the merits of the prize, went up, unobserved, to a boy
of about thirteen years of age, and touched him on the
shoulder.
"Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should
have the old rifle when I was rich enough to get a new
one. Take it
now
, lad. It's come to ye sooner than
either o' us expected."
"Dick," said the boy, grasping his friend's hand
warmly, "ye're true as heart of oak. It's good of 'ee;
that's a fact."
"Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin' to give away an
old gun that I've no use for, an's worth little, but it
makes me right glad to have the chance to do it."
Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could
walk; but his prospects of obtaining one were very poor
indeed at that time, and it is a question whether he did
not at that moment experience as much joy in handling
the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize.
A difficulty now occurred which had not before been
thought of. This was no less than the absolute refusal
of Dick Varley's canine property to follow him. Fan
had no idea of changing masters without her consent
being asked or her inclination being consulted.
"You'll have to tie her up for a while, I fear," said
the major.
"No fear," answered the youth. "Dog natur's like
human natur'!"
Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed
him comfortably into the bosom of his hunting-shirt,
and walked rapidly away with the prize rifle on his
shoulder.
Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute,
gazing now to the right and now to the left, as the
major retired in one direction and Dick with Crusoe in
another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable
in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a
melancholy howl. The mother's love instantly prevailed.
For one moment she pricked up her ears at the sound,
and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after her new
master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin
of the lake.
Speculative remarks with which the reader may or may not agree--Anold woman--Hopes and wishes commingled with hard facts--The dogCrusoe's education begun
.
It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble
face. On such a face did Richard Varley look
every night when he entered his mother's cottage. Mrs.
Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes
of her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her
husband. Love for her only brother induced her to
forsake the peaceful village of Maryland and enter upon
the wild life of a backwoods settlement. Dick's mother
was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was
stamped with a species of beauty which
never
fades--the beauty of a loving look. Ah! the brow of snow
and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the heart of man
for a time, but the
loving look
alone can forge that
adamantine chain that time, age, eternity shall never
break.
Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt
to analyze this look which characterized Mrs. Varley.
A rare diamond is worth stopping to glance at, even
when one is in a hurry. The brightest jewel in the
human heart is worth a thought or two. By
a loving
look
we do not mean a look of love bestowed on a
beloved object.
That
is common enough; and thankful
should we be that it is so common in a world that's
overfull of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile
and look of intense affection with which some people--good
people too--greet friend and foe alike, and by
which effort to work out their
beau ideal
of the expression
of Christian love they do signally damage their
cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay.
Much less do we mean that
perpetual
smile of good-will
which argues more of personal comfort and self-love
than anything else. No; the loving look we speak of
is as often grave as gay. Its character depends very
much on the face through which it beams. And it
cannot be counterfeited. Its
ring
defies imitation. Like
the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears of
sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze
in warm smiles; like the northern lights of winter, it
can gleam in depths of woe;--but it is always the same,
modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less patent to
others, according to the natural amiability of him or her
who bestows it. No one can put it on; still less can
any one put it off. Its range is universal; it embraces
all mankind, though,
of course
, it is intensified on a few
favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a renewed
heart, and its foundation lies in love to God.
Young Varley's mother lived in a cottage which was
of the smallest possible dimensions consistent with comfort.
It was made of logs, as, indeed, were all the other
cottages in the valley. The door was in the centre, and
a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it
into two rooms. One of these was sub-divided by a
thin partition, the inner room being Mrs. Varley's bedroom,
the outer Dick's. Daniel Hood's dormitory was
a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as
a parlour.
The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each
side of the door, which gave to the house the appearance
of having a nose and two eyes. Houses of this kind
have literally got a sort of
expression
on--if we may
use the word--their countenances.
Square
windows
give the appearance of easy-going placidity;
longish
ones, that of surprise. Mrs. Varley's was a surprise
cottage; and this was in keeping with the scene in
which it stood, for the clear lake in front, studded with
islands, and the distant hills beyond, composed a scene
so surprisingly beautiful that it never failed to call forth
an expression of astonished admiration from every new
visitor to the Mustang Valley.
"My boy," exclaimed Mrs. Varley, as her son entered
the cottage with a bound, "why so hurried to-day?
Deary me! where got you the grand gun?"
"Won it, mother!"
"Won it, my son?"
"Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail
almost
, and
would ha' druve it
altogether
had I bin more used to
Joe Blunt's rifle."
Mrs. Varley's heart beat high, and her face flushed
with pride as she gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on
the table for her inspection, while he rattled off an
animated and somewhat disjointed account of the
match.
"Deary me! now that was good, that was cliver.
But what's that scraping at the door?"
"Oh! that's Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan!
Come in, good dog," he cried, rising and opening the
door.
Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable.
"My boy, what do ye with the major's dog?"
"Won her too, mother!"
"Won her, my son?"
"Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!" and
he plucked Crusoe from his bosom.
Crusoe having found his position to be one of great
comfort had fallen into a profound slumber, and on
being thus unceremoniously awakened he gave forth a
yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic
sympathy to his side.
"There you are, Fan; take it to a corner and make
yourself at home.--Ay, that's right, mother, give her
somethin' to eat; she's hungry, I know by the look o'
her eye."
"Deary me, Dick!" said Mrs. Varley, who now proceeded
to spread the youth's mid-day meal before him,
"did ye drive the nail three times?"
"No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought 'em
all down at one shot--rifle, Fan, an' pup!"
"Well, well, now that was cliver; but--." Here the
old woman paused and looked grave.
"But what, mother?"
"You'll be wantin' to go off to the mountains now, I
fear me, boy."
"Wantin'
now
!" exclaimed the youth earnestly; "I'm
always
wantin'. I've bin wantin' ever since I could
walk; but I won't go till you let me, mother, that I
won't!" And he struck the table with his fist so forcibly
that the platters rung again.
"You're a good boy, Dick; but you're too young yit
to ventur' among the Redskins."
"An' yit, if I don't ventur' young, I'd better not ventur'
at all. You know, mother dear, I don't want to
leave you; but I was born to be a hunter, and everybody
in them parts is a hunter, and I can't hunt in the
kitchen you know, mother!"
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a
sound that caused young Varley to spring up and seize
his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth and growl.
"Hist, mother! that's like horses' hoofs," he whispered,
opening the door and gazing intently in the
direction whence the sound came.
Louder and louder it came, until an opening in the
forest showed the advancing cavalcade to be a party of
white men. In another moment they were in full view--a
band of about thirty horsemen, clad in the leathern
costume and armed with the long rifle of the far west.
Some wore portions of the gaudy Indian dress, which
gave to them a brilliant, dashing look. They came on
straight for the block-house, and saluted the Varleys
with a jovial cheer as they swept past at full speed.
Dick returned the cheer with compound interest, and
calling out, "They're trappers, mother; I'll be back in an
hour," bounded off like a deer through the woods, taking
a short cut in order to reach the block-house before
them. He succeeded, for, just as he arrived at the
house, the cavalcade wheeled round the bend in the
river, dashed up the slope, and came to a sudden halt
on the green. Vaulting from their foaming steeds they
tied them to the stockades of the little fortress, which
they entered in a body.
Hot haste was in every motion of these men. They
were trappers, they said, on their way to the Rocky
Mountains to hunt and trade furs. But one of their
number had been treacherously murdered and scalped
by a Pawnee chief, and they resolved to revenge his
death by an attack on one of the Pawnee villages. They
would teach these "red reptiles" to respect white men,
they would, come of it what might; and they had
turned aside here to procure an additional supply of
powder and lead.
In vain did the major endeavour to dissuade these
reckless men from their purpose. They scoffed at the
idea of returning good for evil, and insisted on being
supplied. The log hut was a store as well as a place of
defence, and as they offered to pay for it there was no
refusing their request--at least so the major thought.
The ammunition was therefore given to them, and in
half-an-hour they were away again at full gallop over
the plains on their mission of vengeance. "Vengeance
is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." But these men
knew not what God said, because they never read his
Word and did not own his sway.
Young Varley's enthusiasm was considerably damped
when he learned the errand on which the trappers were
bent. From that time forward he gave up all desire
to visit the mountains in company with such men, but
he still retained an intense longing to roam at large
among their rocky fastnesses and gallop out upon the
wide prairies.
Meanwhile he dutifully tended his mother's cattle and
sheep, and contented himself with an occasional deer-hunt
in the neighbouring forests. He devoted himself
also to the training of his dog Crusoe--an operation
which at first cost him many a deep sigh.
Every one has heard of the sagacity and almost reasoning