But Wilby never heard the end of the third verse, for the simple reason that sleep overcame him just then, and song, singers, and marble palace alike faded away into nothingness.He had no idea how long he slept, but when he awoke he was both surprised and disappointed to find himself on the sofa in Aunt Matilda's very plain, though cozy, sitting-room, instead of on his couch in White Bear Castle, while now not only his ankle but his whole body gave him pain—every nerve tingling, and face and hands smarting dreadfully.Minor, Major, and Maximus were all gone too, and in their place dear old Aunt Matilda and kind Uncle Lemuel were bending over him, with faces full of relief at his return to consciousness."O Wilby dear, how glad I am to see you open your eyes again!" exclaimed Aunt Matilda joyfully. "You were so long coming to that I began to fear that it might be all over with you.""Yes, Wilby, my boy," added Uncle Lemuel, "you've had a close shave. But for Oscar there would not be much life left in you by this time."Wilby was too dazed for some time to understand it all, but later on his uncle explained the matter.It seemed that wise old Oscar, as soon as Wilby lost his senses, scampered off to Uncle Lemuel's as hard as he could go, and by barking and scratching at the door soon let them know he was there. Then by signs whose meaning they were not long in guessing, he persuaded them to go back with him, until poor Wilby was found where he had fallen beside the big tree.Oscar capered about, wild with delight, when his master was carried off to the house, and Uncle Lem could not say enough about his cleverness.Wilby felt very grateful to Oscar and to his uncle also, and thankful that he had not lost his life. Yet he could not help a twinge of regret at the thought of never seeing his white bear friends again, seeing how kindly they had treated him in spite of their character for cruelty.However, it was no small consolation to have such a rattling good story to tell, and tell it he did very graphically many a time, much to the enjoyment of his hearers.Whether they all believed it or not is a question that, if you do not mind, I will leave it to you to settle.OUTSIDE THE BOOM.Mort Henshaw was a boy who had implicit faith in himself. He cherished the firm conviction that whatever any other boy could do came within the range of his capabilities. He had only to find out the way it should be done in order to accomplish it.This was a pretty large view to take of things in general, yet it must be confessed that Mort was not without a fair degree of justification for having what the Scotch would call so good a conceit of himself.Blessed with a strong, symmetrical frame, a quick eye, a sure hand, a perfect constitution, and abundant courage, he came easily by a mastery of the different sports he entered into, and had few equals, and fewer superiors, at cricket, football, lacrosse, baseball, swimming, rowing, and the other amusements of the day.There was one pastime, however, of which, although he had heard much, he knew nothing, and that was sailing. The pretty little stream which ran by his home afforded no facilities for this glorious sport, and the pleasures of it he knew about only from the descriptions of his more fortunate companions.Great, then, was his delight when the spring that found him fifteen years of age brought with it an invitation from one of his uncles to spend the whole summer with him at his cottage on Lake Deschenes, a splendid sheet of water not far from the city of Ottawa.The invitation mentioned, as one of the attractions of the place, that he would be able to have all the sailing that his heart could wish."Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted Mort, capering about the room with a face beaming like the sun. "All the sailing I want! Just think of it! Won't that be grand? The very thing I've been looking for.""It will be grand, Mort dear," said his mother, "provided you take good care not to run any unnecessary risks. You must do exactly what your uncle tells you, just as if he were your father.""Oh yes, mother, I'll do that," quickly responded Mort, ready to promise anything in the exuberance of his joy. "I'll be his crew, you know, and obey orders just as if I were at sea with him."Very impatiently did Mort await the coming of the day when he should set forth for Deschenes. His uncle was principal of the Collegiate Institute at Ottawa, and had three months' vacation, which he usually spent at the lake in sailing, rowing, bathing, and fishing, until the return of autumn recalled him to his duties.It was the last week in June when Mort arrived at Lake Deschenes, and his first question, after exchanging greetings with his uncle and aunt, was,—"Will you show me your boat, please, uncle?"Smiling at his eagerness, Mr. Turner took him over to the boathouse, where a number of boats and canoes lay upon the floor, or were suspended upon racks against the wall.Mort had never seen so many or such fine boats in his life before. They were nearly all built of cedar, and were varnished instead of being painted, the copper fastenings dotting their shining sides with regular lines. The boy gave a great gasp of admiration, and it was some time before he recovered himself sufficiently to ask,—"And which is your boat, uncle?"Mr. Turner pointed to one lying just in front of them."Oh, what a beauty!" cried Mort. "She's the best of them all."His uncle smiled a complacent assent, for that was precisely his own opinion. As to beauty of lines, perfection of finish, completeness of outfit, and speed on any tack, he considered theGleamwithout a superior on Lake Deschenes, and Mort's prompt recognition of the fact pleased him as much as the cordial praise of her baby does a young mother."You are not far from right, my boy," said he. "TheGleamis both a beauty to look at and a good one to go, as you shall see for yourself very soon."TheGleambelonged to the class of boat known as the "St. Lawrence skiff," the swiftest and safest boats of their size—when not over-canvassed—that carry sails. She was about twenty-two feet long, and had a half-deck all round, with a six-inch combing to keep out the water. Two tall masts carried big bat-wing sails, which would have soon toppled her over but for the heavy iron centre-board that kept her stiff in an ordinary breeze. Everything about her was of the best, and Mort thought her the most beautiful object his eyes ever beheld.That afternoon he had his first sail in theGleam, and as, responding perfectly to every puff of the wind and turn of the tiller, she went flying across the lake, his heart thrilled with delight, and became filled with a passionate desire to master the art of handling such a craft."O uncle, won't you teach me how to steer and to manage the sails before I go back home?" he pleaded, looking earnestly into Mr. Turner's face."Certainly, Mort, certainly," was the kindly reply; "and I think you ought to make a very apt pupil, too."Mr. Turner was altogether as good as his word. He took much pains in initiating Mort into the mysteries of sailing, teaching him the way to tack, when it was permissible to jibe, how to run before the wind, and so forth, until, by the end of the first month, Mort had become tolerably proficient, and could be trusted to manage theGleamalone in an ordinary breeze.This special privilege he was then allowed to exercise, provided he did not go outside the "boom"—that is, the long line of shackled logs which enclosed the bay where the boathouse stood, and which was intended to keep the saw-logs from stranding on the beach.Inside the boom was a stretch of shallow water nearly a mile long by a quarter of a mile wide, on which plenty of sailing might be had without going out through the gap into the body of the lake.For a time Mort was content with this enclosed space, and, whenever his uncle permitted him, would get the boat out, and go tacking up and down from end to end, feeling almost as proud of his newly-acquired skill as if he had been discoverer of the science of sailing.But of course it was not many days before he began to cast longing eyes beyond the line of swaying logs, and to feel that the thing he most desired in the world was to be allowed to sail theGleamacross the lake and back.But when he hinted as much to his uncle he met with no encouragement."No, no, Mort. You must be content with staying inside the boom; for, besides the chance of a squall, there is the danger of being caught in the current and carried into the rapids, which would soon make an end of both you and the boat."Now it happened that one morning both Mr. and Mrs. Turner had to go into the city, not to return until by the night train, and Mort was left entirely to his own resources. Of course he turned to theGleamfor company, and as soon as the morning breeze came up, taking with him two other lads about his own age, he launched the boat, and went skimming from end to end of the bay."This is good fun," said Ted Day, "but it would be better still outside the boom.""Oh yes!" cried Charlie Lister. "Do go outside; just a little bit, Mort."Mort shook his head, and tried to look very decided. His own heart was beating a lively response to the suggestions of his companions, but his answer was,—"No, Charlie; uncle does not allow me to go outside, you know."Once the idea had been mooted, however, it refused to go to rest again. The morning seemed a perfect one. There was a steady breeze from the north-west, just the direction best suited for a slant across the lake and back without having to tack at all.[image]"MORT CRAWLED UPON THE STAGE AND FASTENED TO IT THE BOAT'S PAINTER."Ted and Charlie begged and coaxed Mort to make one trip out, any way. Mr. Turner would never know anything about it, and they could easily be back before mid-day.Mort's resolution, which had been rapidly weakening, finally gave way altogether."All right," said he, allowing a sudden spirit of reckless ambition to submerge his compunctions at doing what he knew well enough was a mean betrayal of his uncle's confidence in him. "We'll just make one trip across. It does seem a pity to lose the chance this glorious morning."So out through the gap theGleamdarted, as if glad of her freedom, and went flying over the blue water toward Blueberry Point."My, but this is grand!" exclaimed Charlie rapturously, as the boat careened before the freshening breeze, so that the water lapped the lee-combing."You are right; it is—eh, Mort?" echoed Ted, turning to Mort, who, holding the tiller in one hand and the end of the main sheet in the other, watched every move of the boat with feelings strangely divided between anxiety and proud delight.The passage across was quickly made, and then, being thirsty, Charlie proposed that they land for a few minutes to get a drink at a spring near the shore. After the drink Ted suggested a bathe; and thus an hour slipped by, during which an ominous change took place in the weather. The sky clouded over, the wind, which had been steady, began to come in fitful gusts."I don't like the look of things," said Mort, in a tone of concern. "I wish we were inside the boom.""Well, let's hurry and get there as quickly as we can," responded Ted.It was all well enough to say this, but with the change of weather had come a change of wind, which was now against them, so that they would have to tack all the way home.By dint of careful sailing they had got about a third of the distance, when suddenly the sky darkened, some large drops of rain, pattered upon them, and the next moment a sharp squall struck theGleamfull upon her quarter.In order to give his whole attention to the steering, Mort had asked Charlie to hold the main-sheet, impressing upon him to take only one turn around the cleat. But Charlie, who was of the lazy sort, finding the sheet hard to hold, had taken two turns, and done it in such a way that the rope had jammed. Consequently, when Mort shouted to him, as he put the tiller hard a-port, "Let go the main-sheet instantly, Charlie!" and he attempted to obey the order, he could not do so in time to meet the emergency, and the next instant, amid simultaneous shrieks from all three boys, theGleamwent over on her beam ends.Fortunately they were all good swimmers, and did not get entangled in any of the ropes, so that, without much difficulty, they succeeded in climbing up on the side of the boat, where it was easy enough to hold on for a while.There was no fear of theGleamsinking, as she bore no ballast to carry her down, and had air-tight compartments in both bow and stern. Nevertheless, the position of the boys was one of great peril, for the boat was right in the channel leading to the rapids at the lower end of the lake, in the direction of which the wind was now blowing. To get into these rapids meant utter destruction for both boys and boat, yet to keep out of them was impossible without help, while to swim ashore was far beyond their powers.They shouted and shrieked for aid, but there was no one in sight to hear them, and soon the storm burst upon them in full fury, blotting out the shore on both sides, and threatening to beat them off the boat as it tossed up and down in the white-caps.How bitterly Mort regretted having ventured beyond the boom, and how fervently he vowed never to do so again if he could only be saved this time!When the squall passed and the air cleared, he saw that they were fast drawing near the rapids."O Charlie," he groaned, "why did you make me go outside the boom?"Charlie made no reply. He could think of nothing else but his imminent danger.Steadily and surely theGleamdrifted downward. In another fifteen minutes she would be in the remorseless grasp of the rapids. The wind went down almost to a calm, but the current grew stronger, so that there was no slacking of her speeding toward destruction.The boys held desperately on to the keel, saying nothing to each other, but praying as best each could.On, on the boat moved. Oh, was there no chance of help? Must they go down, to death in sight of so many homes?A couple of hundred yards above the rapids was a floating stage, strongly moored, which was used by the men looking after the saw-logs that came down the river in great droves from time to time. As they neared this a bright thought flashed into Mort's mind."Say, boys," he cried, "I've got it! Do you see that float? Let's push theGleamover to it."The others caught the idea at once. All getting on the same side of the boat, they proceeded to push her toward the stage by swimming with their legs.It was exhausting work, but they were encouraged by seeing that they were making headway, and they persevered until at last success crowned their efforts, and with a glad cry of relief Mort crawled upon the stage and fastened to it the boat's painter.All actual danger was now over, and at once Mort regained his self-possession. Under his directions the masts were taken out, the boat righted and bailed dry, and everything stowed snugly aboard. Then with the oars she was rowed back to Deschenes, not a whit the worse for her wetting.As soon as his uncle returned, Mort told him the whole story.Mr. Turner was very sorry to learn of his nephew's breach of trust, and, as a penalty therefor, withdrew from him for the rest of the summer the privilege of taking the boat out alone, which was a sore deprivation; but Mort felt that it was richly deserved, and it only strengthened his resolution to be more obedient to orders in the future.FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS."Edie! Edie!" rang out in a clear, strong voice from the door of a farmhouse, where stood a comely, brown-faced woman, shading her eyes with her right hand, as she swept the sunny space around in search of her daughter."I'm coming, mother," was the prompt response.And the next instant there appeared from behind the barn a little girl not more than eight years old, who looked the very picture of health and happiness."You know where your father's chopping to-day, don't you, Edie?" asked Mrs. Hazen, with a glance of affectionate pride at the sturdy little figure before her."Oh yes, mother," replied Edie, swinging around and pointing with her plump forefinger, stained by the juice of the raspberries she had just been picking, to the top of the hill that sloped upwards from the other side of the road. "Father's over there in the back pasture, near the blackberry patch.""That's right, pet," said Mrs. Hazen, lifting up the bright face for a hearty kiss. "And now wouldn't you like to take him his dinner?""Indeed I would," cried Edie, dancing around and clapping her hands. "And may I stay with him until he comes home?""I suppose so—if he wants you," assented Mrs. Hazen. "But in that case you must come in and have your own dinner first."A half-hour later, with a well-filled basket on her arm, and her mother's parting injunction not to loiter on the way in her ears, Edie set forth full of joy on her mission."She's a little thing to send so far," mused the mother, following the retreating figure with eyes full of tender concern. "But she does so love the woods, and seems to make her way through them like an Indian."With heart as light as any bird chirping by the wayside, Edie hastened through the gate, across the road, between the lower bars of the pasture gate, and then, climbing the hill behind which lay the back pasture, entered the bush, in which her pink calico sun-bonnet soon vanished from view.Mr. Hazen's farm stood on the very edge of civilization, in the northern part of New Brunswick. The most of his acres he had cleared himself, and he never lost an opportunity of hewing his way further and further into the mighty forest, whose billows of birch, pine, and hemlock rolled away northward, eastward, and westward for uncounted leagues.This day he was working at a bunch of timber a little beyond the eastern edge of the clearing, called the "back pasture."As mid-day drew near he began to feel hungry, and more than once paused in his work to go to the edge of the clearing, to see if there were any signs of an approaching dinner."I hope Esther hasn't forgotten me to-day," he thought, after doing this for the third time to no result. "It's not like her to do it."The great golden sun moved steadily on to the zenith, and then inclined westward, but still no messenger appeared bearing the needed refreshment.Mr. Hazen felt strongly tempted to shoulder his axe and go home. But the day was so favourable to his work that, after a good deal of grumbling at what he supposed to be his wife's neglect, he decided not to quit it. So, tightening his belt, he grasped his axe anew and strove to forget his hunger in the ardour of his toil.He did not, however, work as late as common that day, for in addition to his hunger, there grew upon him a feeling of uneasiness, which at length became so disturbing that he could not endure it. Accordingly, fully an hour before his usual time, he shouldered his axe and strode off homeward, saying to himself,—"I hope nothing's gone wrong; but I don't know what gives me such an apprehensive feeling."When he approached the farmhouse, he caught sight of his wife coming up the road that led to the nearest neighbour, about half-a-mile away.Hurrying on to meet her, he asked in a tone not altogether free from irritation at his needless fears,—"Why, Esther, where have you been? And where is Edie?""I ran over to neighbour Hewett's for the paper," Mrs. Hazen responded. "But"—and her face filled with sudden alarm—"Edie? Wasn't Edie with you?""Why, no!" replied Mr. Hazen, while in his face was reflected the expression of his wife's; "I haven't seen her since breakfast.""Not seen her!" repeated Mrs. Hazen. "O Henry, what has happened? I sent her with your dinner just before mid-day, and she asked me if she might stay with you until you came home."Mr. Hazen was a man prompt to action. Taking his wife's arm and fairly pushing her along the road, he said,—"There's not a moment to lose, Esther. Edie's lost her way, and we must go after her."Without returning to the farmhouse, they pressed up the hill and through the back pasture into the forest.Hither and thither they hunted, now one and now the other raising the echoes of the leafy fastness by calls of "Edie! Edie!" but getting no response save the cries of startled birds or the mocking chatter of a squirrel.As night drew on Mr. Hazen realized that a more organized effort was necessary; and hastening home with harrowed hearts, his wife got ready some food, while he rode over to Hewett's to obtain assistance.Both Mr. Hewett and his eldest son returned with him. They hurriedly snatched a meal, and then, provided with guns and lanterns, set off to renew the search.All that night they tramped through the gloom of the forest, meeting from time to time to take counsel together, and then separating, to cover as much ground as possible.But the day dawned without bringing any comforting news for the haggard woman who anxiously waited their return at the gate, and, when they came without her daughter, sank down on the ground, half fainting with uncontrollable grief.As soon as possible the eager search was renewed, and continued from day to day, until at last even the heart-broken parents had to give up all hope, and strove to resign themselves to the awful conviction that their darling Edith—their only one—had met her death all alone in the depths of the great forest, having either died of hunger and exposure or fallen a victim to the bears and wolves with which its solitudes abounded.In the meantime, how had it fared with Edie, who had gone forth so joyously to carry her father's dinner to him?Her intention at the start was certainly to make a straight course to her destination. But the attention of little folks is easily attracted, and in this instance, just as she entered the edge of the forest, and should have turned off to the left, a saucy little squirrel challenged her on the right, and in trying to get near him Edie pushed further and further into the forest, until presently she began to wonder if she had not lost her way.At once losing interest in the squirrel, she put down her basket to look about her. With a pang of sharp dismay, the child realized that she had lost her bearings, and did not know which way to turn.Just at that moment her keen ear caught a sound that she immediately recognized. It was the regular blows of an axe falling upon a tree-trunk.Her face lit up, and she clapped her hands for joy."That's father chopping!" she exclaimed. "Now I know which way to go!"And picking up her basket, Edie trotted off in what she took to be the direction from which the sound came.On she trudged bravely for some distance, hoping each minute to come upon her father, until, growing weary of her burden, she put it down to rest a moment.As she rested it seemed to her that the sound of chopping had grown fainter—so much so, indeed, she could hardly make out which way it came to her ears."Oh dear!" she sighed; "where can father be? I'll call for him." And she made the place ring with shrill cries of "Father! father! Where are you?"But they evoked no response, and then, more alarmed than ever, Edie picked up her basket again, and pushed on with all her little strength.Unhappily every step increased the distance between Mr. Hazen and herself; for it was not the real sound of the chopping Edie had followed but the echo, and instead of making toward him, she had been going in directly the opposite direction.At the end of an hour she felt very tired, and throwing herself down on a bank of moss at the foot of a forest monarch, gave way to the tears that hitherto she had resolutely restrained."Oh dear!" she said, "I'm lost, I'm lost! and how ever will father find me?"After the first passion of tears had passed, Edie began to be conscious of the pangs of hunger, and the thought came that she might as well eat something out of the basket, as she could not find her father to give it to him.So she ate a little of the bread and meat, and took a sup out of the bottle of milk, and then, feeling refreshed, renewed her tramp, first listening eagerly, but in vain, for the sound of her father's axe.All that afternoon the lost child alternately walked and rested, often crying softly to herself, then drying her tears and seeking to take heart from the hope of yet finding her father before darkness came on.She was a brave little thing, accustomed to a good deal of outdoor life, and to running through the woods; but when night closed around her and the forest shade deepened into impenetrable gloom, poor Edie gave up the struggle, and sank down in a mossy hollow, shivering with terror.Yet so weary was she that presently she fell asleep, and did not awake until dawn, when, though feeling very stiff and sore from the unwonted exertions of the day before, she ate her breakfast out of the basket and renewed her progress.The following day she wandered about, only getting deeper and deeper into the forest. Her basket was empty before evening, and she was fain to make her supper of the berries, which fortunately were very plentiful. They were not altogether satisfying, but they were better than nothing.Another day passed, the weather providentially continuing bright, clear, and warm, and the little wanderer still kept on, not knowing whither she was going. That night strange things began to happen. She was more wakeful than usual, and as she lay at the foot of a tree, she saw some large animals moving about in the dim light, and her bosom thrilled with joy, for she thought they must be her father's oxen. So she called out,—"Buck! Bright! Come here!"[image]"HE LEVELLED HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO FIRE."But at the sound of her voice they started as if greatly frightened, and at once dashed off through the woods at the top of their speed; which showed her that they must have been moose, such as her father sometimes shot.The following night two great, black, shaggy dogs, which she supposed must be neighbour Hewett's, came near her; but when she called them by their names they seemed more surprised than the moose, for they stood up on their hind legs, looked very hard at her for a few moments, and then, dropping down on all fours, hastened away into the darkness again, where, as Edie thought, she heard them howling. In this, however, she must have been doubly mistaken.What she took to be dogs were no doubt black bears, then quite numerous in that district, being, attracted by the berries; and the howling, of course, was done by wolves, which, luckily, seemed afraid to attack her.On the fourth afternoon, Edie, by happy chance, came across the deserted shanty of an early pioneer, standing in the middle of a clearing that was thickly overgrown with raspberry bushes.Here she remained for three days, feeding upon the berries during the daytime, and sleeping in the shanty at night. The nights were so warm that she needed no fire, and inside the shanty she was safe from the attacks of bears or wolves. It was dreadfully lonely, yet still she hoped that her father would come and find her.A whole week thus passed away. Edie had been given up for lost by her heart-broken parents, and the neighbours who were assisting in the search had returned to their homes, when a gentleman—Mr. Barker by name—had an experience such as no sportsman surely ever had before.He had been out on a hunting expedition for a fortnight, and that day came to the banks of Bear Creek.He was preparing to cross on a fallen log almost spanning the stream, when his keen ear caught the sound of soft footsteps, accompanied by a continuous rustling movement in the thicket of wild raspberries that covered the opposite bank.At once with a tremor of delight he suspected the approach of a deer, or possibly a bear, and dropping behind a bush, he levelled his rifle in readiness to fire.The next moment, as his eager eyes intently scanned the raspberry bushes, his sportsman's feeling of delight suddenly changed to a thrill of horror when a tiny brown, berry-stained hand was quietly raised to pull down a loaded branch of fruit."Well, of all things!" cried the hunter, as his finger fell from the trigger that had so nearly sent the bullet upon its fatal mission. "What an awful mistake I almost made!"Throwing down his rifle he sprang across the log, to catch in his arms a little girl not more than eight years old, whose torn garments, tangled locks, soiled hands, and thin, pale face, told in a glance the story of many days' hapless wanderings.Oh, how glad poor Edie was to see him, and how artlessly she told the story of her wonderful adventures! And how thankful to Providence the hunter was that he had chanced to find her ere it was too late!Forgetting all about his hunting, her rescuer now applied himself to the task of getting her home. They were far from the nearest house, and the poor child was so weak from lack of proper food that he had to lift her up on his broad shoulders.But Mr. Barker was as strong as he was kind-hearted, and he pushed resolutely on, guiding himself by his compass, until at last, just as dusk was closing around them, and he began to fear they would have to pass another night in the forest, they came upon a clearing, at the far side of which stood a neat log house.Edie shouted her joy at the sight. It meant that all her perils were over; and the hunter, putting on a big spurt, dashed across the clearing at a run and deposited her on the doorstep, exclaiming in a tone of vast relief,—"There now, my child, that's the end of your wanderings!"The good people of the house gave them both a warm welcome. Edie received every attention; and the following morning, looking altogether a different girl, with dress mended, hair neatly brushed, hands free from berry-stains, and face radiant at the prospect of returning to her parents, she took her seat in the farmer's waggon to be driven home.How shall the joy of the Hazens be described when the little daughter they had mourned for as dead came back to them, looking thin and worn, it is true, but otherwise not a whit the worse for her thrilling experience!Mr. Barker watched them with brimming eyes, murmuring, as he fondly patted the stock of his Remington,—"The best day's work you ever did was when you didn't go off at all. A lucky chance, indeed!"MRS. GRUNDY'S GOBBLERS.Mrs. Grundy (or, as the boys disrespectfully called her, Mrs. Grumpy) was certainly not a favourite with the young people of Westville. In the first place, she did not like children. The fact that she had never been blessed with any of her own no doubt had a great deal to do with this dislike for other people's, which she manifested by vigorous use of hand and tongue at the slightest provocation.Many a sharp speech and stinging slap did Mrs. Grundy inflict—and not always upon those who deserved it most, either; for so hot was her temper, so hasty her action when irritated, that she would visit her wrath upon the first youngster she could reach, without waiting to investigate the extent of her luckless captive's guilt.Another reason why Mrs. Grundy was not popular was that, although she owned the finest orchard and garden in all Westville, not one crimson strawberry, purple plum, or golden apple was she ever known to bestow upon boy or girl; and woe betide the adventurous urchin that dared to take one unbidden, even though it be a half-spoiled windfall, if he fell into her strong hands! Forthwith he was marched off, amid a storm of slaps and scolding, despite his sobs and vows of penitence, into the awful presence of Squire Hardgrit, and, his alarmed parents having been duly summoned, was in their presence condemned to that most appalling of punishments—a whole day in the house of detention!This method of dealing with the would-be or actual fruit-filchers had one advantage, so far as Mrs. Grundy was concerned—it gave her a sharer in the burden of her unpopularity, which perhaps might otherwise have proved insupportable; for so hard, cold, and unsympathetic was Squire Hardgrit, and such evident pleasure did he take in imposing his penalties, that if the Westville boys hated anybody as cordially as they did Mrs. Grundy, it was certainly the stern, severe squire.For some time past the relations between these two worthies and the boys had, as the newspapers say about the great Powers, been more than usually strained. Not content with fiercely defending her garden and orchard from juvenile depredation, Mrs. Grundy had asserted her right to keep everybody off the broad, smooth plot of grass that lay between her cottage and the road, and had been upheld in her claim by the squire, to the profound disgust of the boys, who had long made it their gathering-place in the summer evenings; for although too small to play a game of baseball upon, it was big enough for pitching and catching, chase, leap-frog, and that sort of thing.This appropriation of the grass plot, which had hitherto been regarded as public property, was quite too much for the boys. It was the last drop in the cup of bitterness, and in desperation they called a meeting to be held in Thompson's barn on Saturday night to consider the situation.Saturday night came, and a dozen of the brightest boys of Westville gathered in solemn conclave around a lantern to see if some way could not be devised of getting even with Mrs. Grumpy and the squire.As the barn belonged to his father, Charlie Thompson was chosen chairman, and he promptly opened the meeting as follows:—"Now, fellows, we can't stand this sort of thing any longer. Something must be done, if we perish in the attempt. The honour of the country demands" (Charlie, whose memory was particularly good, had not yet forgotten the last 4th of July oration) "that measures should be taken to show to our oppressors that we are not slaves and cowards. The meeting is now open, and the chair will be pleased to receive suggestions."And amid a vigorous round of boot-heel applause Charlie sat down, feeling that he had proved himself quite equal to the occasion.For a few moments there was a dead pause, all having some sort of a scheme, more or less hazy, in their heads, but none wishing to speak first.At last little Tommy Short, the youngest in the group, piped out,—"Let's tar and feather 'em. Father has lots of tar in his back shop, and I know where there's a big pot."A roar of laughter greeted this suggestion, the impracticability of which was exceeded only by its absurdity, could it have been carried out.Dame Grundy and Squire Hardgrit would certainly have made a most mirth-provoking sight, done up in suits of tar and feathers.The speech served its purpose, however, in loosening the other tongues, and plans and projects now poured in thick and fast."S'pose we burn their barns down," said Dick Wilding, who was a great reader of cheap-novel literature.But all the rest shouted "No" at once."What do you say to ham-stringing their horses?" asked Bob Henderson, in rather a dubious tone, as if he had not much confidence in the wisdom of his scheme, which, in fact, just occurred to him because he had read that that was the way the Arabs treat their enemies' horses when they get the chance."Stuff and nonsense!" cried the chairman. "That's not the sort of thing we mean at all. We're not hankering after the penitentiary.""Give us your plan, then, Mr. Chairman," said Dick Wilding."Well, fellows, I'll tell you what I was thinking of. Let us hook the old lady's gobblers, and hide them until she thinks they're gone for good. You know what a heap she thinks of them, and it will worry her awfully to lose them.""Capital! capital!" shouted the rest of the boys "The very thing!""But where shall we hide them?" asked Sam Lawson. "It'll have to be a pretty safe place, for Mrs. Grumpy will turn the town upside down hunting for her precious turkeys, you may be sure."While all this talk was going on, Harold Kent had been sitting on an upturned box which served him as a chair, without opening his mouth. Now, however, taking advantage of the pause which followed Sam's question, he said quietly,—"Why not hide the gobblers in one of the empty rooms in Squire Hardgrit's building? You know, the squire's been trying to get these Bronze Gobblers from Mrs. Grumpy for ever so long, and she won't let him have them; and if they're found on his premises, she'll be sure to think that he had something to do with hooking them."It was just like Harold to propose something so original and daring in its conception as to fairly take his companions' breath away, and they now looked at him with feelings divided between admiration and amazement.The chairman was the first to speak. Bringing his hand down upon his knee with a crack that made the others jump, he cried,—"Magnificent! Boys, we'll do it, or perish in the attempt."Whereat the others shouted in chorus,—"Hoorah! We'll do it!""Since we're all agreed, then," said Charlie, "the next business before the meeting is to plan how to do it."As before, all sorts of wild suggestions were put forward, and again it was left for Harold Kent to advance the most practicable scheme.This was it: the shed in which Mrs. Grundy's famous flock of turkeys was carefully secured at night stood at some distance to the back of her house, and as she slept in one of the front rooms, there was slight risk of her seeing or hearing anything. What Harold proposed was, that, slipping out of their rooms after everybody was asleep, they should meet behind the turkey-shed, bringing with them three gunny sacks and a dark lantern. Having got the gobblers safely into the sacks, they would then creep round the back way to the building in which the squire's office was situated, climb in through a lower window, and so upstairs to the room in which the turkeys were to be left."You've a great head, Hal," said Jack Wilding admiringly, when all this had been detailed, "and you can count on us every time—can't he, boys?""You bet he can," chorused the crowd.A satisfactory plan of campaign having thus been settled upon, the meeting was adjourned until Monday midnight, then to assemble behind Mrs. Grundy's turkey-shed. The eventful night came; and as midnight drew near, one by one the boys gathered with throbbing hearts at the rendezvous.At length all but Tommy Short, whose courage had failed him, and Bob Henderson, whose father had nabbed him in the act of slipping out, and sent him back to bed with a spank, turned up.
But Wilby never heard the end of the third verse, for the simple reason that sleep overcame him just then, and song, singers, and marble palace alike faded away into nothingness.
He had no idea how long he slept, but when he awoke he was both surprised and disappointed to find himself on the sofa in Aunt Matilda's very plain, though cozy, sitting-room, instead of on his couch in White Bear Castle, while now not only his ankle but his whole body gave him pain—every nerve tingling, and face and hands smarting dreadfully.
Minor, Major, and Maximus were all gone too, and in their place dear old Aunt Matilda and kind Uncle Lemuel were bending over him, with faces full of relief at his return to consciousness.
"O Wilby dear, how glad I am to see you open your eyes again!" exclaimed Aunt Matilda joyfully. "You were so long coming to that I began to fear that it might be all over with you."
"Yes, Wilby, my boy," added Uncle Lemuel, "you've had a close shave. But for Oscar there would not be much life left in you by this time."
Wilby was too dazed for some time to understand it all, but later on his uncle explained the matter.
It seemed that wise old Oscar, as soon as Wilby lost his senses, scampered off to Uncle Lemuel's as hard as he could go, and by barking and scratching at the door soon let them know he was there. Then by signs whose meaning they were not long in guessing, he persuaded them to go back with him, until poor Wilby was found where he had fallen beside the big tree.
Oscar capered about, wild with delight, when his master was carried off to the house, and Uncle Lem could not say enough about his cleverness.
Wilby felt very grateful to Oscar and to his uncle also, and thankful that he had not lost his life. Yet he could not help a twinge of regret at the thought of never seeing his white bear friends again, seeing how kindly they had treated him in spite of their character for cruelty.
However, it was no small consolation to have such a rattling good story to tell, and tell it he did very graphically many a time, much to the enjoyment of his hearers.
Whether they all believed it or not is a question that, if you do not mind, I will leave it to you to settle.
OUTSIDE THE BOOM.
Mort Henshaw was a boy who had implicit faith in himself. He cherished the firm conviction that whatever any other boy could do came within the range of his capabilities. He had only to find out the way it should be done in order to accomplish it.
This was a pretty large view to take of things in general, yet it must be confessed that Mort was not without a fair degree of justification for having what the Scotch would call so good a conceit of himself.
Blessed with a strong, symmetrical frame, a quick eye, a sure hand, a perfect constitution, and abundant courage, he came easily by a mastery of the different sports he entered into, and had few equals, and fewer superiors, at cricket, football, lacrosse, baseball, swimming, rowing, and the other amusements of the day.
There was one pastime, however, of which, although he had heard much, he knew nothing, and that was sailing. The pretty little stream which ran by his home afforded no facilities for this glorious sport, and the pleasures of it he knew about only from the descriptions of his more fortunate companions.
Great, then, was his delight when the spring that found him fifteen years of age brought with it an invitation from one of his uncles to spend the whole summer with him at his cottage on Lake Deschenes, a splendid sheet of water not far from the city of Ottawa.
The invitation mentioned, as one of the attractions of the place, that he would be able to have all the sailing that his heart could wish.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted Mort, capering about the room with a face beaming like the sun. "All the sailing I want! Just think of it! Won't that be grand? The very thing I've been looking for."
"It will be grand, Mort dear," said his mother, "provided you take good care not to run any unnecessary risks. You must do exactly what your uncle tells you, just as if he were your father."
"Oh yes, mother, I'll do that," quickly responded Mort, ready to promise anything in the exuberance of his joy. "I'll be his crew, you know, and obey orders just as if I were at sea with him."
Very impatiently did Mort await the coming of the day when he should set forth for Deschenes. His uncle was principal of the Collegiate Institute at Ottawa, and had three months' vacation, which he usually spent at the lake in sailing, rowing, bathing, and fishing, until the return of autumn recalled him to his duties.
It was the last week in June when Mort arrived at Lake Deschenes, and his first question, after exchanging greetings with his uncle and aunt, was,—
"Will you show me your boat, please, uncle?"
Smiling at his eagerness, Mr. Turner took him over to the boathouse, where a number of boats and canoes lay upon the floor, or were suspended upon racks against the wall.
Mort had never seen so many or such fine boats in his life before. They were nearly all built of cedar, and were varnished instead of being painted, the copper fastenings dotting their shining sides with regular lines. The boy gave a great gasp of admiration, and it was some time before he recovered himself sufficiently to ask,—
"And which is your boat, uncle?"
Mr. Turner pointed to one lying just in front of them.
"Oh, what a beauty!" cried Mort. "She's the best of them all."
His uncle smiled a complacent assent, for that was precisely his own opinion. As to beauty of lines, perfection of finish, completeness of outfit, and speed on any tack, he considered theGleamwithout a superior on Lake Deschenes, and Mort's prompt recognition of the fact pleased him as much as the cordial praise of her baby does a young mother.
"You are not far from right, my boy," said he. "TheGleamis both a beauty to look at and a good one to go, as you shall see for yourself very soon."
TheGleambelonged to the class of boat known as the "St. Lawrence skiff," the swiftest and safest boats of their size—when not over-canvassed—that carry sails. She was about twenty-two feet long, and had a half-deck all round, with a six-inch combing to keep out the water. Two tall masts carried big bat-wing sails, which would have soon toppled her over but for the heavy iron centre-board that kept her stiff in an ordinary breeze. Everything about her was of the best, and Mort thought her the most beautiful object his eyes ever beheld.
That afternoon he had his first sail in theGleam, and as, responding perfectly to every puff of the wind and turn of the tiller, she went flying across the lake, his heart thrilled with delight, and became filled with a passionate desire to master the art of handling such a craft.
"O uncle, won't you teach me how to steer and to manage the sails before I go back home?" he pleaded, looking earnestly into Mr. Turner's face.
"Certainly, Mort, certainly," was the kindly reply; "and I think you ought to make a very apt pupil, too."
Mr. Turner was altogether as good as his word. He took much pains in initiating Mort into the mysteries of sailing, teaching him the way to tack, when it was permissible to jibe, how to run before the wind, and so forth, until, by the end of the first month, Mort had become tolerably proficient, and could be trusted to manage theGleamalone in an ordinary breeze.
This special privilege he was then allowed to exercise, provided he did not go outside the "boom"—that is, the long line of shackled logs which enclosed the bay where the boathouse stood, and which was intended to keep the saw-logs from stranding on the beach.
Inside the boom was a stretch of shallow water nearly a mile long by a quarter of a mile wide, on which plenty of sailing might be had without going out through the gap into the body of the lake.
For a time Mort was content with this enclosed space, and, whenever his uncle permitted him, would get the boat out, and go tacking up and down from end to end, feeling almost as proud of his newly-acquired skill as if he had been discoverer of the science of sailing.
But of course it was not many days before he began to cast longing eyes beyond the line of swaying logs, and to feel that the thing he most desired in the world was to be allowed to sail theGleamacross the lake and back.
But when he hinted as much to his uncle he met with no encouragement.
"No, no, Mort. You must be content with staying inside the boom; for, besides the chance of a squall, there is the danger of being caught in the current and carried into the rapids, which would soon make an end of both you and the boat."
Now it happened that one morning both Mr. and Mrs. Turner had to go into the city, not to return until by the night train, and Mort was left entirely to his own resources. Of course he turned to theGleamfor company, and as soon as the morning breeze came up, taking with him two other lads about his own age, he launched the boat, and went skimming from end to end of the bay.
"This is good fun," said Ted Day, "but it would be better still outside the boom."
"Oh yes!" cried Charlie Lister. "Do go outside; just a little bit, Mort."
Mort shook his head, and tried to look very decided. His own heart was beating a lively response to the suggestions of his companions, but his answer was,—
"No, Charlie; uncle does not allow me to go outside, you know."
Once the idea had been mooted, however, it refused to go to rest again. The morning seemed a perfect one. There was a steady breeze from the north-west, just the direction best suited for a slant across the lake and back without having to tack at all.
[image]"MORT CRAWLED UPON THE STAGE AND FASTENED TO IT THE BOAT'S PAINTER."
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[image]
"MORT CRAWLED UPON THE STAGE AND FASTENED TO IT THE BOAT'S PAINTER."
Ted and Charlie begged and coaxed Mort to make one trip out, any way. Mr. Turner would never know anything about it, and they could easily be back before mid-day.
Mort's resolution, which had been rapidly weakening, finally gave way altogether.
"All right," said he, allowing a sudden spirit of reckless ambition to submerge his compunctions at doing what he knew well enough was a mean betrayal of his uncle's confidence in him. "We'll just make one trip across. It does seem a pity to lose the chance this glorious morning."
So out through the gap theGleamdarted, as if glad of her freedom, and went flying over the blue water toward Blueberry Point.
"My, but this is grand!" exclaimed Charlie rapturously, as the boat careened before the freshening breeze, so that the water lapped the lee-combing.
"You are right; it is—eh, Mort?" echoed Ted, turning to Mort, who, holding the tiller in one hand and the end of the main sheet in the other, watched every move of the boat with feelings strangely divided between anxiety and proud delight.
The passage across was quickly made, and then, being thirsty, Charlie proposed that they land for a few minutes to get a drink at a spring near the shore. After the drink Ted suggested a bathe; and thus an hour slipped by, during which an ominous change took place in the weather. The sky clouded over, the wind, which had been steady, began to come in fitful gusts.
"I don't like the look of things," said Mort, in a tone of concern. "I wish we were inside the boom."
"Well, let's hurry and get there as quickly as we can," responded Ted.
It was all well enough to say this, but with the change of weather had come a change of wind, which was now against them, so that they would have to tack all the way home.
By dint of careful sailing they had got about a third of the distance, when suddenly the sky darkened, some large drops of rain, pattered upon them, and the next moment a sharp squall struck theGleamfull upon her quarter.
In order to give his whole attention to the steering, Mort had asked Charlie to hold the main-sheet, impressing upon him to take only one turn around the cleat. But Charlie, who was of the lazy sort, finding the sheet hard to hold, had taken two turns, and done it in such a way that the rope had jammed. Consequently, when Mort shouted to him, as he put the tiller hard a-port, "Let go the main-sheet instantly, Charlie!" and he attempted to obey the order, he could not do so in time to meet the emergency, and the next instant, amid simultaneous shrieks from all three boys, theGleamwent over on her beam ends.
Fortunately they were all good swimmers, and did not get entangled in any of the ropes, so that, without much difficulty, they succeeded in climbing up on the side of the boat, where it was easy enough to hold on for a while.
There was no fear of theGleamsinking, as she bore no ballast to carry her down, and had air-tight compartments in both bow and stern. Nevertheless, the position of the boys was one of great peril, for the boat was right in the channel leading to the rapids at the lower end of the lake, in the direction of which the wind was now blowing. To get into these rapids meant utter destruction for both boys and boat, yet to keep out of them was impossible without help, while to swim ashore was far beyond their powers.
They shouted and shrieked for aid, but there was no one in sight to hear them, and soon the storm burst upon them in full fury, blotting out the shore on both sides, and threatening to beat them off the boat as it tossed up and down in the white-caps.
How bitterly Mort regretted having ventured beyond the boom, and how fervently he vowed never to do so again if he could only be saved this time!
When the squall passed and the air cleared, he saw that they were fast drawing near the rapids.
"O Charlie," he groaned, "why did you make me go outside the boom?"
Charlie made no reply. He could think of nothing else but his imminent danger.
Steadily and surely theGleamdrifted downward. In another fifteen minutes she would be in the remorseless grasp of the rapids. The wind went down almost to a calm, but the current grew stronger, so that there was no slacking of her speeding toward destruction.
The boys held desperately on to the keel, saying nothing to each other, but praying as best each could.
On, on the boat moved. Oh, was there no chance of help? Must they go down, to death in sight of so many homes?
A couple of hundred yards above the rapids was a floating stage, strongly moored, which was used by the men looking after the saw-logs that came down the river in great droves from time to time. As they neared this a bright thought flashed into Mort's mind.
"Say, boys," he cried, "I've got it! Do you see that float? Let's push theGleamover to it."
The others caught the idea at once. All getting on the same side of the boat, they proceeded to push her toward the stage by swimming with their legs.
It was exhausting work, but they were encouraged by seeing that they were making headway, and they persevered until at last success crowned their efforts, and with a glad cry of relief Mort crawled upon the stage and fastened to it the boat's painter.
All actual danger was now over, and at once Mort regained his self-possession. Under his directions the masts were taken out, the boat righted and bailed dry, and everything stowed snugly aboard. Then with the oars she was rowed back to Deschenes, not a whit the worse for her wetting.
As soon as his uncle returned, Mort told him the whole story.
Mr. Turner was very sorry to learn of his nephew's breach of trust, and, as a penalty therefor, withdrew from him for the rest of the summer the privilege of taking the boat out alone, which was a sore deprivation; but Mort felt that it was richly deserved, and it only strengthened his resolution to be more obedient to orders in the future.
FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS.
"Edie! Edie!" rang out in a clear, strong voice from the door of a farmhouse, where stood a comely, brown-faced woman, shading her eyes with her right hand, as she swept the sunny space around in search of her daughter.
"I'm coming, mother," was the prompt response.
And the next instant there appeared from behind the barn a little girl not more than eight years old, who looked the very picture of health and happiness.
"You know where your father's chopping to-day, don't you, Edie?" asked Mrs. Hazen, with a glance of affectionate pride at the sturdy little figure before her.
"Oh yes, mother," replied Edie, swinging around and pointing with her plump forefinger, stained by the juice of the raspberries she had just been picking, to the top of the hill that sloped upwards from the other side of the road. "Father's over there in the back pasture, near the blackberry patch."
"That's right, pet," said Mrs. Hazen, lifting up the bright face for a hearty kiss. "And now wouldn't you like to take him his dinner?"
"Indeed I would," cried Edie, dancing around and clapping her hands. "And may I stay with him until he comes home?"
"I suppose so—if he wants you," assented Mrs. Hazen. "But in that case you must come in and have your own dinner first."
A half-hour later, with a well-filled basket on her arm, and her mother's parting injunction not to loiter on the way in her ears, Edie set forth full of joy on her mission.
"She's a little thing to send so far," mused the mother, following the retreating figure with eyes full of tender concern. "But she does so love the woods, and seems to make her way through them like an Indian."
With heart as light as any bird chirping by the wayside, Edie hastened through the gate, across the road, between the lower bars of the pasture gate, and then, climbing the hill behind which lay the back pasture, entered the bush, in which her pink calico sun-bonnet soon vanished from view.
Mr. Hazen's farm stood on the very edge of civilization, in the northern part of New Brunswick. The most of his acres he had cleared himself, and he never lost an opportunity of hewing his way further and further into the mighty forest, whose billows of birch, pine, and hemlock rolled away northward, eastward, and westward for uncounted leagues.
This day he was working at a bunch of timber a little beyond the eastern edge of the clearing, called the "back pasture."
As mid-day drew near he began to feel hungry, and more than once paused in his work to go to the edge of the clearing, to see if there were any signs of an approaching dinner.
"I hope Esther hasn't forgotten me to-day," he thought, after doing this for the third time to no result. "It's not like her to do it."
The great golden sun moved steadily on to the zenith, and then inclined westward, but still no messenger appeared bearing the needed refreshment.
Mr. Hazen felt strongly tempted to shoulder his axe and go home. But the day was so favourable to his work that, after a good deal of grumbling at what he supposed to be his wife's neglect, he decided not to quit it. So, tightening his belt, he grasped his axe anew and strove to forget his hunger in the ardour of his toil.
He did not, however, work as late as common that day, for in addition to his hunger, there grew upon him a feeling of uneasiness, which at length became so disturbing that he could not endure it. Accordingly, fully an hour before his usual time, he shouldered his axe and strode off homeward, saying to himself,—
"I hope nothing's gone wrong; but I don't know what gives me such an apprehensive feeling."
When he approached the farmhouse, he caught sight of his wife coming up the road that led to the nearest neighbour, about half-a-mile away.
Hurrying on to meet her, he asked in a tone not altogether free from irritation at his needless fears,—
"Why, Esther, where have you been? And where is Edie?"
"I ran over to neighbour Hewett's for the paper," Mrs. Hazen responded. "But"—and her face filled with sudden alarm—"Edie? Wasn't Edie with you?"
"Why, no!" replied Mr. Hazen, while in his face was reflected the expression of his wife's; "I haven't seen her since breakfast."
"Not seen her!" repeated Mrs. Hazen. "O Henry, what has happened? I sent her with your dinner just before mid-day, and she asked me if she might stay with you until you came home."
Mr. Hazen was a man prompt to action. Taking his wife's arm and fairly pushing her along the road, he said,—
"There's not a moment to lose, Esther. Edie's lost her way, and we must go after her."
Without returning to the farmhouse, they pressed up the hill and through the back pasture into the forest.
Hither and thither they hunted, now one and now the other raising the echoes of the leafy fastness by calls of "Edie! Edie!" but getting no response save the cries of startled birds or the mocking chatter of a squirrel.
As night drew on Mr. Hazen realized that a more organized effort was necessary; and hastening home with harrowed hearts, his wife got ready some food, while he rode over to Hewett's to obtain assistance.
Both Mr. Hewett and his eldest son returned with him. They hurriedly snatched a meal, and then, provided with guns and lanterns, set off to renew the search.
All that night they tramped through the gloom of the forest, meeting from time to time to take counsel together, and then separating, to cover as much ground as possible.
But the day dawned without bringing any comforting news for the haggard woman who anxiously waited their return at the gate, and, when they came without her daughter, sank down on the ground, half fainting with uncontrollable grief.
As soon as possible the eager search was renewed, and continued from day to day, until at last even the heart-broken parents had to give up all hope, and strove to resign themselves to the awful conviction that their darling Edith—their only one—had met her death all alone in the depths of the great forest, having either died of hunger and exposure or fallen a victim to the bears and wolves with which its solitudes abounded.
In the meantime, how had it fared with Edie, who had gone forth so joyously to carry her father's dinner to him?
Her intention at the start was certainly to make a straight course to her destination. But the attention of little folks is easily attracted, and in this instance, just as she entered the edge of the forest, and should have turned off to the left, a saucy little squirrel challenged her on the right, and in trying to get near him Edie pushed further and further into the forest, until presently she began to wonder if she had not lost her way.
At once losing interest in the squirrel, she put down her basket to look about her. With a pang of sharp dismay, the child realized that she had lost her bearings, and did not know which way to turn.
Just at that moment her keen ear caught a sound that she immediately recognized. It was the regular blows of an axe falling upon a tree-trunk.
Her face lit up, and she clapped her hands for joy.
"That's father chopping!" she exclaimed. "Now I know which way to go!"
And picking up her basket, Edie trotted off in what she took to be the direction from which the sound came.
On she trudged bravely for some distance, hoping each minute to come upon her father, until, growing weary of her burden, she put it down to rest a moment.
As she rested it seemed to her that the sound of chopping had grown fainter—so much so, indeed, she could hardly make out which way it came to her ears.
"Oh dear!" she sighed; "where can father be? I'll call for him." And she made the place ring with shrill cries of "Father! father! Where are you?"
But they evoked no response, and then, more alarmed than ever, Edie picked up her basket again, and pushed on with all her little strength.
Unhappily every step increased the distance between Mr. Hazen and herself; for it was not the real sound of the chopping Edie had followed but the echo, and instead of making toward him, she had been going in directly the opposite direction.
At the end of an hour she felt very tired, and throwing herself down on a bank of moss at the foot of a forest monarch, gave way to the tears that hitherto she had resolutely restrained.
"Oh dear!" she said, "I'm lost, I'm lost! and how ever will father find me?"
After the first passion of tears had passed, Edie began to be conscious of the pangs of hunger, and the thought came that she might as well eat something out of the basket, as she could not find her father to give it to him.
So she ate a little of the bread and meat, and took a sup out of the bottle of milk, and then, feeling refreshed, renewed her tramp, first listening eagerly, but in vain, for the sound of her father's axe.
All that afternoon the lost child alternately walked and rested, often crying softly to herself, then drying her tears and seeking to take heart from the hope of yet finding her father before darkness came on.
She was a brave little thing, accustomed to a good deal of outdoor life, and to running through the woods; but when night closed around her and the forest shade deepened into impenetrable gloom, poor Edie gave up the struggle, and sank down in a mossy hollow, shivering with terror.
Yet so weary was she that presently she fell asleep, and did not awake until dawn, when, though feeling very stiff and sore from the unwonted exertions of the day before, she ate her breakfast out of the basket and renewed her progress.
The following day she wandered about, only getting deeper and deeper into the forest. Her basket was empty before evening, and she was fain to make her supper of the berries, which fortunately were very plentiful. They were not altogether satisfying, but they were better than nothing.
Another day passed, the weather providentially continuing bright, clear, and warm, and the little wanderer still kept on, not knowing whither she was going. That night strange things began to happen. She was more wakeful than usual, and as she lay at the foot of a tree, she saw some large animals moving about in the dim light, and her bosom thrilled with joy, for she thought they must be her father's oxen. So she called out,—
"Buck! Bright! Come here!"
[image]"HE LEVELLED HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO FIRE."
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"HE LEVELLED HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO FIRE."
But at the sound of her voice they started as if greatly frightened, and at once dashed off through the woods at the top of their speed; which showed her that they must have been moose, such as her father sometimes shot.
The following night two great, black, shaggy dogs, which she supposed must be neighbour Hewett's, came near her; but when she called them by their names they seemed more surprised than the moose, for they stood up on their hind legs, looked very hard at her for a few moments, and then, dropping down on all fours, hastened away into the darkness again, where, as Edie thought, she heard them howling. In this, however, she must have been doubly mistaken.
What she took to be dogs were no doubt black bears, then quite numerous in that district, being, attracted by the berries; and the howling, of course, was done by wolves, which, luckily, seemed afraid to attack her.
On the fourth afternoon, Edie, by happy chance, came across the deserted shanty of an early pioneer, standing in the middle of a clearing that was thickly overgrown with raspberry bushes.
Here she remained for three days, feeding upon the berries during the daytime, and sleeping in the shanty at night. The nights were so warm that she needed no fire, and inside the shanty she was safe from the attacks of bears or wolves. It was dreadfully lonely, yet still she hoped that her father would come and find her.
A whole week thus passed away. Edie had been given up for lost by her heart-broken parents, and the neighbours who were assisting in the search had returned to their homes, when a gentleman—Mr. Barker by name—had an experience such as no sportsman surely ever had before.
He had been out on a hunting expedition for a fortnight, and that day came to the banks of Bear Creek.
He was preparing to cross on a fallen log almost spanning the stream, when his keen ear caught the sound of soft footsteps, accompanied by a continuous rustling movement in the thicket of wild raspberries that covered the opposite bank.
At once with a tremor of delight he suspected the approach of a deer, or possibly a bear, and dropping behind a bush, he levelled his rifle in readiness to fire.
The next moment, as his eager eyes intently scanned the raspberry bushes, his sportsman's feeling of delight suddenly changed to a thrill of horror when a tiny brown, berry-stained hand was quietly raised to pull down a loaded branch of fruit.
"Well, of all things!" cried the hunter, as his finger fell from the trigger that had so nearly sent the bullet upon its fatal mission. "What an awful mistake I almost made!"
Throwing down his rifle he sprang across the log, to catch in his arms a little girl not more than eight years old, whose torn garments, tangled locks, soiled hands, and thin, pale face, told in a glance the story of many days' hapless wanderings.
Oh, how glad poor Edie was to see him, and how artlessly she told the story of her wonderful adventures! And how thankful to Providence the hunter was that he had chanced to find her ere it was too late!
Forgetting all about his hunting, her rescuer now applied himself to the task of getting her home. They were far from the nearest house, and the poor child was so weak from lack of proper food that he had to lift her up on his broad shoulders.
But Mr. Barker was as strong as he was kind-hearted, and he pushed resolutely on, guiding himself by his compass, until at last, just as dusk was closing around them, and he began to fear they would have to pass another night in the forest, they came upon a clearing, at the far side of which stood a neat log house.
Edie shouted her joy at the sight. It meant that all her perils were over; and the hunter, putting on a big spurt, dashed across the clearing at a run and deposited her on the doorstep, exclaiming in a tone of vast relief,—
"There now, my child, that's the end of your wanderings!"
The good people of the house gave them both a warm welcome. Edie received every attention; and the following morning, looking altogether a different girl, with dress mended, hair neatly brushed, hands free from berry-stains, and face radiant at the prospect of returning to her parents, she took her seat in the farmer's waggon to be driven home.
How shall the joy of the Hazens be described when the little daughter they had mourned for as dead came back to them, looking thin and worn, it is true, but otherwise not a whit the worse for her thrilling experience!
Mr. Barker watched them with brimming eyes, murmuring, as he fondly patted the stock of his Remington,—
"The best day's work you ever did was when you didn't go off at all. A lucky chance, indeed!"
MRS. GRUNDY'S GOBBLERS.
Mrs. Grundy (or, as the boys disrespectfully called her, Mrs. Grumpy) was certainly not a favourite with the young people of Westville. In the first place, she did not like children. The fact that she had never been blessed with any of her own no doubt had a great deal to do with this dislike for other people's, which she manifested by vigorous use of hand and tongue at the slightest provocation.
Many a sharp speech and stinging slap did Mrs. Grundy inflict—and not always upon those who deserved it most, either; for so hot was her temper, so hasty her action when irritated, that she would visit her wrath upon the first youngster she could reach, without waiting to investigate the extent of her luckless captive's guilt.
Another reason why Mrs. Grundy was not popular was that, although she owned the finest orchard and garden in all Westville, not one crimson strawberry, purple plum, or golden apple was she ever known to bestow upon boy or girl; and woe betide the adventurous urchin that dared to take one unbidden, even though it be a half-spoiled windfall, if he fell into her strong hands! Forthwith he was marched off, amid a storm of slaps and scolding, despite his sobs and vows of penitence, into the awful presence of Squire Hardgrit, and, his alarmed parents having been duly summoned, was in their presence condemned to that most appalling of punishments—a whole day in the house of detention!
This method of dealing with the would-be or actual fruit-filchers had one advantage, so far as Mrs. Grundy was concerned—it gave her a sharer in the burden of her unpopularity, which perhaps might otherwise have proved insupportable; for so hard, cold, and unsympathetic was Squire Hardgrit, and such evident pleasure did he take in imposing his penalties, that if the Westville boys hated anybody as cordially as they did Mrs. Grundy, it was certainly the stern, severe squire.
For some time past the relations between these two worthies and the boys had, as the newspapers say about the great Powers, been more than usually strained. Not content with fiercely defending her garden and orchard from juvenile depredation, Mrs. Grundy had asserted her right to keep everybody off the broad, smooth plot of grass that lay between her cottage and the road, and had been upheld in her claim by the squire, to the profound disgust of the boys, who had long made it their gathering-place in the summer evenings; for although too small to play a game of baseball upon, it was big enough for pitching and catching, chase, leap-frog, and that sort of thing.
This appropriation of the grass plot, which had hitherto been regarded as public property, was quite too much for the boys. It was the last drop in the cup of bitterness, and in desperation they called a meeting to be held in Thompson's barn on Saturday night to consider the situation.
Saturday night came, and a dozen of the brightest boys of Westville gathered in solemn conclave around a lantern to see if some way could not be devised of getting even with Mrs. Grumpy and the squire.
As the barn belonged to his father, Charlie Thompson was chosen chairman, and he promptly opened the meeting as follows:—
"Now, fellows, we can't stand this sort of thing any longer. Something must be done, if we perish in the attempt. The honour of the country demands" (Charlie, whose memory was particularly good, had not yet forgotten the last 4th of July oration) "that measures should be taken to show to our oppressors that we are not slaves and cowards. The meeting is now open, and the chair will be pleased to receive suggestions."
And amid a vigorous round of boot-heel applause Charlie sat down, feeling that he had proved himself quite equal to the occasion.
For a few moments there was a dead pause, all having some sort of a scheme, more or less hazy, in their heads, but none wishing to speak first.
At last little Tommy Short, the youngest in the group, piped out,—
"Let's tar and feather 'em. Father has lots of tar in his back shop, and I know where there's a big pot."
A roar of laughter greeted this suggestion, the impracticability of which was exceeded only by its absurdity, could it have been carried out.
Dame Grundy and Squire Hardgrit would certainly have made a most mirth-provoking sight, done up in suits of tar and feathers.
The speech served its purpose, however, in loosening the other tongues, and plans and projects now poured in thick and fast.
"S'pose we burn their barns down," said Dick Wilding, who was a great reader of cheap-novel literature.
But all the rest shouted "No" at once.
"What do you say to ham-stringing their horses?" asked Bob Henderson, in rather a dubious tone, as if he had not much confidence in the wisdom of his scheme, which, in fact, just occurred to him because he had read that that was the way the Arabs treat their enemies' horses when they get the chance.
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the chairman. "That's not the sort of thing we mean at all. We're not hankering after the penitentiary."
"Give us your plan, then, Mr. Chairman," said Dick Wilding.
"Well, fellows, I'll tell you what I was thinking of. Let us hook the old lady's gobblers, and hide them until she thinks they're gone for good. You know what a heap she thinks of them, and it will worry her awfully to lose them."
"Capital! capital!" shouted the rest of the boys "The very thing!"
"But where shall we hide them?" asked Sam Lawson. "It'll have to be a pretty safe place, for Mrs. Grumpy will turn the town upside down hunting for her precious turkeys, you may be sure."
While all this talk was going on, Harold Kent had been sitting on an upturned box which served him as a chair, without opening his mouth. Now, however, taking advantage of the pause which followed Sam's question, he said quietly,—
"Why not hide the gobblers in one of the empty rooms in Squire Hardgrit's building? You know, the squire's been trying to get these Bronze Gobblers from Mrs. Grumpy for ever so long, and she won't let him have them; and if they're found on his premises, she'll be sure to think that he had something to do with hooking them."
It was just like Harold to propose something so original and daring in its conception as to fairly take his companions' breath away, and they now looked at him with feelings divided between admiration and amazement.
The chairman was the first to speak. Bringing his hand down upon his knee with a crack that made the others jump, he cried,—
"Magnificent! Boys, we'll do it, or perish in the attempt."
Whereat the others shouted in chorus,—
"Hoorah! We'll do it!"
"Since we're all agreed, then," said Charlie, "the next business before the meeting is to plan how to do it."
As before, all sorts of wild suggestions were put forward, and again it was left for Harold Kent to advance the most practicable scheme.
This was it: the shed in which Mrs. Grundy's famous flock of turkeys was carefully secured at night stood at some distance to the back of her house, and as she slept in one of the front rooms, there was slight risk of her seeing or hearing anything. What Harold proposed was, that, slipping out of their rooms after everybody was asleep, they should meet behind the turkey-shed, bringing with them three gunny sacks and a dark lantern. Having got the gobblers safely into the sacks, they would then creep round the back way to the building in which the squire's office was situated, climb in through a lower window, and so upstairs to the room in which the turkeys were to be left.
"You've a great head, Hal," said Jack Wilding admiringly, when all this had been detailed, "and you can count on us every time—can't he, boys?"
"You bet he can," chorused the crowd.
A satisfactory plan of campaign having thus been settled upon, the meeting was adjourned until Monday midnight, then to assemble behind Mrs. Grundy's turkey-shed. The eventful night came; and as midnight drew near, one by one the boys gathered with throbbing hearts at the rendezvous.
At length all but Tommy Short, whose courage had failed him, and Bob Henderson, whose father had nabbed him in the act of slipping out, and sent him back to bed with a spank, turned up.