CHAPTER XITHE LITTLE INDIANPrudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they'd "better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round.""Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she, "and she's got a black man's hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her."Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an Indian woman, who had no idea of harming anyone."What are Nindians?" asked the child.Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red men." The country had once been filled by them; but the English came, a great many years ago, and shook off the red men just as a high wind shakes the red leaves off a tree; and they were scattered about, and only a few were left alive. Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came round making baskets; but they were quiet and peaceable people.Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they were strolling up the river, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sat a little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his hand, in the act of firing.Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might; but as Horace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at something across the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look at the odd little stranger, who turned partly round and returned his gaze. His eyes were keen and black, with a good-natured expression, something like the eyes of an intelligent dog."What's your name, boy?" said Horace."Me no understand.""I asked what yournameis," continued Horace, who was sure the boy understood, in spite of his blank looks."Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian.""Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"No answer, but a shake of the head."I reckon they call youJohn, don't they?"Here the boy's mother appeared at the door."His name noJohn! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo! short name, speak um quick!—Jaw-awn. Great long name!" drawled she, stretching it out as if it were made of India rubber, and scowling with an air of disgust."What does she mean by calling 'John'long?" thought Horace.The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her brown, stockingless feet and gay moccasins.Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her shoulders and into her eyes. Horace concluded she must have lost her back-comb.While he was looking at her with curious eyes, her daughter came to the door, feeling a little cross at the stranger, whoever it might be; but when she saw only an innocent little boy, she smiled pleasantly, showing a row of white teeth. Horace thought her rather handsome, for she was very straight and slender, and her eyes shone like glass beads. Her hair he considered a great deal blacker than black, and it was braided and tied with gay ribbons. She was dressed in a bright, large-figured calico, and from her ears were suspended the longest, yellowest, queerest ear-rings. Horace thought they were shaped like boat-paddles, and would be pretty for Prudy to use when she rowed her little red boat in the bathing-tub. If they only "scooped" a little more they would answer for teaspoons. "Plenty big as I should want for teaspoons," he decided, after another gaze at them.The young girl was used to being admired by her own people, and was not at all displeased with Horace for staring at her."Me think you nice white child," said she: "you get me sticks, me make you basket, pretty basket for put apples in.""What kind of sticks do you mean?" said Horace, forgetting that they pretended not to understand English. But it appeared that they knew very well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered to go with him to point out the place where the wood was to be found. Grasshopper, who had only hidden behind the trees, now came out and joined the boys."Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr. Parlin's grounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some tall silver poplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing eyes."Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me make you basket.""Would you let him, Grasshopper?""Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care.""Perhaps he might; you don't know," said Horace, who, after he had asked advice, was far from feeling obliged to take it. He ran in great haste to the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes, thinking, "If I ask, then I shan't get marked in the blue book anyhow."In this case Horace acted very properly. He had no right to cut the trees, or allow anyone else to cut them, without leave. To his great delight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off a few branches where they would not show much.When Horace got back and reported the words of his grandfather, Wampum did not even smile, but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow."Me no hurt trees," said he gravely; and he did not: he only cut off a few limbs from each one, leaving the trees as handsome as ever."Bully for you!" cried Horace, forgetting the blue book."He's as spry as a squirrel," said Grasshopper, in admiration; "how many boughs has he got? One, two, three.""Me say 'em quickest," cried little Wampum. "Een, teen, teddery, peddery, bimp, satter, latter, doe, dommy, dick.""That's ten," put in Horace, who was keeping 'count."Een-dick," continued the little Indian, "teen-dick, teddery-dick, peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin, teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin, peddery-bumpin, jiggets.""Hollo!" cried Grasshopper; "that's twenty; jiggets is twenty;" and he rolled over on the ground, laughing as if he had made a great discovery.Little by little they made Wampum tell how he lived at home, what sort of boys he played with, and what they had to eat. The young Indian assured them that at Oldtown "he lived in a house good as white folks; he ate moose-meat, ate sheep-meat, ate cow-meat.""Cook out doors, I s'pose," said Grasshopper.Wampum looked very severe. "When me lives in wigwam, me has fires in wigwam: when me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass;—keep off them things," he added, pointing at a mosquito in the air; "keep smoke out tent," pointing upward to show the motion of the smoke.Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion that he resolved to treat him to a watermelon. So, without saying a word to the hoys, he ran into the house to ask his grandmother."What! a whole watermelon, Horace?""Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum."Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace had adopted a new friend."You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like to have you play much with a strange boy.""He's going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren't Indians and negroes as good as white folks? 'SpeciallytameIndians," said Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoeknife in hand, to cut the watermelon.This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum. For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild life of this Indian family. He was made welcome at their tent, and often went in to see them make baskets."I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. If you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are very young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one over another: these were the beds which were spread out at night for the family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various directions, like a clothesline.It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work! It brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business for him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, and really went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poor Wampum after a lesson in "baker."He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one—red, white, and blue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green, the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into "the Pines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no reason to forget it, surely."Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy; "but I never knew till yesterday what had 'come of it.""There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant took that! I forgot all about it."What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for the money, since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was fond of joking with little boys."Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted concern you've got on your arm, and we'll call it square.""No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present, and I couldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you one—see if I don't!"Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that Horace would ever think of the matter again; but in truth the first article the boy tried to make was a horse-basket."Me tell you somethin'," said little Wampum, next morning, as he and Horace were crossing the field together. "Very much me want um,—um,—um,"—putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner which signified that he meant something to eat."Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in English.""Very much me want um," continued Wampum, in a beseeching tone. "No tell what you call um. E'enamost water, noquitewater; e'enamost punkin, noquitepunkin.""Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace: "should think you'd remember that as easy as pumpkin.""Very much me want um," repeated Wampum, delighted at being understood, "me like um.""Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine.""O, yes. Ugh! you've got 'em. Melon-water good! Me have melon-waters, me give you moc-suns.""I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head."You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns! Me no wanteen—me want bimp—bumpin—jiggets."Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied moccasins very much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, "very much he wanted them." How handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit!But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue book which his mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out."It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told menotto give the watermelons.""No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.;thatstands for stealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father,steal! A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said, 'Remember God sees all you do'!""Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk! Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave me a bushel of 'em."After this Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not remembering that there are a great many excuses to be made for a half civilized child. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper proved to be very bad. If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would have dropped his society all the same; because after Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play with him any longer.Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horace did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps he remembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him the beautiful present which he had received from the Indians."It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one," stammered he, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square.""Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub; that's a little too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow. Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it back, my fine little shaver."To say that Horace was very happy would not half express the delight he felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownest own," beyond the right of dispute.The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothing surprising that, the very next morning after they left, Grandpa Parlin should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothing left on the vines but a few miserable green little melons.CHAPTER XIIA PLEASANT SURPRISE"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?""Pick berries," suggested Grace.And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with Susie and Aunt Madge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not help missing Pincher very much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a happier day than the one he and Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines." He was beginning to find, as all children do, how hard it is to get up "a good time" when you are pricked by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to be happy when you are doing right.They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and reached home quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly full of berries.When Horace timidly told Aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted to sell all they had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the fruit if they wished, but wondered what they wanted to do with the money: she supposed it was for the soldiers."I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he did not wish his Aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than three bills in her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take care of her.""Ah," said Aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a secret drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it. She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, for your mother wouldn't deceive you.""Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turned half a somersault, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drum would cost.The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs. Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were the letters "D.," "B.W.," "B.G.P.," and "F.," on separate lines, one above another. But there were no figures before the letters but the "B.W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller, as you could see by looking carefully."Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of the fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too.""Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that you never talk anything worse than lingo.""I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies.""No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've forgotten, and slammed doors, and lots of things; but you know I didn't set that down."I wish all little girls felt as much interest in their younger brothers as this sister felt in Horace. Grace had her faults, of which I might have told you if I had been writing the book about her; but she loved Horace dearly, kept his little secrets whenever she promised to do so, and was always glad to have him do right.Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the blue book, and kissed Horace and Grace, saying they grew dearer to her every day of their lives.One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for the mail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A crowd of men were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and counter, listening to the news, which someone was reading in a loud, clear voice.Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and a newspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace rolled the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it at the large tree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horses hitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out.He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late battle, thinking of his dear father, as he always did when he heard war news. But at last remembering that his grandfather would be anxious to have the daily paper, he started for home, though rather against his will."I never did see such a fuss as they make," thought he, "if anybody's more'n a minute going to the office and back.""Is this all?" said Aunt Madge, as Horace gave a letter to grandma, one to Aunt Louise, and the paper to his grandfather."Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace, faintly. It did seem, to be sure, as if Mr. Pope had given him three letters, but as he could not find another in his pocket, he supposed he must be mistaken, and said nothing about it. He little knew what a careless thing he had done, and soon went to bed, forgetting post-offices and letters in a strange dream of little Wampum, who had a bridle on and was hitched to a post; and of the Indian girl's ear-rings, which seemed to have grown into a pair of shining gold muskets.A few mornings after the mistake about the letter, Mrs. Clifford sat mending Horace's raglan. She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-hooks, jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still something rattled when she touched the jacket; it seemed to be paper. She thrust in her finger, and there, between the outside and lining, was a crumpled, worn letter, addressed to "Miss Margaret Parlin.""What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford. "Horace must have carried the letter all summer."But upon looking at it again, she saw that it was mailed at Washington about two weeks before—"a soldier's letter." She carried it down to Margaret, who was busy making cream-cakes."Let me see," said Aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's shoulder, and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do you know somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?"Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and carried the letter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it with trembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingers trembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed to reel about.There was no bad news in the letter, you may be sure of that. She sat reading it over and over again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, and the sunshine in her eyes dried them again. Then she folded her hands together, and humbly thanked God for his loving kindness.When she was sure her sister Maria had gone upstairs, she ran out to the kitchen, whispering,—"O, mother! O, Louise!" but broke down by laughing."What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin, laughing too.Margaret tried again to speak, but this time burst into tears."There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so happy that it's really dreadful. I'm afraid somebody may die of joy.""I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity," said Aunt Louise: "do speak quick.""Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said Margaret: "that's the blessed truth! Now hush! We must be careful how we tell Maria!"Mrs. Parlin caught Margaret by the shoulder, and gasped for breath. Louise dropped into a chair."What do you mean? What have you heard?" they both cried at once."He was taken off the field for dead; but life was not quite gone. He lay for weeks just breathing, and that was all.""But why did no one let us know it?" said Louise. "Of course Maria would have gone to him at once.""There was no one to write; and when Henry came to himself there was no hope of him, except by amputation of his left arm; and after that operation he was very low again.""O, why don't you give us the letter," said Louise, "so we can see for ourselves?"But she was too excited to read it; and while she was trying to collect her ideas, Aunt Madge had to hunt for grandma's spectacles; and then the three looked over the surgeon's letter together, sometimes all talking at once.Captain Clifford would be in Maine as soon as possible: so the letter said. A young man was to come with him to take care of him, and they were to travel very slowly indeed; might be at home in a fortnight."They may be here to-night," said Mrs. Parlin.This letter had been written to prepare the family for Captain Clifford's arrival. It was expected that Aunt Madge would break the news to his wife."It's a pity that little flyaway of a Horace didn't give you the letter in time," said Louise; "and then we might have had some days to get used to it.""Wait a minute, dear," said Aunt Madge, as Susie came in for a drink of water: "please run up and ask Aunt Maria to come downstairs. Now, mother," she added, "you are the one to tell the story, if you please.""We can all break it to her by degrees," said Mrs. Parlin, twisting her checked apron nervously.When Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen, she saw at once that something had happened. Her mother with a flushed face was opening and shutting the stove door. Margaret was polishing a pie-plate, with tears in her eyes, and Louise had seized a sieve, and appeared to be breaking eggs into it. Nobody wanted to speak first."What do you say to hearing a story?" faltered Louise."O, you poor woman," exclaimed Margaret, seizing Mrs. Clifford by both hands: "you look so sorrowful, dear, as if nothing would ever make you happy again. Can you believe we have a piece of good news for you?""For me?" Mrs. Clifford looked bewildered."Good news for you," said Louise, dropping the sieve to the floor: "yes, indeed! O, Maria, we thought Henry was killed; but he isn't; it's a mistake of the papers. He's alive, and coming home to-night."All this as fast as she could speak. No wonder Mrs. Clifford was shocked! First she stood quiet and amazed, gazing at her sister with fixed eyes: then she screamed, and would have fallen if her mother and Margaret had not caught her in their arms."O, I have killed her," cried Louise: "I didn't mean to speak so quick! Henry isalmostdead, Maria: he isnearlydead, I mean! He's just alive!""Louise, bring some water at once," said Mrs. Parlin, sternly."O, mother," sobbed Louise, returning with the water, "I didn't mean to be so hasty; but you might have known I would: you should have sent me out of the room."This was very much the way Prudy talked when she did wrong: she had a funny way of blaming other people.It is always unsafe to tell even joyful news too suddenly; but Louise's thoughtlessness had not done so much harm as they all feared. Mrs. Clifford recovered from the shock, and in an hour or two was wonderfully calm, looking so perfectly happy that it was delightful just to gaze at her face.She wanted the pleasure of telling the children the story with her own lips. Grace was fairly wild with joy, kissing everybody, and declaring it was "too good for anything." She was too happy to keep still, while as for Horace, he was too happy to talk."Then Uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven," cried little Prudy. "Hasn't he been to heaven at all?""No, of course not," said Susie: "didn't you hear 'em say he'd be here to-night?—Now you've got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if you spot it up 'twill be awful.""I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that shooted found 'twas Uncle Henry, and so he didn't want to kill him down dead."How the family found time to do so many things that day I do not know, especially as each one was in somebody's way, and the children under everybody's feet. But before night the pantry was full of nice things, the whole house was as fresh as a rose, and the parlors were adorned with autumn flowers and green garlands.Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil lamps, were filled, and every candlestick, whether brass, iron, or glass, was used to hold a sperm candle; so that in the evening the house at every window was all ablaze with light. The front door stood wide open, and the piazza and part of the lawn were as bright as day. The double gate had been unlatched for hours, and everybody waiting for the carriage to drive up.The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace had said was like a baby-jumper, would never do for a sick man to ride in: so Billy Green had driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and Aunt Madge had gone with him, for she was afraid neither Billy nor the gentleman who was with Captain Clifford would know how to wrap the shawls about him carefully enough.I could never describe the joyful meeting which took place in those brilliantly lighted parlors. It is very rarely that such wonderful happiness falls to anyone's lot in this world.While the smiles are yet bright on their faces, while Grace is clinging to her father's neck, and Horace hugs his new "real drum" in one arm, embracing his dear papa with the other, let us take leave of them and the whole family for the present, with many kind good-bys.THE END* * * * * * * *FICTION FOR BOYSLITTLE RHODYByJEAN K. BAIRDIllustrated byR. G. VosburghAt The Hall, a boys' school, there is a set of boys known as the "Union of States," to which admittance is gained by excelling in some particular the boys deem worthy of their mettle.Rush Petriken, a hunchback boy, comes to The Hall, and rooms with Barnes, the despair of the entire school because of his prowess in athletics. Petriken idolizes him, and when trouble comes to him, the poor crippled lad gladly shoulders the blame, and is expelled. But shortly before the end of the term he returns and is hailed as "little Rhody," the "capitalest State of all."CLOTH, 12 mo, illustrated, - $1.50* * * * *BIGELOW BOYSByMRS. A. F. RANSOMIllustrated byHENRY MILLERFour boys, all bubbling over with energy and love of good times, and their mother, an authoress, make this story of a street-car strike in one of our large cities move with leaps and bounds. For it is due to the four boys that a crowded theatre car is saved from being wrecked, and the instigators of the plot captured.Mrs. Ransom is widely known by her patriotic work among the boys in the navy, and she now proves herself a friend of the lads on land by writing more especially for them.CLOTH, 12 mo, illustrated, - $1.50Books sent postpaid on receipt of price.The Saalfield Publishing Co.AKRON, OHIO*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKLITTLE PRUDY'S CAPTAIN HORACE***
CHAPTER XI
THE LITTLE INDIAN
Prudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they'd "better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round."
"Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she, "and she's got a black man's hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her."
Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an Indian woman, who had no idea of harming anyone.
"What are Nindians?" asked the child.
Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red men." The country had once been filled by them; but the English came, a great many years ago, and shook off the red men just as a high wind shakes the red leaves off a tree; and they were scattered about, and only a few were left alive. Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came round making baskets; but they were quiet and peaceable people.
Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they were strolling up the river, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sat a little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his hand, in the act of firing.
Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might; but as Horace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at something across the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look at the odd little stranger, who turned partly round and returned his gaze. His eyes were keen and black, with a good-natured expression, something like the eyes of an intelligent dog.
"What's your name, boy?" said Horace.
"Me no understand."
"I asked what yournameis," continued Horace, who was sure the boy understood, in spite of his blank looks.
"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."
"Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"
No answer, but a shake of the head.
"I reckon they call youJohn, don't they?"
Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.
"His name noJohn! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo! short name, speak um quick!—Jaw-awn. Great long name!" drawled she, stretching it out as if it were made of India rubber, and scowling with an air of disgust.
"What does she mean by calling 'John'long?" thought Horace.
The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her brown, stockingless feet and gay moccasins.
Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her shoulders and into her eyes. Horace concluded she must have lost her back-comb.
While he was looking at her with curious eyes, her daughter came to the door, feeling a little cross at the stranger, whoever it might be; but when she saw only an innocent little boy, she smiled pleasantly, showing a row of white teeth. Horace thought her rather handsome, for she was very straight and slender, and her eyes shone like glass beads. Her hair he considered a great deal blacker than black, and it was braided and tied with gay ribbons. She was dressed in a bright, large-figured calico, and from her ears were suspended the longest, yellowest, queerest ear-rings. Horace thought they were shaped like boat-paddles, and would be pretty for Prudy to use when she rowed her little red boat in the bathing-tub. If they only "scooped" a little more they would answer for teaspoons. "Plenty big as I should want for teaspoons," he decided, after another gaze at them.
The young girl was used to being admired by her own people, and was not at all displeased with Horace for staring at her.
"Me think you nice white child," said she: "you get me sticks, me make you basket, pretty basket for put apples in."
"What kind of sticks do you mean?" said Horace, forgetting that they pretended not to understand English. But it appeared that they knew very well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered to go with him to point out the place where the wood was to be found. Grasshopper, who had only hidden behind the trees, now came out and joined the boys.
"Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr. Parlin's grounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some tall silver poplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing eyes.
"Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me make you basket."
"Would you let him, Grasshopper?"
"Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care."
"Perhaps he might; you don't know," said Horace, who, after he had asked advice, was far from feeling obliged to take it. He ran in great haste to the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes, thinking, "If I ask, then I shan't get marked in the blue book anyhow."
In this case Horace acted very properly. He had no right to cut the trees, or allow anyone else to cut them, without leave. To his great delight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off a few branches where they would not show much.
When Horace got back and reported the words of his grandfather, Wampum did not even smile, but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow.
"Me no hurt trees," said he gravely; and he did not: he only cut off a few limbs from each one, leaving the trees as handsome as ever.
"Bully for you!" cried Horace, forgetting the blue book.
"He's as spry as a squirrel," said Grasshopper, in admiration; "how many boughs has he got? One, two, three."
"Me say 'em quickest," cried little Wampum. "Een, teen, teddery, peddery, bimp, satter, latter, doe, dommy, dick."
"That's ten," put in Horace, who was keeping 'count.
"Een-dick," continued the little Indian, "teen-dick, teddery-dick, peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin, teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin, peddery-bumpin, jiggets."
"Hollo!" cried Grasshopper; "that's twenty; jiggets is twenty;" and he rolled over on the ground, laughing as if he had made a great discovery.
Little by little they made Wampum tell how he lived at home, what sort of boys he played with, and what they had to eat. The young Indian assured them that at Oldtown "he lived in a house good as white folks; he ate moose-meat, ate sheep-meat, ate cow-meat."
"Cook out doors, I s'pose," said Grasshopper.
Wampum looked very severe. "When me lives in wigwam, me has fires in wigwam: when me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass;—keep off them things," he added, pointing at a mosquito in the air; "keep smoke out tent," pointing upward to show the motion of the smoke.
Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion that he resolved to treat him to a watermelon. So, without saying a word to the hoys, he ran into the house to ask his grandmother.
"What! a whole watermelon, Horace?"
"Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum."
Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace had adopted a new friend.
"You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like to have you play much with a strange boy."
"He's going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren't Indians and negroes as good as white folks? 'SpeciallytameIndians," said Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoeknife in hand, to cut the watermelon.
This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum. For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild life of this Indian family. He was made welcome at their tent, and often went in to see them make baskets.
"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. If you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are very young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."
The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one over another: these were the beds which were spread out at night for the family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various directions, like a clothesline.
It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work! It brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business for him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.
For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, and really went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poor Wampum after a lesson in "baker."
He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one—red, white, and blue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green, the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into "the Pines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no reason to forget it, surely.
"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy; "but I never knew till yesterday what had 'come of it."
"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant took that! I forgot all about it."
What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for the money, since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was fond of joking with little boys.
"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted concern you've got on your arm, and we'll call it square."
"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present, and I couldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you one—see if I don't!"
Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that Horace would ever think of the matter again; but in truth the first article the boy tried to make was a horse-basket.
"Me tell you somethin'," said little Wampum, next morning, as he and Horace were crossing the field together. "Very much me want um,—um,—um,"—putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner which signified that he meant something to eat.
"Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in English."
"Very much me want um," continued Wampum, in a beseeching tone. "No tell what you call um. E'enamost water, noquitewater; e'enamost punkin, noquitepunkin."
"Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace: "should think you'd remember that as easy as pumpkin."
"Very much me want um," repeated Wampum, delighted at being understood, "me like um."
"Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine."
"O, yes. Ugh! you've got 'em. Melon-water good! Me have melon-waters, me give you moc-suns."
"I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."
Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.
"You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns! Me no wanteen—me want bimp—bumpin—jiggets."
Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied moccasins very much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, "very much he wanted them." How handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit!
But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue book which his mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out.
"It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told menotto give the watermelons."
"No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.;thatstands for stealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father,steal! A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said, 'Remember God sees all you do'!"
"Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk! Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave me a bushel of 'em."
After this Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not remembering that there are a great many excuses to be made for a half civilized child. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper proved to be very bad. If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would have dropped his society all the same; because after Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play with him any longer.
Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horace did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps he remembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him the beautiful present which he had received from the Indians.
"It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one," stammered he, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square."
"Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub; that's a little too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow. Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it back, my fine little shaver."
To say that Horace was very happy would not half express the delight he felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownest own," beyond the right of dispute.
The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothing surprising that, the very next morning after they left, Grandpa Parlin should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothing left on the vines but a few miserable green little melons.
CHAPTER XII
A PLEASANT SURPRISE
"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?"
"Pick berries," suggested Grace.
And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with Susie and Aunt Madge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not help missing Pincher very much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a happier day than the one he and Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines." He was beginning to find, as all children do, how hard it is to get up "a good time" when you are pricked by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to be happy when you are doing right.
They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and reached home quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly full of berries.
When Horace timidly told Aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted to sell all they had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the fruit if they wished, but wondered what they wanted to do with the money: she supposed it was for the soldiers.
"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he did not wish his Aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than three bills in her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take care of her."
"Ah," said Aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a secret drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it. She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, for your mother wouldn't deceive you."
"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turned half a somersault, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drum would cost.
The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs. Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were the letters "D.," "B.W.," "B.G.P.," and "F.," on separate lines, one above another. But there were no figures before the letters but the "B.W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller, as you could see by looking carefully.
"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of the fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."
"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that you never talk anything worse than lingo."
"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies."
"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've forgotten, and slammed doors, and lots of things; but you know I didn't set that down."
I wish all little girls felt as much interest in their younger brothers as this sister felt in Horace. Grace had her faults, of which I might have told you if I had been writing the book about her; but she loved Horace dearly, kept his little secrets whenever she promised to do so, and was always glad to have him do right.
Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the blue book, and kissed Horace and Grace, saying they grew dearer to her every day of their lives.
One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for the mail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A crowd of men were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and counter, listening to the news, which someone was reading in a loud, clear voice.
Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and a newspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace rolled the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it at the large tree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horses hitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out.
He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late battle, thinking of his dear father, as he always did when he heard war news. But at last remembering that his grandfather would be anxious to have the daily paper, he started for home, though rather against his will.
"I never did see such a fuss as they make," thought he, "if anybody's more'n a minute going to the office and back."
"Is this all?" said Aunt Madge, as Horace gave a letter to grandma, one to Aunt Louise, and the paper to his grandfather.
"Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace, faintly. It did seem, to be sure, as if Mr. Pope had given him three letters, but as he could not find another in his pocket, he supposed he must be mistaken, and said nothing about it. He little knew what a careless thing he had done, and soon went to bed, forgetting post-offices and letters in a strange dream of little Wampum, who had a bridle on and was hitched to a post; and of the Indian girl's ear-rings, which seemed to have grown into a pair of shining gold muskets.
A few mornings after the mistake about the letter, Mrs. Clifford sat mending Horace's raglan. She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-hooks, jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still something rattled when she touched the jacket; it seemed to be paper. She thrust in her finger, and there, between the outside and lining, was a crumpled, worn letter, addressed to "Miss Margaret Parlin."
"What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford. "Horace must have carried the letter all summer."
But upon looking at it again, she saw that it was mailed at Washington about two weeks before—"a soldier's letter." She carried it down to Margaret, who was busy making cream-cakes.
"Let me see," said Aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's shoulder, and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do you know somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?"
Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and carried the letter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it with trembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingers trembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed to reel about.
There was no bad news in the letter, you may be sure of that. She sat reading it over and over again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, and the sunshine in her eyes dried them again. Then she folded her hands together, and humbly thanked God for his loving kindness.
When she was sure her sister Maria had gone upstairs, she ran out to the kitchen, whispering,—
"O, mother! O, Louise!" but broke down by laughing.
"What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin, laughing too.
Margaret tried again to speak, but this time burst into tears.
"There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so happy that it's really dreadful. I'm afraid somebody may die of joy."
"I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity," said Aunt Louise: "do speak quick."
"Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said Margaret: "that's the blessed truth! Now hush! We must be careful how we tell Maria!"
Mrs. Parlin caught Margaret by the shoulder, and gasped for breath. Louise dropped into a chair.
"What do you mean? What have you heard?" they both cried at once.
"He was taken off the field for dead; but life was not quite gone. He lay for weeks just breathing, and that was all."
"But why did no one let us know it?" said Louise. "Of course Maria would have gone to him at once."
"There was no one to write; and when Henry came to himself there was no hope of him, except by amputation of his left arm; and after that operation he was very low again."
"O, why don't you give us the letter," said Louise, "so we can see for ourselves?"
But she was too excited to read it; and while she was trying to collect her ideas, Aunt Madge had to hunt for grandma's spectacles; and then the three looked over the surgeon's letter together, sometimes all talking at once.
Captain Clifford would be in Maine as soon as possible: so the letter said. A young man was to come with him to take care of him, and they were to travel very slowly indeed; might be at home in a fortnight.
"They may be here to-night," said Mrs. Parlin.
This letter had been written to prepare the family for Captain Clifford's arrival. It was expected that Aunt Madge would break the news to his wife.
"It's a pity that little flyaway of a Horace didn't give you the letter in time," said Louise; "and then we might have had some days to get used to it."
"Wait a minute, dear," said Aunt Madge, as Susie came in for a drink of water: "please run up and ask Aunt Maria to come downstairs. Now, mother," she added, "you are the one to tell the story, if you please."
"We can all break it to her by degrees," said Mrs. Parlin, twisting her checked apron nervously.
When Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen, she saw at once that something had happened. Her mother with a flushed face was opening and shutting the stove door. Margaret was polishing a pie-plate, with tears in her eyes, and Louise had seized a sieve, and appeared to be breaking eggs into it. Nobody wanted to speak first.
"What do you say to hearing a story?" faltered Louise.
"O, you poor woman," exclaimed Margaret, seizing Mrs. Clifford by both hands: "you look so sorrowful, dear, as if nothing would ever make you happy again. Can you believe we have a piece of good news for you?"
"For me?" Mrs. Clifford looked bewildered.
"Good news for you," said Louise, dropping the sieve to the floor: "yes, indeed! O, Maria, we thought Henry was killed; but he isn't; it's a mistake of the papers. He's alive, and coming home to-night."
All this as fast as she could speak. No wonder Mrs. Clifford was shocked! First she stood quiet and amazed, gazing at her sister with fixed eyes: then she screamed, and would have fallen if her mother and Margaret had not caught her in their arms.
"O, I have killed her," cried Louise: "I didn't mean to speak so quick! Henry isalmostdead, Maria: he isnearlydead, I mean! He's just alive!"
"Louise, bring some water at once," said Mrs. Parlin, sternly.
"O, mother," sobbed Louise, returning with the water, "I didn't mean to be so hasty; but you might have known I would: you should have sent me out of the room."
This was very much the way Prudy talked when she did wrong: she had a funny way of blaming other people.
It is always unsafe to tell even joyful news too suddenly; but Louise's thoughtlessness had not done so much harm as they all feared. Mrs. Clifford recovered from the shock, and in an hour or two was wonderfully calm, looking so perfectly happy that it was delightful just to gaze at her face.
She wanted the pleasure of telling the children the story with her own lips. Grace was fairly wild with joy, kissing everybody, and declaring it was "too good for anything." She was too happy to keep still, while as for Horace, he was too happy to talk.
"Then Uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven," cried little Prudy. "Hasn't he been to heaven at all?"
"No, of course not," said Susie: "didn't you hear 'em say he'd be here to-night?—Now you've got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if you spot it up 'twill be awful."
"I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that shooted found 'twas Uncle Henry, and so he didn't want to kill him down dead."
How the family found time to do so many things that day I do not know, especially as each one was in somebody's way, and the children under everybody's feet. But before night the pantry was full of nice things, the whole house was as fresh as a rose, and the parlors were adorned with autumn flowers and green garlands.
Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil lamps, were filled, and every candlestick, whether brass, iron, or glass, was used to hold a sperm candle; so that in the evening the house at every window was all ablaze with light. The front door stood wide open, and the piazza and part of the lawn were as bright as day. The double gate had been unlatched for hours, and everybody waiting for the carriage to drive up.
The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace had said was like a baby-jumper, would never do for a sick man to ride in: so Billy Green had driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and Aunt Madge had gone with him, for she was afraid neither Billy nor the gentleman who was with Captain Clifford would know how to wrap the shawls about him carefully enough.
I could never describe the joyful meeting which took place in those brilliantly lighted parlors. It is very rarely that such wonderful happiness falls to anyone's lot in this world.
While the smiles are yet bright on their faces, while Grace is clinging to her father's neck, and Horace hugs his new "real drum" in one arm, embracing his dear papa with the other, let us take leave of them and the whole family for the present, with many kind good-bys.
THE END
* * * * * * * *
FICTION FOR BOYS
LITTLE RHODY
ByJEAN K. BAIRD
Illustrated byR. G. Vosburgh
At The Hall, a boys' school, there is a set of boys known as the "Union of States," to which admittance is gained by excelling in some particular the boys deem worthy of their mettle.
Rush Petriken, a hunchback boy, comes to The Hall, and rooms with Barnes, the despair of the entire school because of his prowess in athletics. Petriken idolizes him, and when trouble comes to him, the poor crippled lad gladly shoulders the blame, and is expelled. But shortly before the end of the term he returns and is hailed as "little Rhody," the "capitalest State of all."
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ByMRS. A. F. RANSOM
Illustrated byHENRY MILLER
Four boys, all bubbling over with energy and love of good times, and their mother, an authoress, make this story of a street-car strike in one of our large cities move with leaps and bounds. For it is due to the four boys that a crowded theatre car is saved from being wrecked, and the instigators of the plot captured.
Mrs. Ransom is widely known by her patriotic work among the boys in the navy, and she now proves herself a friend of the lads on land by writing more especially for them.
CLOTH, 12 mo, illustrated, - $1.50
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