A Christmas Adventure
Long before daylight one could hear the slowing of the wind. Its caravan now reaching eastward to mid-ocean was nearly passed. Scattered gusts hurried on like weary and belated followers. Then, suddenly, came a silence in which one might have heard the dust of their feet falling, their shouts receding in the far woodland. The sun rose in a clear sky above the patched and ragged canopy of the woods—a weary multitude now resting in the still air.
The children were up looking for tracks of reindeer and breaking paths in the snow. Sunlight glimmered in far-flung jewels of the Frost King. They lay deep, clinking as the foot sank in them. At the Vaughn home it was an eventful day. Santa Claus—well, he is the great Captain that leads us to the farther gate of childhood and surrenders the golden key. Many ways are beyond the gate, some steep and thorny; and some who pass it turn back with bleeding feet and wet eyes, but the gate opens not again for any that have passed. Tom had got the key and begun to try it. Santa Claus had winked at him with a snaring eye, like that of his aunt when she had sugar in her pocket, and Tom thought it very foolish. The boy had even felt of his greatcoat and got a good look at his boots and trousers. Moreover, when he put his pipe away, Tom saw him take a chew of tobacco—an abhorrent thing if he were to believe his mother.
"Mother," said he, "I never knew Santa Claus chewed tobacco."
"Well, mebbe he was Santa Claus's hired man," said she.
"Might 'a' had the toothache," Paul suggested, for Lew Allen, who worked for them in the summer time, had an habitual toothache, relieved many times a day by chewing tobacco.
Tom sat looking into the fire a moment.
Then he spoke of a matter Paul and he had discussed secretly.
"Joe Bellus he tol' me Santa Claus was only somebody rigged up t' fool folks, an' hadn't no reindeers at all."
The mother turned away, her wits groping for an answer.
"Hadn't ought 'a' told mother, Tom," said Paul, with a little quiver of reproach and pity. "'Tain't so, anyway—we know 'tain't so."
He was looking into his mother's face.
"Tain't so," Paul repeated with unshaken confidence.
"Mus'n't believe all ye hear," said the widow, who now turned to the doubting Thomas.
And that very moment Tom was come to the last gate of childhood, whereon are the black and necessary words, "Mus'n't believe all ye hear."
The boys in their new boots were on the track of a painter. They treed him, presently, at the foot of the stairs.
"How'll we kill him?" one of them inquired.
"Just walk around the tree once," said the mother, "an' you'll scare him to death. Why don't ye grease your boots?"
"'Fraid it'll take the screak out of 'em," said Paul, looking down thoughtfully at his own pair.
"Well," said she, "you'll have me treed if you keep on. No hunter would have boots like that. A loud foot makes a still gun."
That was her unfailing method of control—the appeal to intelligence. Polly sat singing, thoughtfully, the locket in her hand. She had kissed the sacred thing and hung it by a ribbon to her neck and bathed her eyes in the golden light of it and begun to feel the subtle pathos in its odd message. She was thinking of the handsome boy who came along that far May-day with the drove, and who lately had returned to be her teacher at Linley School. Now, he had so much dignity and learning, she liked him not half so well and felt he had no longer any care for her. She blushed to think how she had wept over his letter and kissed it every day for weeks. Her dream was interrupted, presently, by the call of her brother Tom. Having cut the frost on a window-pane, he stood peering out. A man was approaching in the near field. His figure showed to the boot-top, mounting hills of snow, and sank out of sight in the deep hollows. It looked as if he were walking on a rough sea. In a moment he came striding over the dooryard fence on a pair of snowshoes.
"It's Mr. Trove, the teacher," said Polly, who quickly began to shake her curls.
As the door swung open all greeted the young man. Loosening his snow-shoes, he flung them on the step and came in, a foxtail dangling from his fur cap.
He shook hands with Polly and her mother, and lifted Paul to the ceiling. "Hello, young man!" said he. "If one is four, how many are two?"
"If you're speaking of new boots," said the widow, "one is at least fifteen."
The school teacher made no reply, but stood a moment looking down at the boy.
"It's a cold day," said Polly.
"I like it," said the teacher, lifting his broad shoulders and smiting them with his hands. "God has been house cleaning. The dome of the sky is all swept and dusted. There isn't a cobweb anywhere. Santa Claus come?"
"Yes," said the younger children, who made a rush for their gifts and laid them on chairs before him.
"Grand old chap!" said he, staring thoughtfully at the flannel cat in his hands. "Any idea who it is?"
"Can't make out," said Mrs. Vaughn; "very singular man."
"Generous, too," the teacher added. "That's the best cat I ever saw, Tom. If I had my way, the cats would all be made of flannel. Miss Polly, what did you get?"
"This," said Polly, handing him the locket.
"Beautiful!" said he, turning it in his hand. "Anything inside?"
Polly showed him how to open it. He sat a moment or more looking at the graven gold.
"Strange!" said he, presently, surveying the wrought cases,
Mrs. Vaughn was now at his elbow.
"Strange?" she inquired.
"Well, long ago," said he, "I heard of one like it. Some time it may solve the mystery of your Santa Claus."
An ear of the teacher had begun to swell and redden.
"Should have pulled my cap down," said he, as the widow spoke of it. "Frost-bitten years ago, and if I'm out long in the cold, I begin to feel it."
"Must be very painful," said Polly, as indeed it was.
"No," said he, with a little squint as he touched the aching member. "It's good—I rather like it. I wouldn't take anything for that ear. It—it—" He hesitated, as if trying to recall the advantages of a chilled ear. "Well, I shouldn't know I had any ears if it weren't for that one. Come, Paul, put on your cap an' mittens. We'll take a sack and get some green boughs for your mother."
He put on snow-shoes, wrapped the boy snugly in a shawl, and, seating him on a snowboat, made off, hauling it with a rope over white banks and hollows toward the big timber. The dog, Bony, came along with them, wallowing to his ears and barking merrily. Since morning the sun had begun to warm the air, and a light breeze had risen. The boy sat bracing on a rope fastened before and looped around him. As they went along he was oversown with sparkling crystals. They made his cheeks tingle, and almost took his breath as he went plunging into steep hollows. Often he tipped over and sank in the white deep. Then Trove hauled him out, brushed him a little, and set him back on the boat again. Snow lay deep and level in the woods—a big, white carpet, seamed with tiny tracks and figured with light and shadow. Trove stopped a moment, looking up at the forest roof. They could hear a baying of hounds in the far valley. Down the dingle near them a dead leaf was drumming on a bough—a clock of the wood telling the flight of seconds. Above, they could hear the low creak of brace and rafter and great waves of the upper deep sweeping over and breaking with a loud wash on reefs of evergreen. The little people of this odd winter land had begun to make roads from tree to tree and from thicket to thicket. A partridge had broken out of her cave, and they followed the track of her snow-shoes down the side-hill to a little brook. Under its ice roof they could hear the tinkling water. Above them the brook fell from a rock shelf, narrow and high as a man's head. The fall was muted to a low murmur under its vault of ice.
"Come, Paul," said Trove, as he lifted the small boy; "here's a castle of King Frost. There are thousands in his family, and he's many castles. Building new ones every day somewhere. Goes north in the spring, and when he moves out they begin to rot and tumble."
He cleared a space for the boy to stand upon. Then he brushed away the snow blanket flung loosely over the vault of ice. A wonderful bit of masonry stood exposed. Near its centre were two columns, large and rugose, each tapering to a capital and cornice. Between them was a deep lattice of crystal. Some bars were clear, some yellow as amber, and all were powdered over with snow, ivory-white. Under its upper part they could see a grille of frostwork, close-wrought, glistening, and white. It was the inner gate of the castle, and each ray of light, before entering, had to pay a toll of its warmth. On either side was a rough wall of ice, with here and there a barred window. The snow cleared away, they could hear the song of falling water. The teacher put his ear to the ice wall. Then he called the boy.
"Listen," said he; "it's the castle bell." Indeed, the whole structure rang like a bell, if one put his ear down to hear it.
"See!" said he, presently, stirring a heap of tiny crystals in his palm. "Here are the bricks he builds with, and the water of the brook is his mortar."
Near the bank was an opening partly covered with snow. It led to a cavern behind the ice curtain under the rock floor of the brook above.
The teacher took off his snow-shoes. In a moment they had crawled through and were crouching on a frosty bed of pebbles. A warm glow lit the long curtain of ice. Beams of sunlight fell through windows oddly mullioned with icicles and filtered in at the lattice of crystal. They jewelled the grille of frostwork and flung a sprinkle of gold on the falling water. The breath of the waterfall, rising out of bubbles, filled its castle with the very wine of life. The narrow hall rang with its music.
"See the splendour of a king's home," said the teacher, his eyes brimming.
The boy, young as he was, had seen and felt the beauty and mystery of the place, and never forgot it.
"See how it sifts the sunlight to take the warmth out of it," the teacher continued. "Warmth is poison to the King, and every ray of light is twisted and turned upside down to see if he has any in his pocket."
They could now hear a loud baying on the hill above.
As they turned to listen, a young fox leaped in at the hole and, as he saw them, checked a foot in the air. He was panting, his tongue out, and blood was dripping from his long fur at the shoulder. He turned, stilling his breath a little as the hounds came near. Then he trembled,—a pitiful sight,—for he was near spent and between two perils.
"Come—poor fellow!" said the teacher, stroking him gently.
The fox ran aside, shaking with fear, his foot lifted appealingly. With a quick movement the teacher caught him by the nape of his neck and thrust him into the sack. The leader now had his nose in the hole.
"Back there!" Trove shouted, kicking at him.
In a moment he had rolled a heavy stone to the hole and made it too small for the hounds to enter. Half a dozen of them were now baying outside.
"We'll give him air," said the teacher, as he cut a hole in the sack and tied it. "Don't know how we'll get him out of here alive. They'd be all over me like a pack of wolves."
He stood a moment thinking. Bony had wriggled away from Paul and begun to bark loudly.
"I've an idea," said the teacher, as he cut the foxtail from his cap. Then he rubbed it in the blood and spittle of the fox and tied it to the stub tail of Bony. The dog's four feet were scented in the same manner. The smell of them irked him sorely. His hair rose, and his head fell with a sense of injury. He made a rush at his new tail and was rudely stopped.
"He's fresh, and they'll not be able to catch him," said the young man, as Paul protested. "Wouldn't hurt anything but the tail if they did."
Then breaking the ice curtain, as far from the hole as possible, he gave Bony a spank and flung him out on the snow above with a loud "go home." The pack saw him and scrambled up the bank in full cry. He had turned for a glance at his new tail, but seeing the pack rush at him started up the hillside with a yelp of fear and the energy of a wildcat. When the two came out of the cavern they saw him leaping like a rabbit in the snow, his hair on end, his brush flying, and the hounds in full pursuit.
"My stars! See that dog run," said the teacher, laughing, as he put on his snow-shoes. "He don't intend to be caught with such a tail and smell on him."
He put the sack over his shoulder.
"All aboard, Paul," said he; "now we can go home in peace."
Coming down out of the woods, they saw a pack of hounds digging at one side of the stable. Bony had gone to his refuge under the barn floor.
As he entered, one of them had evidently caught hold of his new tail, and the pack had torn it in shreds. Two hunters came along shortly, and, after a talk with the teacher, took their dogs away. But for three days Bony came not forth and was seen no more of men, save only when he crept to the hole for a lap of water and to seize a doughnut from the hand of Paul, whereupon he retired promptly.
"He ain't going to take any chances," said the widow, laughing.
When at last he came forth, it was with a soft step and new resolutions. And a while later, when Trove heard Darrel say that caution was the only friend of weakness, he understood him perfectly.
"Not every brush has a fox on it," said the widow, and the words went from lip to lip until they were a maxim of those country-folk.
And Trove was to think of it when he himself was like the poor dog that wore a fox's tail.
A Day at the Linley Schoolhouse
A remarkable figure was young Sidney Trove, the new teacher inDistrict No. 1. He was nearing nineteen years of age that winter.
"I like that," he said to the trustee, who had been telling him of the unruly boys—great, hulking fellows that made trouble every winter term. "Trouble—it's a grand thing I—but I'm not selfish, and if I find any, I'll agree to divide it with the boys. I don't know but I'll be generous and let them have the most of it. If they put me out of the schoolhouse, I'll have learned something."
The trustee looked at the six feet and two inches of bone and muscle that sat lounging in a chair—looked from end to end of it.
"What's that?" he inquired, smiling.
"That I've no business there," said young Mr. Trove.
"I guess you'll dew," said the trustee. "Make 'em toe the line; that's all I got t' say."
"And all I've got to do is my best—I don't promise any more," the other answered modestly, as he rose to leave.
Linley School was at the four corners in Pleasant Valley,—a low, frame structure, small and weathered gray. Windows, with no shade, or shutter, were set, two on a side, in perfect apposition. A passing traveller could see through them to the rocky pasture beyond. Who came there for knowledge, though a fool, was dubbed a "scholar." It was a word sharply etched in the dialect of that region. If one were to sayskollur-r-r, he might come near it. Every winter morning the scholar entered a little vestibule which was part of the woodshed. He passed an ash barrel and the odour of drying wood, hung cap and coat On a peg in the closet, lifted the latch of a pine door, and came into the schoolroom. If before nine, it would be noisy with shout and laughter, the buzz of tongues, the tread of running feet. Big girls, in neat aprons, would be gossiping at the stove hearth; small boys would be chasing each other up and down aisles and leaping the whittled desks of pine; little girls, in checked flannel, or homespun, would be circling in a song play; big boys would be trying feats of strength that ended in loud laughter. So it was, the first morning of that winter term in 1850. A tall youth stood by the window. Suddenly he gave a loud "sh—h—h!" Running feet fell silently and halted; words begun with a shout ended in a whisper. A boy making caricatures at the blackboard dropped his chalk, that now fell noisily. A whisper, heavy with awe and expectation, flew hissing from lip to lip—"The teacher!" There came a tramping in the vestibule, the door-latch jumped with a loud rattle, and in came Sidney Trove. All eyes were turned upon him. A look of rectitude, dovelike and too good to be true, came over many faces.
"Good morning!" said the young man, removing his cap, coat, and overshoes. Some nodded, dumb with timidity. Only a few little ones had the bravery to speak up, as they gave back the words in a tone that would have fitted a golden text. He came to the roaring stove and stood a moment, warming his hands. A group of the big boys were in a corner whispering. Two were sturdy and quite six feet tall,—the Beach boys.
"Big as a bull moose," one whispered,
"An' stouter," said another.
The teacher took a pencil from his pocket and tapped the desk.
"Please take your seats," said he.
All obeyed. Then he went around with the roll and took their names, of which there were thirty-four.
"I believe I know your name," said Trove, smiling, as he came toPolly Vaughn.
"I believe you do," said she, glancing up at him, with half a smile and a little move in her lips that seemed to ask, "How could you forget me?"
Then the teacher, knowing the peril of her eyes, became very dignified as he glanced over the books she had brought to school. He knew it was going to be a hard day. For a little, he wondered if he had not been foolish, after all, in trying a job so difficult and so perilous. If he should be thrown out of school, he felt sure it would ruin him—he could never look Polly in the face again. As he turned to begin the work of teaching, it seemed to him a case of do or die, and he felt the strength of an ox in his heavy muscles.
The big boys had settled themselves in a back corner side by side—a situation too favourable for mischief. He asked them to take other seats. They complied sullenly and with hesitation. He looked over books, organized the school in classes, and started one of them on its way. It was the primer class, including a half dozen very small boys and girls. They shouted each word in the reading lesson, laboured in silence with another, and gave voice again with unabated energy. In their pursuit of learning they bayed like hounds. Their work began upon this ancient and informing legend, written to indicate the shout and skip of the youthful student:—
The—sun—is—up—and—it—is—day—day?—day.
"You're afraid," the teacher began after a little. "Come up here close to me."
They came to his chair and stood about him. Some were confident, others hung back suspicious and untamed.
"We're going to be friends," said he, in a low, gentle voice. He took from his pocket a lot of cards and gave one to each.
"Here's a story," he continued. "See—I put it in plain print for you with pen and ink. It's all about a bear and a boy, and is in ten parts. Here's the first chapter. Take it home with you to-night—"
He stopped suddenly. He had turned in his chair and could see none of the boys. He did not move, but slowly took off a pair of glasses he had been wearing.
"Joe Beach," said he, coolly, "come out here on the floor."
There was a moment of dead silence. That big youth—the terror of Linley School—was now red and dumb with amazement. His deviltry had begun, but how had the teacher seen it with his back turned?
"I'll think it over," said the boy, sullenly.
The teacher laid down his book, calmly, walked to the seat of the young rebel, took him by the collar and the back of the neck, tore him out of the place where his hands and feet were clinging like the roots of a tree, dragged him roughly to the aisle and over the floor space, taking part of the seat along, and stood him to the wall with a bang that shook the windows. There was no halting—it was all over in half a minute.
"You'll please remain there," said he, coolly, "until I tell you to sit down."
He turned his back on the bully, walked slowly to his chair, and opened his book again.
"Take it home with you to-night," said he, continuing his talk to the primer class. "Spell it over, so you won't have to stop long between words. All who read it well to-morrow will get another chapter."
They began to study at home. Wonder grew, and pleasure came with labour as the tale went on.
He dismissed the primer readers, calling the first class in geography. As they took their places he repaired the broken seat, a part of which had been torn off the nails. The fallen rebel stood leaning, his back to the school. He had expected help, but the reserve force had failed him.
"Joe Beach—you may take your seat," said the teacher, in a kind of parenthetical tone.
"Geography starts at home," he continued, beginning the recitation."Who can tell me where is the Linley schoolhouse?"
A dozen hands went up.
"You tell," said he to one.
"It's here," was the answer.
"Where's here?"
A boy looked thoughtful.
"Nex' t' Joe Linley's cow-pastur'," he ventured presently,
"Will you tell us?" the teacher asked, looking at a bright-eyed girl.
"In Faraway, New York," said she, glibly.
"Tom Linley, I'll take that," said the teacher, in a lazy tone. He was looking down at his book. Where he sat, facing the class, he could see none of the boys without turning. But he had not turned. To the wonder of all, up he spoke as Tom Linley was handing a slip of paper to Joe Beach. There was a little pause. The young man hesitated, rose, and walked nervously down the aisle.
"Thank you," said the teacher, as he took the message and flung it on the fire, unread. "Faraway, New York;" he continued on his way to the blackboard as if nothing had happened.
He drew a circle, indicating the four points of the compass on it. Then he mapped the town of Faraway and others, east, west, north, and south of it. So he made a map of the county and bade them copy it. Around the county in succeeding lessons he built a map of the state. Others in the middle group were added, the structure growing, day by day, until they had mapped the hemisphere.
At the Linley schoolhouse something had happened. Cunning no sooner showed its head than it was bruised like a serpent, brawny muscles had been easily outdone, boldness had grown timid, conceit had begun to ebb. A serious look had settled upon all faces. Every scholar had learned one thing, learned it well and quickly—it was to be no playroom.
There was a recess of one hour at noon. All went for their dinner pails and sat quietly, eating bread and butter followed by doughnuts, apples, and pie.
The young men had walked to the road. Nothing had been said. They drew near each other. Tom Linley looked up at Joe Beach. In his face one might have seen a cloud of sympathy that had its silver lining of amusement.
"Powerful?" Tom inquired, soberly.
"What?" said Joe.
"Powerful?" Tom repeated.
"Powerful! Jiminy crimps!" said Joe, significantly.
"Why didn't ye kick him?"
"Kick him?"
"Yes."
"Kickhim?
"Kickhim."
"Huh! dunno," said Joe, with a look of sadness turning into contempt.
"Scairt?" the other inquired.
"Scairt? Na—a—w," said Joe, scornfully.
"What was ye, then?"
"Parr'lyzed—seems so."
There was an outbreak of laughter.
"You was goin' t' help," said Joe, addressing Tom Linley.
A moment of silence followed.
"Youwas goin' t' help," the fallen bully repeated, with large emphasis on the pronoun.
"Help?" Tom inquired, sparring for wind as it were.
"Yes, help."
"You was licked 'fore I had time."
"Didn't dast—that's what's the matter—didn't dast," said big Joe, with a tone of irreparable injury.
"Wouldn't 'a' been nigh ye fer a millyun dollars," said Tom, soberly.
"Why not?"
"'Twant safe; that's why."
"'Fraid o' him! ye coward!"
"No; 'fraid o' you."
"Why?"
"'Cos if one o' yer feet had hit a feller when ye come up ag'in that wall," Tom answered slowly, "there wouldn't 'a' been nuthin' left uv him."
All laughed loudly.
Then there was another silence. Joe broke it after a moment of deep thought.
"Like t' know how he seen me," said he.
"'Tis cur'us," said another.
"Guess he's one o' them preformers like they have at the circus—" was the opinion of Sam Beach. "See one take a pig out o' his hat las' summer."
"'Tain't fair 'n' square," said Tom Linley; "not jest eggzac'ly."
"Gosh! B'lieve I'll run away," said Joe, after a pause. "Ain' no fun here for me."
"Better not," said Archer Town; "not if ye know when yer well off."
"Why not?"
"Wal, he'd see ye wherever ye was an' do suthin' to ye," saidArcher. "Prob'ly he's heard all we been sayin' here."
"Wal, I ain't said nuthin' I'm 'shamed of," said Sam Beach, thoughtfully.
A bell rang, and all hurried to the schoolhouse. The afternoon was uneventful. Those rough-edged, brawny fellows had become serious. Hope had died in their breasts, and now they looked as if they had come to its funeral. They began to examine their books as one looks at a bitter draught before drinking it. In every subject the teacher took a new way not likely to be hard upon tender feet. For each lesson he had a method of his own. He angled for the interest of the class and caught it. With some a term of school had been as a long sickness, lengthened by the medicine of books and the surgery of the beech rod. They had resented it with ingenious deviltry. The confusion of the teacher and some incidental fun were its only compensations. The young man gave his best thought to the correction of this mental attitude. Four o'clock came at last—the work of the day was over. Weary with its tension all sat waiting the teacher's word. For a little he stood facing them.
"Tom Linley and Joe Beach," said he, in a low voice, "will you wait a moment after the others have gone? School's dismissed."
There was a rush of feet and a rattle of dinner pails. All were eager to get home with the story of that day—save the two it had brought to shame. They sat quietly as the others went away. A deep silence fell in that little room. Of a sudden it had become a lonely place.
The teacher damped the fire and put on his overshoes.
"Boys," said he, drawing a big silver watch, "hear that watch ticking. It tells the flight of seconds. You are—eighteen, did you say? They turn boys into oxen here in this country; just a thing of bone and muscle, living to sweat and lift and groan. Maybe I can save you, but there's not a minute to lose. With you it all depends on this term of school. When it's done you'll either be ox or driver. Play checkers?"
Tom nodded.
"I'll come over some evening, and we'll have a game. Good night!"
The Tinker at Linley School
Every seat was filled at the Linley School next morning. The tinker had come to see Trove and sat behind the big desk as work began.
"There are two kinds of people," said the teacher, after all were seated—"those that command—those that obey. No man is fit to command until he has learned to obey—he will not know how. The one great thing life has to teach you is—obey. There was a young bear once that was bound to go his own way. The old bear told him it wouldn't do to jump over a precipice, but, somehow, he couldn't believe it and jumped. 'Twas the last thing he ever did. It's often so with the young. Their own way is apt to be rather steep and to end suddenly. There are laws everywhere,—we couldn't live without them,—laws of nature, God, and man. Until we learn the law and how to obey it, we must go carefully and take the advice of older heads. We couldn't run a school without laws in it—laws that I must obey as well as you. I must teach, and you must learn. The two first laws of the school are teach and learn—you must help me to obey mine; I must help you to obey yours. And we'll have as much fun as possible, but we must obey."
Then Trove invited Darrel to address the school.
"Dear children," the tinker began with a smile, "I mind ye're all looking me in the face, an' I do greatly fear ye. I fear I may say something ye will remember, an' again I fear I may not. For when I speak to the young—ah! then it seems to me God listens. I heard the teacher speaking o' the law of obedience. Which o' ye can tell me who is the great master—the one ye must never disobey?"
"Yer father," said one of the boys.
"Nay, me bright lad, one o' these days ye may lose father an' mother an' teacher an' friend. Let me tell a story, an' then, mayhap, ye'll know the great master. Once upon a time there was a young cub who thought his life a burden because he had to mind his mother. By an' by a bullet killed her, an' he was left alone. He wandered away, not knowing' what to do, and came near the land o' men. Soon he met an old bear.
"'Foolish cub! Why go ye to the land o' men?' said the old bear.'Thy legs are not as long as me tail. Go home an' obey thy mother.'
"'But I've none to obey,' said the young bear; an' before he could turn, a ball came whizzing over a dingle an' ripped into his ham. The old bear had scented danger an' was already out o' the way. The cub made off limping, an' none too quickly. They followed him all day, an' when night came he was the most weary an' bedraggled bear in the woods. But he stopped the blood an' went away on a dry track in the morning. He came to a patch o' huckleberries that day and began to help himself. Then quick an' hard he got a cuff on the head that tore off an ear and knocked him into the bushes. When he rose there stood the old bear. "'Ah, me young cub,' said he, 'ye'll have a master now.'
"'An' no more need o' him,' said the young bear, shaking his bloody head.
"'Nay, ye will prosper,' said the old bear. 'There are two ways o' learning,—by hearsay an' by knocks. Much ye may learn by knocks, but they are painful. There be two things every one has to learn,—respect for himself; respect for others. Ye'll know, hereafter, in the land o' men a bear has to keep his nose up an' his ears open—because men hurt. Ye'll know better, also, than to feed on the ground of another bear—because he hurts. Now, were I a cub an' had none to obey, I'd obey meself. Ye know what's right, do it; ye know what's wrong, do it not.'
"'One thing is sure,' said the young bear, as he limped away; 'if I live, there'll not be a bear in the woods that'll take any better care of himself.'
"Now the old bear knew what he was talking about. He was, I maintain, a wise an' remarkable bear. We learn to obey others, so that by an' by we may know how to obey ourselves. The great master of each man is himself. By words or by knocks ye will learn what is right, and ye must do it. Dear children, ye must soon be yer own masters. There be many cruel folk in the world, but ye have only one to fear—yerself. Ah! ye shall find him a hard man, for, if he be much offended, he will make ye drink o' the cup o' fire. Learn to obey yerselves, an' God help ye."
Thereafter, many began to look into their own hearts for that fearful master, and some discovered him.
A Rustic Museum
That first week Sidney Trove went to board at the home of "the two old maids," a stone house on Jericho Road, with a front door rusting on idle hinges and blinds ever drawn. It was a hundred feet or more from the highway, and in summer there were flowers along the path from its little gate and vines climbing to the upper windows. In winter its garden was buried deep under the snow. One family—the Vaughns—came once in awhile to see "the two old maids." Few others ever saw them save from afar. A dressmaker came once a year and made gowns for them, that were carefully hung in closets but never worn. To many of their neighbours they were as dead as if they had been long in their graves. Tales of their economy, of their odd habits, of their past, went over hill and dale to far places. They had never boarded the teacher and were put in a panic when the trustee came to speak of it.
"He's a grand young man," said he; "good company—and you'll enjoy it."
They looked soberly at each other. According to tradition, one was fifty-four the other fifty-five years of age. An exclamation broke from the lips of one. It sounded like the letterywhispered quickly.
"Y!" the other answered.
"It might make a match," said Mr. Blount, the trustee, smiling.
"Y! Samuel Blount!" said the younger one, coming near and smiting him playfully on the elbow. "You stop!"
Miss Letitia began laughing silently. They never laughed aloud.
"If he didn't murder us," said Miss S'mantha, doubtfully.
"Nonsense," said the trustee; "I'll answer for him."
"Can't tell what men'll do," she persisted weakly. "When I was in Albany with Alma Haskins, a man came 'long an' tried t' pass the time o' day with us. We jes' looked t'other way an' didn't preten' t' hear him. It's awful t' think what might 'a' happened."
She wiped invisible tears with an embroidered handkerchief. The dear lady had spent a good part of her life thinking of that narrow escape.
"If he wa'n't too partic'lar," said Miss Letitia, who had been laughing at this maiden fear of her sister.
"If he would mind his business, we—we might take him for one week," said Miss S'mantha. She glanced inquiringly at her sister.
Letitia and S'mantha Tower, "the two old maids," had but one near relative—Ezra Tower, a brother of the same neighbourhood.
There were two kinds of people in Faraway,—those that Ezra Tower spoke to and those he didn't. The latter were of the majority. As a forswearer of communication he was unrivalled. His imagination was a very slaughter-house, in which all who crossed him were slain. If they were passing, he looked the other way and never even saw them again. Since the probate of his father's will both sisters were of the number never spoken to. He was a thin, tall, sullen, dry, and dusty man. Dressed for church of a Sunday, he looked as if he had been stored a year in some neglected cellar. His broadcloth had a dingy aspect, his hair and beard and eyebrows the hue of a cobweb. He had a voice slow and rusty, a look arid and unfruitful. Indeed, it seemed as if the fires of hate and envy had burned him out.
The two old maids, feeling the disgrace of it and fearing more, ceased to visit their neighbours or even to pass their own gate. Poor Miss S'mantha fell into the deadly mire of hypochondria. She often thought herself very ill and sent abroad for every medicine advertised in the county paper. She had ever a faint look and a thin, sickly voice. She had the man-fear,—a deep distrust of men,—never ceasing to be on her guard. In girlhood, she had been to Albany, Its splendour and the reckless conduct of one Alma Haskins, companion of her travels, had been ever since a day-long perennial topic of her conversation. Miss Letitia was more amiable. She had a playful, cheery heart in her, a mincing and precise manner, and a sweet voice. What with the cleaning, dusting, and preserving, they were ever busy. A fly, driven hither and thither, fell of exhaustion if not disabled with a broom. They were two weeks getting ready for the teacher. When, at last, he came that afternoon, supper was ready and they were nearly worn out.
"Here he is!" one whispered suddenly from a window. Then, with a last poke at her hair, Miss Letitia admitted the teacher. They spoke their greeting in a half whisper and stood near, waiting timidly for his coat and cap.
"No, thank you," said he, taking them to a nail. "I can do my own hanging, as the man said when he committed suicide."
Miss S'mantha looked suspicious and walked to the other side of the stove. Impressed by the silence of the room, much exaggerated by the ticking of the clock, Sidney Trove sat a moment looking around him. Daylight had begun to grow dim. The table, with its cover of white linen, was a thing to give one joy. A ruby tower of jelly, a snowy summit of frosted cake, a red pond of preserved berries, a mound of chicken pie, and a corduroy marsh of mince, steaming volcanoes of new biscuit, and a great heap of apple fritters, lay in a setting of blue china. They stood a moment by the stove,—the two sisters,—both trembling in this unusual publicity. Miss Letitia had her hand upon the teapot.
"Our tea is ready," said she, presently, advancing to the table.She spoke in a low, gentle tone.
"This is grand!" said he, sitting down with them. "I tell you, we'll have fun before I leave here."
They looked up at him and then at each other, Letitia laughing silently, S'mantha suspicious. For many years fun had been a thing far from their thought.
"Play checkers?" he inquired.
"Afraid we couldn't," said Miss Letitia, answering for both.
"Old Sledge?"
She shook her head, smiling.
"I don't wish to lead you into recklessness," the teacher remarked, "but I'm sure you wouldn't mind being happy."
Miss S'mantha had a startled look.
"In—in a—proper way," he added. "Let's be joyful. Perhaps we could play 'I spy.'"
"Y!" they both exclaimed, laughing silently.
"Never ate chicken pie like that," he added in all sincerity. "If I were a poet, I'd indite an ode 'written after eating some of the excellent chicken pie of the Misses Tower.' I'm going to have some like it on my farm."
In reaching to help himself he touched the teapot, withdrawing his hand quickly.
"Burn ye?" said Miss S'mantha.
"Yes; but I like it!" said he, a bit embarrassed. "I often go and—and put my hand on a hot teapot if I'm having too much fun."
They looked up at him, puzzled.
"Ever slide down hill?" he inquired, looking from one to the other, after a bit of silence.
"Oh, not since we were little!" said Miss Letitia, holding her biscuit daintily, after taking a bite none too big for a bird to manage.
"Good fun!" said be. "Whisk you back to childhood in a jiffy. Folks ought to slide down hill more'n they do. It isn't a good idea to be always climbing."
"'Fraid we couldn't stan' it," said Miss S'mantha, tentatively.Under all her man-fear and suspicion lay a furtive recklessness.
"Y, no!" the other whispered, laughing silently.
The pervading silence of that house came flooding in between sentences. For a moment Trove could hear only the gurgle of pouring tea and the faint rattle of china softly handled. When he felt as if the silence were drowning him, he began again:—
"Life is nothing but a school. I'm a teacher, and I deal in rules.If you want to kill misery, load your gun with pleasure."
"Do you know of anything for indigestion?" said Miss S'mantha, charging her sickly voice with a firmness calculated to discourage any undue familiarity.
"Just the thing—a sure cure!" said he, emphatically.
"Come high?" she inquired.
"No, it's cheap and plenty."
"Where do you send?"
"Oh!" said he; "you will have to go after it."
"What is it called ?"
"Fun," said the teacher, quickly; "and the place to find it is out of doors. It grows everywhere on my farm. I'd rather have a pair of skates than all the medicine this side of China."
She set down her teacup and looked up at him. She was beginning to think him a fairly safe and well-behaved man, although she would have been more comfortable if he had been shut in a cage.
"If I had a pair o' skates," said she, faintly, with a look of inquiry at her sister, "I dunno but I'd try 'em."
Miss Letitia began to laugh silently.
"I'd begin with overshoes," said the teacher, "A pair of overshoes and a walk on the crust every morning before breakfast; increase the dose gradually."
The two old maids were now more at ease with their guest. His kindly manner and plentiful good spirits had begun to warm and cheer them. Miss S'mantha even cherished a secret resolve to slide if the chance came.
After tea Sidney Trove, against their protest, began to help with the dishes. Miss S'mantha prudently managed to keep the stove between him and her. A fire and candles were burning in the parlour. He asked permission, however, to stay where he could talk with them. Tunk Hosely, the man of all work, came in for his supper. He was an odd character. Some, with a finger on their foreheads, confided the opinion that he was "a little off." All agreed he was no fool—in a tone that left it open to argument. He had a small figure and a big squint. His perpetual squint and bristly, short beard were a great injustice to him. They gave him a look severer than he deserved. A limp and leaning shoulder complete the inventory of external traits. Having eaten, he set a candle in the old barn lantern.
"Wal, mister," said he, when all was ready, "come out an' look at my hoss."
The teacher went with him out under a sky bright with stars to the chill and gloomy stable.
"Look at me," said Tunk, holding up the lantern as he turned about."Gosh all fish-hooks! I'm a wreck."
"What's the matter?" Sidney Trove inquired.
"All sunk in—right here," Tunk answered impressively, his hand to his chest.
"How did it happen?"
"Kicked by a boss; that's how it happened," was the significant answer. "Lord! I'm all shucked over t' one side—can't ye see it?"
"A list t' sta'b'rd—that's what they call it, I believe," said the teacher.
"See how I limp," Tunk went on, striding to show his pace. "Ain't it awful!"
"How did that happen?"
"Sprung my ex!" he answered, turning quickly with a significant look. "Thrown from a sulky in a hoss race an' sprung my ex. Lord! can't ye see it?"
The teacher nodded, not knowing quite how to take him.
"Had my knee unsot, too," he went on, lifting his knee as he turned the light upon it. "Jes' put yer finger there," said he, indicating a slight protuberance. "Lord! it's big as a bog spavin."
He had planned to provoke a query, and it came.
"How did you get it?"
"Kicked ag'in," said Tunk, sadly. "Heavens! I've had my share o' bangin'. Can't conquer a skittish hoss without sufferin' some—not allwus. Now, here's a boss," he added, as they walked to a stall. "He ain't much t' look at, but—"
He paused a moment as he neared the horse—a white and ancient palfrey. He stood thoughtfully on "cocked ankles," every leg in a bandage, tail and mane braided,
"Get ap, Prince," Tunk shouted, as he gave him a slap. Prince moved aside, betraying evidence of age and infirmity.
"But—" Tunk repeated with emphasis.
"Ugly?" the teacher queried.
"Ugly!" said Tunk, as if the word were all too feeble for the fact in hand. "Reg'lar hell on wheels!—that's what he is. Look out! don't git too nigh him. He ain't no conscience—that hoss ain't."
"Is he fast?"
"Greased lightnin'!" said Tunk, shaking his head. "Won twenty-seven races."
"You're a good deal of a horseman, I take it." said the teacher.
"Wal, some," said he, expectorating thoughtfully. "But I don't have no chance here. What d'ye 'spect of a man livin,' with them ol' maids ?"
He seemed to have more contempt than his words would carry.
"Every night they lock me upstairs," he continued with a look of injury; "they ain't fit fer nobody t' live with. Ain't got no hoss but that dummed ol' plug."
He had forgotten his enthusiasm of the preceding moment. His intellect was a museum of freaks. Therein, Vanity was the prodigious fat man, Memory the dwarf, and Veracity the living skeleton. When Vanity rose to show himself, the others left the stage.
Tunk's face had become suddenly thoughtful and morose. In truth, he was an arrant and amusing humbug. It has been said that children are all given to lying in some degree, but seeing the folly of it in good time, if, indeed, they are not convinced of its wickedness, train tongue and feeling into the way of truth. The respect for truth that is the beginning of wisdom had not come to Tunk. He continued to lie with the cheerful inconsistency of a child. The' hero of his youth had been a certain driver of trotting horses, who had a limp and a leaning shoulder. In Tunk, the limp and the leaning shoulder were an attainment that had come of no sudden wrench. Such is the power of example, he admired, then imitated, and at last acquired them. One cannot help thinking what graces of character and person a like persistency would have brought to him. But Tunk had equipped himself with horsey heroism, adorning it to his own fancy. He had never been kicked, he had never driven a race or been hurled from a sulky at full speed. Prince, that ancient palfrey, was the most harmless of all creatures, and would long since have been put out of misery but for the tender consideration of his owners. And Tunk—well, they used to say of him, that if he had been truthful, he couldn't have been alive.
"Sometime," Trove thought, "his folly may bring confusion upon wise heads."
An Event in the Rustic Museum
Sidney Trove sat talking a while with Miss Letitia. Miss S'mantha, unable longer to bear the unusual strain of danger and publicity, went away to bed soon after supper. Tunk Hosely came in with a candle about nine.
"Wal, mister," said he, "you ready t' go t' bed?"
"I am," said Trove, and followed him to the cold hospitality of the spare room, a place of peril but beautifully clean. There was a neat rag carpet on the floor, immaculate tidies on the bureau and wash table, and a spotless quilt of patchwork on the bed. But, like the dungeon of mediaeval times, it was a place for sighs and reflection, not for rest. Half an inch of frost on every window-pane glistened in the dim light of the candle.
"As soon as they unlock my door, I'll come an' let ye out in the mornin'," Tunk whispered.
"Are they going to lock me in?"
"Wouldn't wonder," said Tunk, soberly.
"What can ye 'spect from a couple o' dummed ol' maids like them?"
There was a note of long suffering in his half-whispered tone,
"Good night, mister," said he, with a look of dejection. "Orter have a nightcap, er ye'll git hoar-frost on yer hair."
Trove was all a-shiver in the time it took him to undress, and his breath came out of him in spreading shafts of steam. Sheets of flannel and not less than half a dozen quilts and comfortables made a cover, under which the heat of his own blood warmed his body. He became uncomfortably aware of the presence of his head and face, however. He could hear stealthy movements beyond the door, and knew they were barricading it with furniture. Long before daylight a hurried removal of the barricade awoke him. Then he heard a rap at the door, and the excited voice of Tunk.
"Say, mister! come here quick," it called.
Sidney Trove leaped out of bed and into his trousers. He hurried through the dark parlour, feeling his way around a clump of chairs and stumbling over a sofa. The two old maids were at the kitchen door, both dressed, one holding a lighted candle. Tunk Hosely stood by the door, buttoning suspenders with one hand and holding a musket in the other. They were shivering and pale. The room was now cold.
"Hear that!" Tunk whispered, turning to the teacher.
They all listened, hearing a low, weird cry outside the door.
"Soun's t' me like a raccoon," Miss S'mantha whispered thoughtfully.
"Or a lamb," said Miss Letitia.
"Er a painter," Tunk ventured, his ear turning to catch the sound.
"Let's open the door," said Sidney Trove, advancing.
"Not me," said Tunk, firmly, raising his gun.
Trove had not time to act before they heard a cry for help on the doorstep. It was the voice of a young girl. He opened the door, and there stood Mary Leblanc—a scholar of Linley School and the daughter of a poor Frenchman. She came in lugging a baby wrapped in a big shawl, and both crying.
"Oh, Miss Tower," said she; "pa has come out o' the woods drunk an' has threatened to kill the baby. Ma wants to know if you'll keep it here to-night."
The two old maids wrung their hands with astonishment and only said "y!"
"Of course we'll keep it," said Trove, as he took the baby,
"I must hurry back," said the girl, now turning with a look of relief.
Tunk shied off and began to build a fire; Miss S'mantha sat down weeping, the girl ran away in the darkness, and Trove put the baby in Miss Letitia's arms.
"I'll run over to Leblanc's cabin," said he, getting his cap and coat. "They're having trouble over there."
He left them and hurried off on his way to the little cabin.
Loud cries of the baby rang in that abode of silence. It began to kick and squirm with determined energy. Poor Miss Letitia had the very look of panic in her face. She clung to the fierce little creature, not knowing what to do. Miss S'mantha lay back in a fit of hysterics. Tunk advanced bravely, with brows knit, and stood looking down at the baby.
"Lord! this is awful!" said he. Then a thought struck him. "I'll git some milk," he shouted, running into the buttery.
The baby thrust the cup away, and it fell noisily, the milk streaming over a new rag carpet.
"It's sick; I'm sure it's sick," said Miss Letitia, her voice trembling. "S'mantha, can't you do something?"
Miss S'mantha calmed herself a little and drew near.
"Jes' like a wil'cat," said Tunk, thoughtfully. "Powerful, too," he added, with an effort to control one of the kicking legs.
"What shall we do?" said Miss Letitia.
"My sister had a baby once," said Tunk, approaching it doubtfully but with a studious look.
He made a few passes with his hand in front of the baby's face. Then he gave it a little poke in the ribs, tentatively. The effect was like adding insult to injury.
"If 'twas mine," said Tunk, "which I'm glad it ain't—I'd rub a little o' that hoss liniment on his stummick,"
The two old maids took the baby into their bedroom. It was an hour later when Trove came back. Tunk sat alone by the kitchen fire. There was yet a loud wail in the bedroom.
"What's the news?" said Tunk, who met him at the door.
"Drunk, that's all," said Trove. "I took this bottle, sling-shot, and bar of iron away from him. The woman thought I had better bring them with me and put them out of his way."
He laid them on the floor in a corner.
"I got him into bed," he continued, "and then hid the axe and came away. I guess they're all right now. When I left he had begun to snore."
"Wal,—we ain't all right," said Tunk, pointing to the room. "If you can conquer that thing, you'll do well. Poor Miss Teeshy!" he added, shaking his head.
"What's the matter with her?" Trove inquired.
"Kicked in the stummick 'til she dunno where she is," said Tunk, gloomily.
He pulled off his boots.
"If she don't go lame t'morrer, I'll miss my guess," he added. "She looks a good deal like Deacon Haskins after he had milked the brindle cow."
He leaned back, one foot upon the stove-hearth. Shrill cries rang in the old house.
"'Druther 'twould hev been a painter," said Tunk, sighing.
"Why so?"
"More used to 'em," said Tunk, sadly.
They listened a while longer without speaking.
"Ye can't drive it, ner coax it, ner scare it away, ner do nuthin' to it," said Tunk, presently.
He rose and picked up the things Trove had brought with him. "I'll take these to the barn," said he; "they'd have a fit—if they was t' see 'em. What be they?"
"I do not know what they are," said Trove.
"Wal!" said Tunk. "They're queer folks—them Frenchmen. This looks like an iron bar broke in two in the middle."
He got his lantern, picked up the bottle, the sling-shot, and the iron, and went away to the barn.
Trove went to the bedroom door and rapped, and was admitted. He went to work with the baby, and soon, to his joy, it lay asleep on the bed. Then he left the room on tiptoe, and a bit weary.
"A very full day!" he said to himself.
"Teacher, counsellor, martyr, constable, nurse—I wonder what next!"
And as he went to his room, he heard Miss S'mantha say to her sister, "I'm thankful it's not a boy, anyway."