but not for an instant did his reddened eyes leave the other's face. carvel replaced his pack. he rose to his feet, took up his rifle, slipped on his snowshoes, and fronted the north. "come on. boy," he said. "we've got to travel." it was a matter-of-fact invitation, as though the two had been traveling companions for a long time. it was, perhaps, not only an invitation but partly a command. it puzzled baree. for a full half-minute he stood motionless in his tracks gazing at carvel as he strode into the north. a sudden convulsive twitching shot through baree. he swung his head toward lac bain; he looked again at carvel, and a whine that was scarcely more than a breath came out of his throat. the man was just about to disappear into the thick spruce. he paused, and looked back. "coming, boy?" even at that distance baree could see him grinning affably. he saw the outstretched hand, and the voice stirred new sensations in him. it was not like pierrot's voice. he had never loved pierrot. neither was it soft and sweet like the willow's. he had known only a few men, and all of them he had regarded with distrust. but this was a voice that disarmed him. it was lureful in its appeal. he wanted to answer it. he was filled with a desire, all at once, to follow close at the heels of this stranger. for the first time in his life a craving for the friendship of man possessed him. he did not move until jim carvel entered the spruce. then he followed. that night they were camped in a dense growth of cedars and balsams ten miles north of bush mctaggart's trap line. for two hours it had snowed, and their trail was covered. it was still snowing, but not a flake of the white deluge sifted down through the thick canopy of boughs. carvel had put up his small silk tent, and had built a fire. their supper was over, and baree lay on his belly facing the outlaw, almost within reach of his hand. with his back to a tree carvel was smoking luxuriously. he had thrown off his cap and his coat, and in the warm fireglow he looked almost boyishly young. but even in that glow his jaws lost none of their squareness, nor his eyes their clear alertness. "seems good to have someone to talk to," he was saying to baree. "someone who can understand, an' keep his mouth shut. did you ever want to howl, an' didn't dare? well, that's me. sometimes i've been on the point of bustin' because i wanted to talk to someone, an' couldn't." he rubbed his hands together, and held them out toward the fire. baree watched his movements and listened intently to every sound that escaped his lips. his eyes had in them now a dumb sort of worship, a look that warmed carvel's heart and did away with the vast loneliness and emptiness of the night. baree had dragged himself nearer to the man's feet, and suddenly carvel leaned over and patted his head. "i'm a bad one, old chap," he chuckled. "you haven't got it on me--not a bit. want to know what happened?" he waited a moment, and baree looked at him steadily. then carvel went on, as if speaking to a human, "let's see--it was five years ago, five years this december, just before christmas time. had a dad. fine old chap, my dad was. no mother--just the dad, an' when you added us up we made just one. understand? and along came a white-striped skunk named hardy and shot him one day because dad had worked against him in politics. out an' out murder. an' they didn't hang that skunk! no, sir, they didn't hang him. he had too much money, an' too many friends in politics, an' they let 'im off with two years in the penitentiary. but he didn't get there. no--s'elp me god, he didn't get there!" carvel was twisting his hands until his knuckles cracked. an exultant smile lighted up his face, and his eyes flashed back the firelight. baree drew a deep breath--a mere coincidence; but it was a tense moment for all that. "no, he didn't get to the penitentiary," went on carvel, looking straight at baree again. "yours truly knew what that meant, old chap. he'd have been pardoned inside a year. an' there was my dad, the biggest half of me, in his grave. so i just went up to that white-striped skunk right there before the judge's eyes, an' the lawyers' eyes, an' the eyes of all his dear relatives an' friends--and i killed him! and i got away. was out through a window before they woke up, hit for the bush country, and have been eating up the trails ever since. an' i guess god was with me, boy. for he did a queer thing to help me out summer before last, just when the mounties were after me hardest an' it looked pretty black. man was found drowned down in the reindeer country, right where they thought i was cornered. an' the good lord made that man look so much like me that he was buried under my name. so i'm officially dead, old chap. i don't need to be afraid any more so long as i don't get too familiar with people for a year or so longer, and 'way down inside me i've liked to believe god fixed it up in that way to help me out of a bad hole. what's your opinion? eh?" he leaned forward for an answer. baree had listened. perhaps, in a way, he had understood. but it was another sound than carvel's voice that came to his ears now. with his head close to the ground he heard it quite distinctly. he whined, and the whine ended in a snarl so low that carvel just caught the warning note in it. he straightened. he stood up then, and faced the south. baree stood beside him, his legs tense and his spine bristling. after a moment carvel said: "relatives of yours, old chap. wolves." he went into the tent for his rifle and cartridges. chapter 29 baree was on his feet, rigid as hewn rock, when carvel came out of the tent, and for a few moments carvel stood in silence, watching him closely. would the dog respond to the call of the pack? did he belong to them? would he go--now? the wolves were drawing nearer. they were not circling, as a caribou or a deer would have circled, but were traveling straight--dead straight for their camp. the significance of this fact was easily understood by carvel. all that afternoon baree's feet had left a blood smell in their trail, and the wolves had struck the trail in the deep forest, where the falling snow had not covered it. carvel was not alarmed. more than once in his five years of wandering between the arctic and the height of land he had played the game with the wolves. once he had almost lost, but that was out in the open barren. tonight he had a fire, and in the event of his firewood running out he had trees he could climb. his anxiety just now was centered in baree. so he said, making his voice quite casual: "you aren't going, are you, old chap?" if baree heard him he gave no evidence of it. but carvel, still watching him closely, saw that the hair along his spine had risen like a brush, and then he heard--growing slowly in baree's throat--a snarl of ferocious hatred. it was the sort of snarl that had held back the factor from lac bain, and carvel, opening the breech of his gun to see that all was right, chuckled happily. baree may have heard the chuckle. perhaps it meant something to him, for he turned his head suddenly and with flattened ears looked at his companion. the wolves were silent now. carvel knew what that meant, and he was tensely alert. in the stillness the click of the safety on his rifle sounded with metallic sharpness. for many minutes they heard nothing but the crack of the fire. suddenly baree's muscles seemed to snap. he sprang back, and faced the quarter behind carvel, his head level with his shoulders, his inch-long fangs gleaming as he snarled into the black caverns of the forest beyond the rim of firelight. carvel had turned like a shot. it was almost frightening--what he saw. a pair of eyes burning with greenish fire, and then another pair, and after that so many of them that he could not have counted them. he gave a sadden gasp. they were like cat eyes, only much larger. some of them, catching the firelight fully, were red as coals, others flashed blue and green--living things without bodies. with a swift glance he took in the black circle of the forest. they were out there, too; they were on all sides of them, but where he had seen them first they were thickest. in these first few seconds he had forgotten baree, awed almost to stupefaction by that monster-eyed cordon of death that hemmed them in. there were fifty--perhaps a hundred wolves out there, afraid of nothing in all this savage world but fire. they had come up without the sound of a padded foot or a broken twig. if it had been later, and they had been asleep, and the fire out-he shuddered, and for a moment the thought got the better of his nerves. he had not intended to shoot except from necessity, but all at once his rifle came to his shoulder and he sent a stream of fire out where the eyes were thickest. baree knew what the shots meant, and filled with the mad desire to get at the throat of one of his enemies he dashed in their direction. carvel gave a startled yell as he went. he saw the flash of baree's body, saw it swallowed up in the gloom, and in that same instant heard the deadly clash of fangs and the impact of bodies. a wild thrill shot through him. the dog had charged alone--and the wolves had waited. there could be but one end. his four-footed comrade had gone straight into the jaws of death! he could hear the ravening snap of those jaws out in the darkness. it was sickening. his hand went to the colt .45 at his belt, and he thrust his empty rifle butt downward into the snow. with the big automatic before his eyes he plunged out into the darkness, and from his lips there issued a wild yelling that could have been heard a mile away. with the yelling a steady stream of fire spat from the colt into the mass of fighting beasts. there were eight shots in the automatic, and not until the plunger clicked with metallic emptiness did carvel cease his yelling and retreat into the firelight. he listened, breathing deeply. he no longer saw eyes in the darkness, nor did he hear the movement of bodies. the suddenness and ferocity of his attack had driven back the wolf horde. but the dog! he caught his breath, and strained his eyes. a shadow was dragging itself into the circle of light. it was baree. carvel ran to him, put his arms under his shoulders, and brought him to the fire. for a long time after that there was a questioning light in carvel's eyes. he reloaded his guns, put fresh fuel on the fire, and from his pack dug out strips of cloth with which he bandaged three or four of the deepest cuts in baree's legs. and a dozen times he asked, in a wondering sort of way, "now what the deuce made you do that, old chap? what have you got against the wolves?" all that night he did not sleep, but watched. their experience with the wolves broke down the last bit of uncertainty that might have existed between the man and the dog. for days after that, as they traveled slowly north and west, carvel nursed baree as he might have cared for a sick child. because of the dog's hurts, he made only a few miles a day. baree understood, and in him there grew stronger and stronger a great love for the man whose hands were as gentle as the willow's and whose voice warmed him with the thrill of an immeasurable comradeship. he no longer feared him or had a suspicion of him. and carvel, on his part, was observing things. the vast emptiness of the world about them, and their aloneness, gave him the opportunity of pondering over unimportant details, and he found himself each day watching baree a little more closely. he made at last a discovery which interested him deeply. always, when they halted on the trail, baree would turn his face to the south. when they were in camp it was from the south that he nosed the wind most frequently. this was quite natural, carvel thought, for his old hunting grounds were back there. but as the days passed he began to notice other things. now and then, looking off into the far country from which they had come, baree would whine softly, and on that day he would be filled with a great restlessness. he gave no evidence of wanting to leave carvel, but more and more carvel came to understand that some mysterious call was coming to him from out of the south. it was the wanderer's intention to swing over into the country of the great slave, a good eight hundred miles to the north and west, before the mush snows came. from there, when the waters opened in springtime, he planned to travel by canoe westward to the mackenzie and ultimately to the mountains of british columbia. these plans were changed in february. they were caught in a great storm in the wholdaia lake country, and when their fortunes looked darkest carvel stumbled on a cabin in the heart of a deep spruce forest, and in this cabin there was a dead man. he had been dead for many days, and was frozen stiff. carvel chopped a hole in the earth and buried him. the cabin was a treasure trove to carvel and baree, and especially to the man. it evidently possessed no other owner than the one who had died. it was comfortable and stocked with provisions; and more than that, its owner had made a splendid catch of fur before the frost bit his lungs, and he died. carvel went over them carefully and joyously. they were worth a thousand dollars at any post, and he could see no reason why they did not belong to him now. within a week he had blazed out the dead man's snow-covered trap line and was trapping on his own account. this was two hundred miles north and west of the gray loon, and soon carvel observed that baree did not face directly south in those moments when the strange call came to him, but south and east. and now, with each day that passed, the sun rose higher in the sky; it grew warmer; the snow softened underfoot, and in the air was the tremulous and growing throb of spring. with these things came the old yearning to baree; the heart-thrilling call of the lonely graves back on the gray loon, of the burned cabin, the abandoned tepee beyond the pool--and of nepeese. in his sleep he saw visions of things. he heard again the low, sweet voice of the willow, felt the touch of her hand, was at play with her once more in the dark shades of the forest--and carvel would sit and watch him as he dreamed, trying to read the meaning of what he saw and heard. in april carvel shouldered his furs up to the hudson's bay company's post at lac la biche, which was still farther north. baree accompanied him halfway, and then--at sundown carvel returned to the cabin and found him there. he was so overjoyed that he caught the dog's head in his arms and hugged it. they lived in the cabin until may. the buds were swelling then, and the smell of growing things had begun to rise up out of the earth. then carvel found the first of the early blue flowers. that night he packed up. "it's time to travel," he announced to baree. "and i've sort of changed my mind. we're going back--there." and he pointed south. chapter 30 a strange humor possessed carvel as he began the southward journey. he did not believe in omens, good or bad. superstition had played a small part in his life, but he possessed both curiosity and a love for adventure, and his years of lonely wandering had developed in him a wonderfully clear mental vision of things, which in other words might be called a singularly active imagination. he knew that some irresistible force was drawing baree back into the south--that it was pulling him not only along a given line of the compass, but to an exact point in that line. for no reason in particular the situation began to interest him more and more, and as his time was valueless, and he had no fixed destination in view, he began to experiment. for the first two days he marked the dog's course by compass. it was due southeast. on the third morning carvel purposely struck a course straight west. he noted quickly the change in baree--his restlessness at first, and after that the dejected manner in which he followed at his heels. toward noon carvel swung sharply to the south and east again, and almost immediately baree regained his old eagerness, and ran ahead of his master. after this, for many days, carvel followed the trail of the dog. "mebby i'm an idiot, old chap," he apologized one evening. "but it's a bit of fun, after all--an' i've got to hit the line of rail before i can get over to the mountains, so what's the difference? i'm game--so long as you don't take me back to that chap at lac bain. now--what the devil! are you hitting for his trap line, to get even? if that's the case--" he blew out a cloud of smoke from his pipe as he eyed baree, and baree, with his head between his forepaws, eyed him back. a week later baree answered carvel's question by swinging westward to give a wide berth to post lac bain. it was midafternoon when they crossed the trail along which bush mctaggart's traps and deadfalls had been set. baree did not even pause. he headed due south, traveling so fast that at times he was lost to carvel's sight. a suppressed but intense excitement possessed him, and he whined whenever carvel stopped to rest--always with his nose sniffing the wind out of the south. springtime, the flowers, the earth turning green, the singing of birds, and the sweet breaths in the air were bringing him back to that great yesterday when he had belonged to nepeese. in his unreasoning mind there existed no longer a winter. the long months of cold and hunger were gone; in the new visionings that filled his brain they were forgotten. the birds and flowers and the blue skies had come back, and with them the willow must surely have returned, and she was waiting for him now, just over there beyond that rim of green forest. something greater than mere curiosity began to take possession of carvel. a whimsical humor became a fixed and deeper thought, an unreasoning anticipation that was accompanied by a certain thrill of subdued excitement. by the time they reached the old beaver pond the mystery of the strange adventure had a firm hold on him. from beaver tooth's colony baree led him to the creek along which wakayoo, the black bear, had fished, and thence straight to the gray loon. it was early afternoon of a wonderful day. it was so still that the rippling waters of spring, singing in a thousand rills and streamlets, filled the forests with a droning music. in the warm sun the crimson bakneesh glowed like blood. in the open spaces the air was scented with the perfume of blue flowers. in the trees and bushes mated birds were building their nests. after the long sleep of winter nature was at work in all her glory. it was unekepesim, the mating moon, the home-building moon--and baree was going home. not to matehood--but to nepeese. he knew that she was there now, perhaps at the very edge of the chasm where he had seen her last. they would be playing together again soon, as they had played yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and in his joy he barked up into carvel's face, and urged him to greater speed. then they came to the clearing, and once more baree stood like a rock. carvel saw the charred ruins of the burned cabin, and a moment later the two graves under the tall spruce. he began to understand as his eyes returned slowly to the waiting, listening dog. a great swelling rose in his throat, and after a moment or two he said softly, and with an effort, "boy, i guess you're home." baree did not hear. with his head up and his nose tilted to the blue sky he was sniffing the air. what was it that came to him with the perfumes of the forests and the green meadow? why was it that he trembled now as he stood there? what was there in the air? carvel asked himself, and his questing eyes tried to answer the questions. nothing. there was death here--death and desertion, that was all. and then, all at once, there came from baree a strange cry--almost a human cry--and he was gone like the wind. carvel had thrown off his pack. he dropped his rifle beside it now, and followed baree. he ran swiftly, straight across the open, into the dwarf balsams, and into a grass-grown path that had once been worn by the travel of feet. he ran until he was panting for breath, and then stopped, and listened. he could hear nothing of baree. but that old worn trail led on under the forest trees, and he followed it. close to the deep, dark pool in which he and the willow had disported so often baree, too, had stopped. he could hear the rippling of water, and his eyes shone with a gleaming fire as he searched for nepeese. he expected to see her there, her slim white body shimmering in some dark shadow of overhanging spruce, or gleaming suddenly white as snow in one of the warm plashes of sunlight. his eyes sought out their old hiding places; the great split rock on the other side, the shelving banks under which they used to dive like otter, the spruce boughs that dipped down to the surface, and in the midst of which the willow loved to pretend to hide while he searched the pool for her. and at last the realization was borne upon him that she was not there, that he had still farther to go. he went on to the tepee. the little open space in which they had built their hidden wigwam was flooded with sunshine that came through a break in the forest to the west. the tepee was still there. it did not seem very much changed to baree. and rising from the ground in front of the tepee was what had come to him faintly on the still air--the smoke of a small fire. over that fire was bending a person, and it did not strike baree as amazing, or at all unexpected, that this person should have two great shining braids down her back. he whined, and at his whine the person grew a little rigid, and turned slowly. even then it seemed quite the most natural thing in the world that it should be nepeese, and none other. he had lost her yesterday. today he had found her. and in answer to his whine there came a sobbing cry straight out of the heart of the willow. carvel found them there a few minutes later, the dog's head hugged close up against the willow's breast, and the willow was crying--crying like a little child, her face hidden from him on baree's neck. he did not interrupt them, but waited; and as he waited something in the sobbing voice and the stillness of the forest seemed to whisper to him a bit of the story of the burned cabin and the two graves, and the meaning of the call that had come to baree from out of the south. chapter 31 that night there was a new campfire in the clearing. it was not a small fire, built with the fear that other eyes might see it, but a fire that sent its flames high. in the glow of it stood carvel. and as the fire had changed from that small smoldering heap over which the willow had cooked her dinner, so carvel, the officially dead outlaw, had changed. the beard was gone from his face. he had thrown off his caribou-skin coat. his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and there was a wild flush in his face that was not altogether the work of wind and sun and storm, and a glow in his eyes that had not been there for five years, perhaps never before. his eyes were on nepeese. she sat in the firelight, leaning a little toward the blaze, her wonderful hair warmly reflecting its mellow light. carvel did not move while she was in that attitude. he seemed scarcely to breathe. the glow in his eyes grew deeper--the worship of a man for a woman. suddenly nepeese turned and caught him before he could turn his gaze. there was nothing to hide in her own eyes. like her face, they were alight with a new hope and a new gladness. carvel sat down beside her on the birch log, and in his hand he took one of her thick braids and crumpled it as he talked. at their feet, watching them, lay baree. "tomorrow or the next day i am going to lac bain," he said, a hard and bitter note back of the gentle worship in his voice. "i will not come back until i have--killed him." the willow looked straight into the fire. for a time there was a silence broken only by the crackling of the flames, and in that silence carvel's fingers weaved in and out of the silken strands of the willow's hair. his thoughts flashed back. what a chance he had missed that day on bush mctaggart's trap line--if he had only known! his jaws set hard as he saw in the red-hot heart of the fire the mental pictures of the day when the factor from lac bain had killed pierrot. she had told him the whole story. her flight. her plunge to what she had thought was certain death in the icy torrent of the chasm. her miraculous escape from the waters--and how she was discovered, nearly dead, by tuboa, the toothless old cree whom pierrot out of pity had allowed to hunt in part of his domain. he felt within himself the tragedy and the horror of the one terrible hour in which the sun had gone out of the world for the willow, and in the flames he could see faithful old tuboa as he called on his last strength to bear nepeese over the long miles that lay between the chasm and his cabin. he caught shifting visions of the weeks that followed in that cabin, weeks of hunger and of intense cold in which the willow's life hung by a single thread. and at last, when the snows were deepest, tuboa had died. carvel's fingers clenched in the strands of the willow's braid. a deep breath rose out of his chest, and he said, staring deep into the fire, "tomorrow i will go to lac bain." for a moment nepeese did not answer. she, too, was looking into the fire. then she said: "tuboa meant to kill him when the spring came, and he could travel. when tuboa died i knew that it was i who must kill him. so i came, with tuboa's gun. it was fresh loaded--yesterday. and--m'sieu jeem"--she looked up at him, a triumphant glow in her eyes as she added, almost in a whisper--"you will not go to lac bain. i have sent a messenger." "a messenger?" "yes, ookimow jeem--a messenger. two days ago. i sent word that i had not died, but was here--waiting for him--and that i would be iskwao now, his wife. oo-oo, he will come, ookimow jeem--he will come fast. and you shall not kill him. non!" she smiled into his face, and the throb of carvel's heart was like a drum. "the gun is loaded," she said softly. "i will shoot." "two days ago," said carvel. "and from lac bain it is--" "he will be here tomorrow," nepeese answered him. "tomorrow, as the sun goes down, he will enter the clearing. i know. my blood has been singing it all day. tomorrow--tomorrow--for he will travel fast, ookimow jeem. yes, he will come fast." carvel had bent his head. the soft tresses gripped in his fingers were crushed to his lips. the willow, looking again into the fire, did not see. but she felt--and her soul was beating like the wings of a bird. "ookimow jeem," she whispered--a breath, a flutter of the lips so soft that carvel heard no sound. if old tuboa had been there that night it is possible he would have read strange warnings in the winds that whispered now and then softly in the treetops. it was such a night; a night when the red gods whisper low among themselves, a carnival of glory in which even the dipping shadows and the high stars seemed to quiver with the life of a potent language. it is barely possible that old tuboa, with his ninety years behind him, would have learned something, or that at least he would have suspected a thing which carvel in his youth and confidence did not see. tomorrow--he will come tomorrow! the willow, exultant, had said that. but to old tuboa the trees might have whispered, why not tonight? it was midnight when the big moon stood full above the little opening in the forest. in the tepee the willow was sleeping. in a balsam shadow back from the fire slept baree, and still farther back in the edge of a spruce thicket slept carvel. dog and man were tired. they had traveled far and fast that day, and they heard no sound. but they had traveled neither so far nor so fast as bush mctaggart. between sunrise and midnight he had come forty miles when he strode out into the clearing where pierrot's cabin had stood. twice from the edge of the forest he had called; and now, when he found no answer, he stood under the light of the moon and listened. nepeese was to be here--waiting. he was tired, but exhaustion could not still the fire that burned in his blood. it had been blazing all day, and now--so near its realization and its triumph--the old passion was like a rich wine in his veins. somewhere, near where he stood, nepeese was waiting for him, waiting for him. once again he called, his heart beating in a fierce anticipation as he listened. there was no answer. and then for a thrilling instant his breath stopped. he sniffed the air--and there came to him faintly the smell of smoke. with the first instinct of the forest man he fronted the wind that was but a faint breath under the starlit skies. he did not call again, but hastened across the clearing. nepeese was off there--somewhere--sleeping beside her fire, and out of him there rose a low cry of exultation. he came to the edge of the forest; chance directed his steps to the overgrown trail. he followed it, and the smoke smell came stronger to his nostrils. it was the forest man's instinct, too, that added the element of caution to his advance. that, and the utter stillness of the night. he broke no sticks under his feet. he disturbed the brush so quietly that it made no sound. when he came at last to the little open where carvel's fire was still sending a spiral of spruce-scented smoke up into the air it was with a stealth that failed even to rouse baree. perhaps, deep down in him, there smoldered an old suspicion; perhaps it was because he wanted to come to her while she was sleeping. the sight of the tepee made his heart throb faster. it was light as day where it stood in the moonlight, and he saw hanging outside it a few bits of woman's apparel. he advanced soft-footed as a fox and stood a moment later with his hand on the cloth flap at the wigwam door, his head bent forward to catch the merest breath of sound. he could hear her breathing. for an instant his face turned so that the moonlight struck his eyes. they were aflame with a mad fire. then, still very quietly, he drew aside the flap at the door. it could not have been sound that roused baree, hidden in the black balsam shadow a dozen paces away. perhaps it was scent. his nostrils twitched first; then he awoke. for a few seconds his eyes glared at the bent figure in the tepee door. he knew that it was not carvel. the old smell--the man-beast's smell, filled his nostrils like a hated poison. he sprang to his feet and stood with his lips snarling back slowly from his long fangs. mctaggart had disappeared. from inside the tepee there came a sound; a sudden movement of bodies, a startled ejaculation of one awakening from sleep--and then a cry, a low, half-smothered, frightened cry, and in response to that cry baree shot out from under the balsam with a sound in his throat that had in it the note of death. in the edge of the spruce thicket carvel rolled uneasily. strange sounds were rousing him, cries that in his exhaustion came to him as if in a dream. at last he sat up, and then in sudden horror leaped to his feet and rushed toward the tepee. nepeese was in the open, crying the name she had given him--"ookimow jeem--ookimow--jeem--ookimow jeem--" she was standing there white and slim, her eyes with the blaze of the stars in them, and when she saw carvel she flung out her arms to him, still crying: "ookimow jeem--oo-oo, ookimow jeem--" in the tepee he heard the rage of a beast, the moaning cries of a man. he forgot that it was only last night he had come, and with a cry he swept the willow to his breast, and the willow's arms tightened round his neck as she moaned: "ookimow jeem--it is the man-beast--in there! it is the man-beast from lac bain--and baree--" truth flashed upon carvel, and he caught nepeese up in his arms and ran away with her from the sounds that had grown sickening and horrible. in the spruce thicket he put her feet once more to the ground. her arms were still tight around his neck. he felt the wild terror of her body as it throbbed against him. her breath was sobbing, and her eyes were on his face. he drew her closer, and suddenly he crushed his face down close against hers and felt for an instant the warm thrill of her lips against his own. and he heard the whisper, soft and trembling. "ooo-oo, ookimow jeem--" when carvel returned to the fire, alone, his colt in his hand, baree was in front of the tepee waiting for him. carvel picked up a burning brand and entered the wigwam. when he came out his face was white. he tossed the brand in the fire, and went back to nepeese. he had wrapped her in his blankets, and now he knelt down beside her and put his arms about her. "he is dead, nepeese." "dead, ookimow jeem?" "yes. baree killed him." she did not seem to breathe. gently, with his lips in her hair. carvel whispered his plans for their paradise. "no one will know, my sweetheart. tonight i will bury him and burn the tepee. tomorrow we will start for nelson house, where there is a missioner. and after that--we will come back--and i will build a new cabin where the old one burned. do you love me, ka sakahet?" "om'--yes--ookimow jeem--i love you--" suddenly there came an interruption. baree at last was giving his cry of triumph. it rose to the stars; it wailed over the roofs of the forests and filled the quiet skies--a wolfish howl of exultation, of achievement, of vengeance fulfilled. its echoes died slowly away, and silence came again. a great peace whispered in the soft breath of the treetops. out of the north came the mating call of a loon. about carvel's shoulders the willow's arms crept closer. and carvel, out of his heart, thanked god. 