CHAPTER IVANNE AND THE WOLF
“A pie of beach-plums, sweet and crusty,” Anne repeated to herself the next day as she carried Martha out to the playhouse, and rearranged her bits of crockery, and looked off across the harbor.
“I do wish they would ripen speedily,” she said aloud. “Indeed those I tasted of yesterday had a pleasant flavor, and I am sure Mistress Stoddard would be well pleased if I could bring home enough for a pie. I will take the small brown basket and follow the upper path, for the plum bushes grow thickly there,” and Martha was carefully settled in her accustomed place, and Anne ran to the house for the brown basket, and in a few moments was following a sandy path which led toward the salt meadows.
She stopped often to pick the yellowing beach-plums, and now and then tasted one hopefully, expecting to find the sweet pungent flavor whichthe children so well loved, but only once or twice did she discover any sign of ripeness.
“I’ll cross the upper marsh,” she decided; “’Tis not so shaded there, and the sun lies warm till late in the day, and the plums are sure to be sweeter. I hope my father finds many to eat along his journey. I wish I had told him that it was best for me to go with him. We could have made little fires at night and cooked a fish, and, with berries to eat, it would not have been unpleasant.”
The July sun beat warmly down, but a little breath of air from the sea moved steadily across the marshes filled with many pleasant odors. Here and there big bunches of marsh rosemary made spots of soft violet upon the brown grass, and now and then little flocks of sand-peeps rose from the ground and fluttered noisily away. But there was a pleasant midsummer stillness in the air, and by the time Anne had crossed the marsh and reached the shade of a low-growing oak tree she began to feel tired and content to rest a time before continuing her search for ripe beach-plums.
“I wish I had put Martha in the basket,” she thought as she leaned comfortably back againstthe scrubby trunk of the little tree; “then I could have something to talk to.” But she had not much time to regret her playmate, for in a second her eyes had closed and she was fast asleep. There was a movement in the bushes behind her, a breaking of twigs, a soft fall of padded feet, but she did not awaken.
A big animal with a soft, gray coat of fur, with sharp nose and ears alertly pointed, came out from the woods, sniffed the soft air cautiously, and turned his head warily toward the oak tree. The creature was evidently not alarmed at what he saw there, for he approached the sleeping child gently, made a noiseless circle about her, and then settled down at her feet, much as a big dog might have done. His nose rested upon his paws and his sharp eyes were upon the sleeping child.
In a little while Anne awoke. She had dreamed that Jimmie Starkweather had led a beautiful, big gray animal to Mistress Stoddard’s door, and told her that it was a wolf that he had tamed; so when she opened her eyes and saw the animal so near her she did not jump with surprise, but she said softly, “Wolf!”
The creature sprang to its feet at the sound ofher voice, and moved off a few paces, and then turned and looked over its shoulder at Anne.
“Wolf!” Anne repeated, brushing her hair from her eyes and pulling her sunbonnet over her head. Then she reached out for the plum basket, and stood up. Still the animal had not moved.
“I do believe it is tame,” thought Anne, and she made a step toward her visitor, but the gray wolf no longer hesitated, and with a bound it was off on a run across the marsh, and soon disappeared behind a clump of bushes.
“I wish it had stayed,” Anne said aloud, for there had been nothing to make her afraid of wild creatures, and Jimmie’s stories of a big wolf ranging about the outskirts of the settlement had not suggested to her that a wolf was anything which would do her harm, and she continued her search for beach-plums, her mind filled with the thought of many pleasant things.
“I do think, Mistress Stoddard, that I have plums enough for a pie,” she exclaimed, as she reached the kitchen door and held up her basket for Mistress Stoddard’s inspection.
“’Twill take a good measure of molasses, I fear,” declared Mrs. Stoddard, “but you shallhave the pie, dear child. ’Twill please Captain Enos mightily to have a pie for his supper when he gets in from the fishing; and I’ll tell him ’twas Anne who gathered the plums,” and she nodded smilingly at the little girl.
“And what think you has happened at the spring this morning?” she went on, taking the basket from Anne, who followed her into the neat little kitchen. “Jimmie Starkweather and his father near captured a big gray wolf. The creature walked up to the spring to drink as meek as a calf, and Mr. Starkweather ran for his axe to kill it, but ’twas off in a second.”
“But why should he kill it?” exclaimed Anne. “I’m sure ’Tis a good wolf. ’twas no harm for it to drink from the spring.”
“But a wolf is a dangerous beast,” replied Mrs. Stoddard; “the men-folk will take some way to capture it.”
Anne felt the tears very near her eyes. To her, the gray wolf had not seemed dangerous. It had looked kindly upon her, and she had already resolved that if it ever were possible she would like to stroke its soft fur.
“Couldn’t the wolf be tamed?” she questioned. “I went to sleep near the marsh thismorning and dreamed that Jimmie Starkweather had a tame wolf.” But for some reason, which Anne herself could not have explained, she did not tell her good friend of the wild creature which had come so near to her when she slept, and toward whom she had so friendly a feeling, and Mrs. Stoddard, busy with her preparations for pie-making, did not speak further of the wolf.
There was a good catch of fish that day, and Captain Enos came home smiling and well pleased.
“If we could hope that the British ships would keep out of harbor we could look forward to some comfort,” he said, “but Starkweather had news from an Ipswich fisherman that the ‘Somerset’ was cruising down the cape, and like as not she’ll anchor off the village some morning. And from what we hear, her sailors find it good sport to lay hands on what they see.”
The appearance of the beach-plum pie, warm from the oven, turned the captain’s thoughts to more pleasant subjects. “’Tis a clever child to find ripe beach-plums in July,” he said, as he cut Anne a liberal piece, “and a bit of tartness gives it an excellent flavor. Well, well, it issurely a pleasant thing to have a little maid in the house,” and he nodded kindly toward Anne.
After supper when Anne had gone up to her little chamber under the eaves, and Captain Enos and Mrs. Stoddard were sitting upon their front door-step enjoying the cool of the evening, Captain Enos said:
“Martha, Anne calls you Mistress Stoddard, does she not?”
“Always,” answered his wife. “She is a most thoughtful and respectful child. Never does she speak of thee, Enos, except to say ‘Captain.’ She has been in the house for over two months now, and I see no fault in her.”
“A quick temper,” responded Captain Enos, but his tone was not that of a person who had discovered a fault. Indeed he smiled as he spoke, remembering the flight of the Cary children.
“I would like well to have the little maid feel that we were pleased with her,” continued the captain slowly. “If she felt like calling me ‘Father’ and you ‘Mother,’ I should see no harm in it, and perhaps ’twould be well to have her name put on the town records as bearing our name, Anne Stoddard?” and Captain Enos regarded his wife questioningly.
“It is what I have been wishing for, Enos!” exclaimed Mrs. Stoddard, “but maybe ’twere better for the child to call us ‘Uncle’ and ‘Aunt.’ She does not yet forget her own father, you see, and she might feel ’twere not right to give another his name.”
Captain Enos nodded approvingly. “A good and loyal heart she has, I know,” he answered, “and ’twill be better indeed not to puzzle the little maid. We’ll be ‘Uncle’ and ‘Aunt’ to her then, Martha; and as for her name on the town records, perhaps we’ll let the matter rest till Anne is old enough to choose for herself. If the British keep on harrying us it may well be that we fisherfolk will have to go further up the coast for safety.”
“And desert Province Town?” exclaimed Mrs. Stoddard, “the place where your father and mine, Enos, were born and died, and their fathers before them. No—we’ll not search for safety at such a price. I doubt if I could live in those shut-in places such as I hear the upper landings are.”
Captain Enos chuckled approvingly. “I knew well what you would say to that, Martha,” he replied, “and now we must get our sleep, forthe tide serves early to-morrow morning, and I must make the best of these good days.”
“Captain Enos was well pleased with the pie, Anne,” said Mrs. Stoddard the next morning, as the little girl stood beside her, carefully wiping the heavy ironware.[1]“And what does thee think! The captain loves thee so well, child, that it would please him to have thee call him Uncle Enos. That is kind of him, is it not, Anne?” and Mistress Stoddard smiled down at the eager little face at her elbow.
“It is indeed, Mistress Stoddard,” replied Anne happily; “shall I begin to-night?”
“Yes, child, and I shall like it well if you call me ‘Aunt’; ’twill seem nearer than ‘Mistress Stoddard,’ and you are same as our own child now.”
Anne’s dark eyes looked up earnestly into Mistress Stoddard’s kind face. “But I am my father’s little girl, too,” she said.
“Of course you are,” answered her friend. “Captain Enos and I are not asking you to forget your father, child. No doubt he did his best for you, but you are to care for us, too.”
“But I do, Aunt Martha; I love you well,”said Anne, so naturally that Mrs. Stoddard stopped her work long enough to give her a kiss and to say, “There, child, now we are all settled. ’twill please your Uncle Enos well.”
As soon as the few dishes were set away Anne wandered down the hill toward the spring. She no longer feared the Cary children, and she hoped to see some of the Starkweather family and hear more of the gray wolf, and at the spring she found Jimmie with two wooden buckets filled and ready for him to carry home to his waiting mother.
“You missed the great sight yesterday, Anne,” he said, as she approached the spring. “What think you! A wolf as big as a calf walked boldly up and drank, right where I stand.”
“’twas not as big as a calf,” declared Anne; “and why should you seek to kill a wild creature who wants but a drink? ’Tis not a bad wolf.”
Jimmie looked at her in surprise, his gray eyes widening and shining in wonder. “All wolves are bad,” he declared. “This same gray wolf walked off with Widow Bett’s plumpest hen and devoured it before her very eyes.”
“Well, the poor creature was hungry. We eat plump hens, when we can get them,” answered Anne.
Jimmie laughed good-naturedly. “Wait till you see the beast, Anne,” he answered. “Its eyes shine like black water, and its teeth show like pointed rocks. You’d not stand up for it so boldly if you had but seen it.”
Anne made no answer; she was not even tempted to tell Jimmie that she had seen the animal, had been almost within arm’s reach of it.
“I must be going,” she said, “but do not harm the wolf, Jimmie,” and she looked at the boy pleadingly; “perhaps it knows no better than to take food when it is hungry.”
“I’d like its skin for a coat,” the boy answered, “but ’Tis a wise beast and knows well how to take care of itself. It’s miles away by this time,” and picking up the buckets he started toward home, and Anne turned away from the spring and walked toward the little pasture where Brownie fed in safety.
She stopped to speak to the little brown cow and to give her a handful of tender grass, and then wandered down the slope and along the edge of the marsh.
“Maybe ’twill come again,” she thought, as she reached the little oak tree and sat down where she had slept the day before. “Perhaps if I sit very still it will come out again. I’m sure ’Tis not an unfriendly beast.”
The little girl sat very still; she did not feel sleepy or tired, and her dark eyes scanned the marsh hopefully, but as the summer morning drifted toward noon she began to realize that her watch was in vain.
“I s’pose Jimmie Starkweather was right, and the gray wolf is miles away,” she thought, as she decided that she must leave the shadow of the oak and hurry toward home so that Aunt Martha would not be anxious about her.
“I wish the wolf knew I liked him,” the little girl said aloud, as she turned her face toward home. “I would not chase him away from the spring, and I would not want his gray fur for a coat,” and Anne’s face was very sober, as she sent a lingering look along the thick-growing woods that bordered the marsh. She often thought of the wolf, but she never saw it again.
[1]A coarse chinaware.
A coarse chinaware.
CHAPTER VSCARLET STOCKINGS
“Good news from Truro, Captain Enos,” said Joseph Starkweather, one morning in August, as the two neighbors met at the boat landing. “There’ll be good hope for American freedom if all our settlements show as much wit and courage.”
“And what have Truro men done?” demanded Captain Enos. “They are mostly of the same blood as our Province Town folks, and would naturally be of some wit.”
Joseph Starkweather’s eyes brightened and twinkled at his neighbor’s answer.
“’twas the sand-hills helped them,” he answered. “You know the little valleys between the row of sand-hills near the shore? Well, the British fleet made anchorage off there some days since, and the Truro men had no mind for them to land and spy out how few there were. So they gathered in one of those little valleys and, carrying smooth poles to look like muskets,they marched out in regular file like soldiers over the sand-hill; then down they went through the opposite depression and around the hill and back, and then up they came again, constantly marching; and the British, who could be seen getting boats ready to land, thought better of it. They believed that an immense force of American soldiers had assembled, and the ships hoisted sail and made off. ’twas good work.”
“Indeed it was,” responded Captain Enos. “I could wish that we of this settlement were not so at the mercy of the British. Our harbor is too good. It draws them like a magnet. I do think three thousand ships might find safe anchorage here,” and Captain Enos turned an admiring look out across the beautiful harbor.
“Have you any news of John Nelson?” questioned Joseph Starkweather.
“How could there be news of a man whose boat sunk under him well off Race Point in a southerly gale?” responded Captain Stoddard.
Joseph approached a step nearer his companion and said: “He was on one of the British ships, Enos; he was seen there, and now news comes by way of a Newburyport fisherman that ’twas no fault of John Nelson’s.The Britishers ran down his boat and took him on board their ship, and the news goes that when the fleet anchored off here Nelson escaped; swam ashore in the night, the story goes, and made his way to Wellfleet and joined the Americans at Dorchester who are ready to resist the British if need be.”
Captain Enos’s face brightened as he listened. “That is indeed good news!” he said. “I am glad for our little maid’s sake that her father is known to be a loyal man. But ’Tis strange he did not seek to see Anne,” he continued thoughtfully.
“John Nelson loved the little maid well,” declared Joseph Starkweather. “He had but poor luck here, but he did his best. The Newburyport man tells that the British are in great anger at his escape, and vow that the settlement here shall pay well for it when they make harbor here again.”
“We have no arms to defend the harbor. ’Tis hard work to rest quiet here,” said Captain Enos; “but it is great news to know that our little maid’s father is a loyal man. We like the child well.”
“’twas I sent Anne to your house, Enos,”responded Joseph. “My own is so full that I dared not ask Mistress Starkweather to take the child in; and I knew your wife for a kind-hearted woman.”
“It was a good thought, Joseph,” responded the captain, “and Anne seems well content with us. She has her playhouse under the trees, and amuses herself without making trouble. She is a helpful little maid, too, saving Mistress Stoddard many a step. I must be going toward home. There was an excellent chowder planned for my dinner, and Martha will rejoice at the news from Truro,” and the captain hurried toward home.
Half-way up the hill he saw Anne, coming to meet him. “Uncle Enos! Uncle Enos!” she called, “Brownie is lost! Indeed she is. All the morning have I gone up and down the pasture, calling her name and looking everywhere for her, and she is not to be found.”
“Well, well!” responded Captain Enos; “’Tis sure the Britishers have not stolen her, for there is not one of their craft in sight. The cow is probably feeding somewhere about; we’ll find her safe in some good pasturage. Is the chowder steaming hot and waiting?”
“Yes, Uncle Enos,” replied Anne, slipping her hand into the captain’s, “but Aunt Martha is greatly concerned about Brownie. She fears the Indians may have driven her off.”
“We’ll cruise about a little after dinner,” answered the captain. “I don’t like to think that the Indians would show themselves unfriendly just now,” and his pleasant face grew stern and serious.
But his appetite for the chowder was excellent, and when he started out to search for Brownie he was sure that he would find her near the marsh or perhaps in the maple grove further on, where the cattle sometimes wandered.
“Now, Anne, I have an errand for you to do,” said Mrs. Stoddard, as the captain started on his search. “I’ve just remembered that the Starkweather children had good stockings last year of crimson yarn. Now it may be that Mrs. Starkweather has more on hand, and that I could exchange my gray, as she has stout boys to wear gray stockings, for her scarlet yarn; and then we’ll take up some stockings for you.”
Anne’s face brightened. “I should well like some scarlet stockings,” she said.
“I mean you to be warmly clad come frost,”said Mrs. Stoddard. “Now see that you do the errand well. Ask Mrs. Starkweather, first of all, if she be in good health. It is not seemly to be too earnest in asking a favor. Then say that Mistress Stoddard has enough excellent gray yarn for two pair of long stockings, and that she would take it as a kindness if Mistress Starkweather would take it in exchange for scarlet yarn.”
“Yes, Aunt Martha, I will surely remember,” and Anne started off happily.
As she passed the spring a shrill voice called her name, and she turned to see Amanda Cary, half hidden behind a small savin.
“Come and play,” called Amanda. “I am not angry if you did chase me. My mother says you knew no better!”
Anne listened in amazement. Knew no better! Had not Captain Enos approved of her defense of herself, and were not the Cary children the first to begin trouble with her! So Anne shook her head and walked sedately on.
“Come and play,” repeated the shrill voice. “My brother and Jimmie Starkweather are gone looking for our cow, and I have no one to play with.”
“Is your cow lost, too?” exclaimed Anne, quite forgetting Amanda’s unkindness in this common ill-fortune.
Amanda now came out from behind the savin tree; a small, thin-faced child, with light eyes, sandy hair and freckles.
“Yes, and we think the Indians have driven them off. For the Starkweathers’ cow is not to be found. ’twill be a sad loss, my mother says; for it will leave but three cows in the town.”
“But they may be found,” insisted Anne. “My Uncle Enos has gone now to look for Brownie.”
“‘Uncle Enos’!” repeated Amanda scornfully. “He’s not your uncle. You are a waif. My mother said so, and waifs do not have uncles or fathers or anybody.”
“I am no waif, for I have a father, and my Uncle Enos will tell your mother not to say such words of me!” declared Anne boldly, but she felt a lump in her throat and wished very much that she had not stopped to talk with Amanda.
“I don’t see why you get angry so quick,” said Amanda. “You get angry at everything. I’d just as soon play with you, if you are a waif.”
“I wouldn’t play with you anyway,” said Anne; “I have an errand to do, and if I had not I would rather never play than play with such a hateful, ill-speaking child as you are,” and Anne hurried on her way toward the Starkweathers’ low-built, weather-beaten house near the shore.
“I shall be glad indeed to get rid of some of my scarlet yarn,” declared Mrs. Starkweather, “and you can take home a skein or two of it and tell Mistress Stoddard that her little girl does an errand very prettily. I could wish my boys were as well-mannered.”
Anne smiled, well pleased at the pleasant words.
“Uncle Enos says there is no better boy than Jimmie,” she responded. “He says he is a smart and honest lad,—a ‘real Starkweather,’ he calls him,” she responded.
“Does he so?” and the woman’s thin face flushed with pleasure at this praise of her eldest son. “Well, we do prize Jimmie, and ’Tis good news to know him well thought of, and you are a kindly little maid to speak such pleasant words. Mistress Stoddard is lucky indeed to have you.”
“I call her Aunt Martha now,” said Anne,feeling that Mrs. Starkweather was nearly as kind as Mrs. Stoddard, and quite forgetting the trouble of Brownie’s loss or of Amanda’s teasing in the good woman’s pleasantness.
“That is well,” replied Mrs. Starkweather. “You will bring her much happiness, I can well see. I could wish you had come to me, child, when your father went; but the Stoddards can do better for you.”
“Should I have called you ‘Aunt’?” Anne asked a little wistfully.
“Indeed you should, and you may now if Mistress Stoddard be willing. Say to her that I’d like well to be Aunt Starkweather to her little maid.”
So Anne, with her bundle of scarlet yarn, started toward home, much happier than when she had rapped at Mrs. Starkweather’s door.
Amanda was still sitting at the spring. “Anne,” she called shrilly, “may I go up to your house and play with you?”
Anne shook her head, and without a backward look at the child by the spring kept on her way toward home. She had much to tell her Aunt Martha, who listened, well pleased at her neighbor’s kind words.
“And Amanda Cary said that their cow was lost, and the Starkweathers’ cow, too. Amos Cary and Jimmie are off searching for them now, and do fear the Indians have driven them off,” said Anne.
“’twill be bad fortune indeed if that be true,” replied Mrs. Stoddard, “for we are not as well provisioned for the winter as usual, and it would be a worrisome thing to have the Indians bothering us on shore and the British to fear at sea. But I’ll take up your stockings to-day, Anne. The yarn is a handsome color, and well spun.”
“I think I will not leave Martha at the playhouse after this,” said Anne thoughtfully; “something might happen to her.”
Mrs. Stoddard nodded approvingly, and Anne brought the wooden doll in.
“Like as not your Uncle Enos will make you a wooden chair for the doll when the evenings get longer,” said Mrs. Stoddard. “He’s clever with his knife, and ’twill give him something to busy his hands with. I’ll call his attention to the doll.”
“My!” exclaimed Anne, “I do think an aunt and uncle are nice to have. And a father is too,” she added quickly, for she could notbear that any one should think that she had forgotten her own father.
“Yes, indeed, child; and there’s good news of your own father. He was on the British ship and escaped and made his way to Wellfleet to join the American soldiers.”
“Oh, Aunt Martha!” and the little girl sprang up from her little stool and grasped her good friend’s gown with eager hands, and then told her the story of her father’s visit. “But I could not tell it before,” she said.
“Indeed you are a loyal little maid,” replied Mrs. Stoddard approvingly, “and you must always keep a promise, but see to it that you promise nothing quickly. I think the better of John Nelson that he took great risk to make sure his little daughter was safe and well cared for. The captain will think it good news, too.”
“My father will come back some day,” declared Anne, and Mrs. Stoddard agreed cheerfully.
“To be sure he will,” she said, “but do not think of that too much, dear child. See, I have the stitches all cast on, and your scarlet stockings are really begun.”
CHAPTER VICAPTURED BY INDIANS
The more Anne thought about Brownie the more fearful she became that some harm had befallen the pretty brown cow.
“Her foot may have caught in those twisted roots on the hill,” thought the little girl, “or perhaps the Indians have fastened her in the woods. I do believe I could find her, and save Uncle Enos the trouble,” and the more Anne thought of it the more eager she became to search for Brownie; and, on the day that the scarlet stockings were begun, Anne resolved to walk up the hill and look about for the missing cow.
As she trudged along she thought of many things, of the gray wolf, which had disappeared completely, having probably made its way up the cape to better hunting grounds; and she thought a great deal about her father, and of the day he had come to tell her of his safety.But Anne did not think much about the Indians. The cape settlements had been on friendly terms with the Chatham Indians for some time, and the people of Province Town were more in peril from the freebooters of the sea than from Indians.
Anne had climbed the hill, passed the grove of scrubby pines, and stood looking across the sand-dunes toward the open sea. She had looked carefully for Brownie, but there was no trace of her. But Anne was sure that, at the edge of the pine woods, some creature had been near her. She had lived out-of-doors so much that her ears were quick to distinguish any sound. At first she had wondered if it might not be the wolf, and, as she stood looking across the sand, she almost hoped that it might be. “Perhaps I could tame it and have it live at our house,” she thought, and then remembered what Aunt Martha had said: that it would be a hard winter, “and wolves eat a good deal, I suppose,” decided Anne, “so ’twill not be wise to tame it.”
Had she looked behind her she would not have felt so secure. An Indian woman had been following Anne, and was now within arm’sreach of her. And Anne had just come to her decision in regard to the wolf, when a blanket fell over her head, was quickly twisted about her, and she felt herself lifted from the ground. Then she heard a chatter of voices in a strange tongue, and realized that she was being carried away from the pine woods. She tried to free herself from the blanket, and tried to call out; but she could not move, and her voice made only a muffled sound. She heard a laugh from the squaw who was carrying her so easily, and in a moment felt herself dropped on the soft sand, and held down firmly for a moment. Then she lay quietly. She knew, though she could not see, that a canoe was being launched. There was talk among a number of people near her, and then she was lifted and put into the canoe, and again firmly held by a strong arm. Then came the smooth dip of paddles, and Anne knew that she was being taken away from home, and she felt the tears on her cheeks. She did not try to scream again, for there had been a rough twist of the blanket about her head when she cried out before, and she was held too firmly to struggle. She could hear the guttural voices of the Indians, and, after what seemed a long time, she realized that her captors were making a landing. She was again dropped on sand, and now the blanket was unwound and Anne stood up. She found herself facing three Indian women. Two of them frowned at her, but the younger smiled and nodded, and patted Anne’s shoulder.
A BLANKET FELL OVER HER HEAD
A BLANKET FELL OVER HER HEAD
The two elder squaws began to talk rapidly, but the one who stood beside Anne remained silent. The canoe was lifted from the beach by the two, as they talked, and carried up toward the rough pasture-land. Anne’s companion took her by the hand and led her after the others.
“I want to go right home,” Anne announced. “You must take me right back to Captain Stoddard’s.” The young squaw shook her head, still smiling, and Anne realized that her companion could not understand what she said. The little girl stopped short, and then the smile faded from the squaw’s face; she gave her an ugly twitch forward, and when Anne still refused to move a stinging blow on the cheek followed. Anne began to cry bitterly. She was now thoroughly frightened, and began to wonder what would become of her.
The squaws hid the canoe carefully, coveringit up with vines and brush, and then started along the shore. Anne and her companion now kept close to the other two. And the three squaws talked together. Now and then they would stop, and shading their eyes with one hand, look seaward as if watching for some expected boat, but none appeared. Anne’s bare feet began to ache. She believed they would be blistered, but the women paid no attention to her. Anne knew that they were very near the Truro beach. She could see the big waves dashing up in a long curving line, and as they came round a high cliff of sand they came suddenly upon a big fishing-boat drawn up on the beach. Two sailors stood by it. In an instant the squaws had turned to flee, dragging Anne with them. But she screamed, and threw herself down on the sand. The sailors came running toward them, and the Indian women fled.
“It’s a white child,” exclaimed one of the men, picking Anne up, and wiping her face with a big soft handkerchief. “What were they doing with you, child?” And leaning against his friendly arm, Anne told her story, and showed her bruised feet.
“’Tis lucky for you we put ashore,” said theman. “We’ll take you home, little maid, safe and sound.”
“You are not from Province Town?” Anne ventured to ask, looking up into the kind blue eyes.
“We are good English sailors, my girl,” the other man answered her question, “and we borrowed this boat from a settler up shore to get fish for His Majesty’s ship ‘Somerset’; but we’ll take you safe home, never fear.”
The blue-eyed man lifted Anne into the boat, and the two men were soon pulling strongly at the oars.
“’Tis a stiff pull to Province Town, but the tide’s with us, William,” said the last speaker.
Anne sat very quiet. She was wondering if Aunt Martha had missed her, and if Uncle Enos would blame her for having wandered to the outer beach. She looked up to see the sailor whom his companion called “William” smiling at her.
“Do not be afraid,” he said kindly; “the folks at home will be glad to see you, and you’ll not be scolded.”
Anne tried to smile back. She wanted to ask him if he had any little girls of his own; butshe remembered that he was an Englishman, and decided that it was best not to say anything.
“Can you walk across the pasture if we set you ashore near here?” asked the sailor, when they had reached the smooth beach near where Anne had been seized by the Indians. “You’ll not be troubled again, and we cannot well round the point to-night.”
“I can get home from here. I see the pine woods,” Anne agreed, and the men ran the boat well up on the beach, and William lifted her out.
“’Tis hard for those tender feet,” he said, “but be quick as you can. My name is William Trull, if your folks ask who ’twas that fetched you home, and my mate’s name here is Richard Jones.”
“Thank you; my name is Anne Nelson,” Anne replied.
She turned back and waved her hand to them when she had reached the land above the shore, and saw them push off their boat and row away. It was very hard now to walk over the rough ground, and Anne felt very tired and unhappy. She kept steadily on, and was soon in sight of home. Mistress Stoddard and Captain Enoswere both standing in the doorway looking anxiously toward her.
“Well, well, Anne, and do you think you should stay away like this? And what has become of your sunbonnet?” questioned Mrs. Stoddard.
“Indians!” wailed Anne. “Indian women, Aunt Martha! They carried me off,” and, with Mrs. Stoddard’s arm about her, and Captain Enos listening in angry amazement, Anne told the story of her adventure.
“’twas an evil thing!” declared the captain. “I’m thankful the English sailors were on shore. I’ll remember their names.”
Mrs. Stoddard bathed the tired feet, and Anne was quite hungry enough to relish the hot corn bread, even though she had no milk to drink with it.
“We must be careful about letting the child wander about alone,” Captain Enos said, after Anne was safe in bed that night. “’Twould be ill-fortune indeed if harm befell her.”
“I’ll keep her more at home,” replied Mrs. Stoddard. “She is to begin knitting now, and that will give her amusement indoors.”
“’Tis said that English soldiers are cominginto Boston by land and sea,” said Captain Enos. “We Province Town people are exempt from military service, but we are loyal to the American forces, and some of us think the time is near when we must let you women stay here by yourselves,” and Captain Enos looked at his wife questioningly.
“We’d do our best, Enos, be sure of that,” she answered bravely, “and I’d have Anne for company, if you’re needed in Boston.”
“If we stood any chance of getting there,” complained Captain Enos, “without the Britishers making us prisoners. No boat gets by them, I’m told.”
“Talk no more of it to-night, Enos. Mayhap things may be settled soon, and these unhappy days well over,” and Mistress Stoddard stepped to the door and looked out on the peaceful little settlement. “We have great cause to rejoice this night that our little maid is safe at home,” she said.
“I’ll make a good search for Brownie to-morrow,” declared Captain Enos, “but I fear now that the Indians have her.”
The good couple decided that it would be best to say as little of Anne’s adventure as possible,and to tell her not to talk of it to her playmates.
“I’ll caution the mothers,” said Mrs. Stoddard, “but ’Tis no use for our little people to frighten themselves by wondering about Indians. Maybe they will not come near us again, and they’ll not dare to make another mistake.” So but little was made of Anne’s escape from the squaws, although the children now stayed at home more closely, and Anne did not often stray far from Aunt Martha.
CHAPTER VIIOUT TO SEA
Captain Enos and the boys returned without having found any trace of the missing cattle, and the villagers felt it to be a loss hardly to be borne that three of their six cows should have disappeared. The men went about their fishing even more soberly than before, and the women and children mourned loudly.
Amanda Cary waited at the spring each day for Anne’s appearance. Sometimes the two little girls did not speak, and again Amanda would make some effort to win Anne’s notice.
“Your father is a soldier,” she declared one morning, and when Anne nodded smilingly, Amanda ventured a step nearer. “You may come up to my house and see my white kittens if you want to,” she said.
There could be no greater temptation to Anne than this. To have a kitten of her own had been one of her dearest wishes, and to see andplay with two white kittens, even Amanda’s kittens, was a joy not lightly to be given up. But Anne shook her head, and Amanda, surprised and sulky, went slowly back toward home.
The next morning, as Anne went toward the spring, she met Amanda coming up the hill, carrying a white kitten in her arms.
“I was just going up to your house,” said Amanda. “I was bringing up this white kitten to give to you.”
“Oh, Amanda!” exclaimed Anne, quite forgetting her old dislike of the little girl, and reaching out eager hands for the kitten which Amanda gave to her.
“My mother said that we could not afford to keep two kittens,” Amanda explained, “and I thought right off that I would give one to you.”
“Thank you, Amanda,” and then Anne’s face grew sober, “but maybe my Aunt Martha will not want me to keep it,” she said.
“I guess she will,” ventured Amanda. “I will go with you and find out, and if she be not pleased I’ll find some one to take it.”
The two little girls trudged silently along over the sandy path. Anne carried the kittenvery carefully, and Amanda watched her companion anxiously.
“If Mistress Stoddard says that you may keep the kitten may I stay and play a little while?” she asked as they came near the Stoddard house.
“Yes,” answered Anne, “you may stay anyway, and I will show you my playhouse.”
Amanda’s thin freckled face brightened. “If she won’t let you keep the kitten you may come over to my house every day and play with mine,” she said; and almost hoped that Mistress Stoddard would not want the little white cat, for Amanda was anxious for a playmate, and Anne was nearer her age than any of the little girls of the settlement.
Mrs. Stoddard was nearly as much pleased with the kitten as Anne herself, and Amanda was told that she was a good little girl, her past unkindness was forgotten, and the two children, taking the kitten with them, went out to the playhouse under the pines. Amanda was allowed to hold the wooden doll, and they played very happily together until disturbed by a loud noise near the shore, then they ran down the little slope to see what was happening.
“It’s Brownie!” exclaimed Anne.
“And our cow and the Starkweathers’,” declared Amanda. “Where do you suppose they found them?”
Jimmie Starkweather drove Brownie up to the little barn, and Mrs. Stoddard came running out to welcome the wanderer.
“Where did they come from, Jimmie?” she questioned.
“A Truro man has just driven them over,” explained Jimmie; “he found them in his pasture, and thinks the Indians dared not kill them or drive them further.”
“It’s good fortune to get them back,” said Mrs. Stoddard. “Now you will have milk for your white kitten, Anne. Since the English sailors rescued you from the Indians, they’ve not been about so much.”
The kitten was almost forgotten in petting and feeding Brownie, and Amanda looked on wonderingly to see Anne bring in bunches of tender grass for the little brown cow to eat.
“I cannot get near to our cow,” she said; “she shakes her horns at me, and sniffs, and I dare not feed her,” but she resolved to herself that she would try and make friends with the black and white animal of which she had always been afraid.
“Come again, Amanda,” said Anne, when Amanda said that she must go home, and the little visitor started off happily toward home, resolving that she would bring over her white kitten the very next day, and wondering if her own father could not make her a doll such as Anne Nelson had.
“Thee must not forget thy knitting, Anne,” cautioned Mrs. Stoddard, as Anne came in from a visit to Brownie, holding the white kitten in her arms; “’twill not be so many weeks now before the frost will be upon us, and I must see to it that your uncle’s stockings are ready, and that you have mittens; so you must do your best to help on the stockings,” and Mrs. Stoddard handed the girl the big ball of scarlet yarn and the stocking just begun on the shining steel needles.
“Remember, it is knit one and seam,” she said. “You can sit in the open doorway, child, and when you have knit round eight times we will call thy stint finished for the morning. This afternoon we must go for cranberries. We will be needing all we can gather before the frost comes.”
Anne put the kitten down on the floor andtook the stocking, eyeing the scarlet yarn admiringly. She sat down in the open doorway and began her stint, her mind filled with happy thoughts. To have Amanda speak well of her dear father, to know that Brownie was safe in the barn, to possess a white kitten of her own, and, above all, to be knitting herself a pair of scarlet stockings made Anne feel that the world was a very kind and friendly place. The white kitten looked at the moving ball of yarn curiously, and now and then made little springs toward it, greatly to Anne’s amusement, but in a few moments she found that her progress was slow, and the white kitten was sent off the broad step to play by itself on the sandy path.
From time to time Mrs. Stoddard would come to look at Anne’s knitting, and to praise the smoothness of the work.
“Your uncle says you are to have stout leather shoes,” she said. “Elder Haven tells me that there will be six weeks’ school this autumn and it be good news.”
“Shall I go to school, Aunt Martha?” questioned Anne, looking up from her knitting.
Mrs. Stoddard nodded, smiling down at the eager little face. “Indeed you will. ’twill bethe best of changes for you. Like as not Elder Haven will teach thee to write.”
“I know my letters and can spell small words,” said Anne.
“I’ll teach thee to read if time allows,” answered Mrs. Stoddard. “Your Uncle Enos has a fine book of large print; ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ it’s named, and ’Tis of interest. We will begin on it for a lesson.”
That afternoon found Anne and Mrs. Stoddard busily picking cranberries on the bog beyond the maple grove. Jimmie Starkweather and Amos Cary were also picking there, and before the afternoon finished, Amanda appeared. She came near Anne to pick and soon asked if Anne was to go to Elder Haven’s school.
“Yes, indeed,” answered Anne, “and maybe I shall be taught writing, and then I can send a letter, if chance offers, to my father.”
“You are always talking and thinking about your father,” responded Amanda; “if he should want you to leave the Stoddards I suppose you would go in a minute.”
Anne’s face grew thoughtful. Never had she been so happy and well cared for as at the Stoddards’; to go to her father would perhaps meanthat she would go hungry and half-clad as in the old days, but she remembered her father’s loneliness, how he had always tried to do all that he could for her, and she replied slowly, “I guess my father might need me more than Aunt Martha and Uncle Enos. They have each other, and my father has only me.”
Amanda asked no more questions, but she kept very close to Anne and watched her with a new interest.
“I wish I could read,” she said, as, their baskets well filled, the two girls walked toward home. “I don’t even know my letters.”
“I can teach you those,” said Anne eagerly. “I can teach you just as my dear father did me. We used to go out on the beach in front of our house and he would mark out the letters in the sand and tell me their names, and then I would mark them out. Sometimes we would make letters as long as I am tall. Would you like me to teach you?”
“Yes, indeed. Let’s go down to the shore now,” urged Amanda.
“We’d best leave our berries safely at home,” replied Anne, who did not forget her adventure with the Indian squaws and was now very carefulnot to go too far from the settlement, and so it was decided that they should hurry home and leave their baskets and meet on the smooth sandy beach near Anne’s old home.
Anne was the first to reach the place. She brought with her two long smooth sticks and had already traced out an enormous A when Amanda appeared.
“This is ‘A,’” she called out. “‘A’ is for Anne, and for Amanda.”
“I know I can remember that,” said Amanda, “and I can make it, too.”
It was not long before a long row of huge letters were shaped along the beach, and when Amos came down he looked at them wonderingly.
“Amos, can you spell my name?” asked his sister.
“Of course I can!” replied the boy scornfully. “I’ll mark it out for you,” and in a short time Amanda was repeating over and over again the letters which formed her name.
After Amos had marked out his sister’s name in the sand he started along the shore to where a dory lay, just floating on the swell of the incoming tide.
“Amos is going to fish for flounders,” said Amanda; “he catches a fine mess almost every afternoon for mother to cook for supper. He’s a great help.”
“Want to fish?” called out Amos as the two little girls came near the boat and watched him bait his hooks with clams which he had dug and brought with him.
“Oh, yes,” said Anne; “do you think I could catch enough for Uncle Enos’s supper?”
“Yes, if you’ll hurry,” answered the boy; “climb in over the bow.”
The barefooted children splashed through the shallow curl of the waves on the beach, and clambered over the high bow of the dory. Amos baited their lines, and with a word of advice as to the best place to sit, he again turned to his own fishing and soon pulled in a big, flopping, resisting flounder.
“The tide isn’t right,” he declared after a few minutes when no bite came to take the bait. “I’m going to cast off and pull a little way down shore over the flats. They’ll be sure to bite there. You girls sit still. You can troll your lines if you want to. You may catch something.”
So Anne and Amanda sat very still while Amos sprang ashore, untied the rope from the stout post sunk in the beach, pushed the boat into deeper water, and jumped in as it floated clear from the shore.
It was a big, clumsy boat, and the oars were heavy; but Amos was a stout boy of twelve used to boats and he handled the oars very skilfully.
“The tide’s just turning,” he said; “’twill take us down shore without much rowing.”
“But ’twill be hard coming back,” suggested Amanda.
“Pooh! Hard! I guess I could row through any water in this harbor,” bragged Amos, bending to his oar so lustily that he broke one of the wooden thole-pins, unshipped his oar, and went over backward into the bottom of the boat, losing his hold on the oar as he fell. He scrambled quickly back to his seat, and endeavored to swing the dory about with one oar so that he could reach the one now floating rapidly away. But he could not get within reach of it.
“You girls move forward,” he commanded; “I’ll have to scull,” and moving cautiously to the stern of the boat he put his remaining oarin the notch cut for it and began to move it regularly back and forth.
“Are you going inshore, Amos?” questioned his sister.
“What for?” asked the boy. “I’ve got one good oar, haven’t I? We can go along first-rate.”
“It’s too bad to lose a good oar,” said Amanda.
“Father won’t care,” said Amos reassuringly; “’twa’n’t a good oar. The blade was split; ’twas liable to harm somebody. He’ll not worry at losing it.”
The dory went along very smoothly under Amos’s sculling and with the aid of the tide. Amanda and Anne, their lines trailing overboard, watched eagerly for a bite, and before long Anne had pulled in a good-sized plaice, much to Amos’s satisfaction. He drew in his oar to help her take out the hook, and had just completed this task when Amanda called out:
“Amos! Amos! the oar’s slipping!”
The boy turned quickly and grabbed at the vanishing oar, but he was too late—it had slid into the water. They were now some distance from shore and the tide was setting stronglytoward the mouth of the harbor. Amos looked after the oar and both of the little girls looked at Amos.
“What are we going to do now?” asked Amanda. “We can’t ever get back to shore.”