Then Nora stepped forward. Instantly the snake coiled itself up, hissing.
"Now, you," said Lady Margaret to Edmund.
"He won't be afraid of me," laughed Edmund, stretching forth his hand; "come, pet!"
And to Lady Margaret's surprise the snake came, twining about the boy's wrist as it was used to twine about hers. "Ah, you have my gift, my dear!" she cried, delighted.
She put the snake back in the box and excused herself for a moment. The page brought in the tea-tray. In a moment Lady Margaret returned and made the tea, Mrs. Morris who had been looking on all this while in a kind of trance of horror, recovered enough, at these refreshing signs, to sink into a chair by a low table. She clutched her sister's arm—Nora sat next to her—and murmured, "Was there ever such an awful menagerie of a house?"
"Be quiet," whispered Nora.
"I can't be quiet! Those dreadful little monkey things are under the table, nibbling at my ankles, I shallhaveto scream!"
"You can't scream. Don't disgrace your country. Lady Margaret will hear us, I much fear!"
"She's making tea at the other table. Besides, Mrs. Darrel and Eddy are talking to her, Nora. Are you sure that big dog is safe? Did you hear him growl? It was an awfully fierce-sounding growl! And, Nora, Ithinkone of the snakes is loose. There were six in the box and I can count only five—yes, Lady Margaret, the tea is quite right. It is delicious."
But though, in truth it was delicious, and though equally to be praised were the thin bread and butter, the Scotch shortbread from Edinburgh, and the English plum cake, Mrs. Morris never enjoyed a repast less. She spent her time making little sorties with her feet at the marmosets, which took it for play and returned to the attack with new zest; and she whispered to Nora that she was morally sure the sixth snake was crawling up her chair.
Nora, herself, was not at ease; nevertheless, her patriotic politeness conquered; she ate everything, looked at everything, praised everything. Lady Margaret found her "most agreeable."
Mrs. Darrel had seen the snakes too often to be disturbed, and Edmund was in his element. As for Oscar, he fell into sad disgrace—he kicked the marmosets. Lady Margaret was too kind to say anything; but Mrs. Morris did the subject justice all the way home. "At least you might have kicked them, quietly, under the table," said she; "but no, you do it sideways in full view of everyone!"
The next day the party journeyed on towards London. The sun shone brightly and the weather, which had been so abnormally cold as to require overcoats, or as the English term them, "top coats," grew warmer, so that there was nothing to mar enjoyment unless it were the lack of harmony between the two boys. This still continued. If there were times when Edmund felt his dislike yielding ever so slightly to Oscar's good humor and gay spirits, his pride and his contempt for his cousin stiffened it at once.
It was two days after their arrival in a quiet town near London where they were to stay a few days for rest at a picturesque old inn, that Mrs. Morris received a letter from Mrs. Darrel. She read it at the breakfast table. Before she was half down the first page she turned to Nora: "There! Didn't I tell you one of those snakes was gone? Listen to this: 'Poor Lady Margaret is in such distress over losing her pet snake, the one she called Marcus Aurelius. She thinks she didn't replace the cover of the box securely the day you were there, for she hasn't seen it since. She fears it crawled away and wandered into the village and was killed. Isn't she a dear old goose?'"
"Was it the little trick-snake?" said Oscar. "What a shame!"
Edmund said nothing; he was sorry for Lady Margaret and he was sorry for himself. The little Marcus Aurelius had made a deep impression on him; ever since he had been meditating the bold venture of writing to Lady Margaret asking her if she would sell or exchange that snake.
He kept thinking of the matter all the morning, wondering what had become of Marcus. In the afternoon, he was to drive with his Aunt Nora. While he was dressing, Celeste, the maid, brought him his overcoat. Madame desired him to wear it, as he had a cold. "Very well," said Edmund, obliging as usual. Approaching to put the coat on, a little later, he stopped short. Surely the wind didn't cause that singular flutter in the cloth! Then the flap moved. "Come out!" cried Edmund.
As though in response to his invitation a small head erected itself from the pocket, a small green head with glittering eyes, a head which had an indescribably droll and Waggish air—the head, in short, of the lost Marcus Aurelius. The intelligent reptile immediately crawled out. He wound himself about the hand Edmund held to him, curled under the boy's sleeve, nestled under his sleeve with manifest pleasure at renewing the acquaintance.
It was plain enough to Edmund how it had happened. The intelligent Marcus crawling into the hall had spied the pocket of Edmund's coat and coolly entered. Once there, he had gone to sleep and the unsuspecting Celeste had rolled the coat up in a strap not to undo it until now. "So here you are, you beauty," said Edmund, "and I'll take good care of you while you are mine; I only wish you could be mine forever!"
There was a candy-box on the table with a glass cover. Of this he hastily made a prison, then sallied out to find his captive some mice. They were not the easiest thing in the world to get, requiring considerable seeking and talking. He did not venture to tell why he wanted mice; and he overheard the housekeeper grumble: "Most extraordinary boys, those Americans! Do you expect he wants tocatthem?"
By this time Nora was ready; he had hardly replaced the snake in the box before he heard her knock at the door. It was a charming day and drive, yet I fear he saw little of the scenery. Alas, that it must be confessed, a wicked thought had crept into his brain. He coveted Lady Margaret's snake. He coveted it so ardently that he began to imagine how easy it would be for him to keep it. There was a man in London who sold snakes. Edmund had been up buying some snakes from him which the man was to keep until he should want them. What more easy than to send Marcus Aurelius to this saurian boarding-house? Ah, what an ugly temptation for Edmund who had been called a good boy from his cradle. He would have no more of it. But it came back again and finally, when he reached the inn, he had almost decided to keep the snake. "Anyhow I'll take it to Tomlin's" (Tomlin was the snake man), he said to himself; "there's no hurry." Yet in his secret soul he knew that once taken to Tomlin's, Marcus Aurelius would never return to Lady Margaret. Thus thinking, he went toward the box. The snake was gone! Yes, gone, vanished absolutely, leaving no trace either in the box or in the room. Vainly and long Edmund searched; either the cover had not fitted exactly, or Marcus, the intelligent Marcus, had managed to remove it; in either case he had evidently set off anew on his travels. Edmund began to feel he had been a wicked boy. He stood in the centre of the room, trying to collect his wits. Oscar's room adjoined his; he could hear Oscar moving about, whistling out of tune. Should he go in and search there? Standing irresolute, he heard a loud cry from his cousin. "Sloped! gone!" Then followed a muffled sound which Edmund rightly interpreted to be Oscar poking under the bed with an umbrella; and, then, came a thundering rap on the door. "Say, Ned," called Oscar, entering immediately, "I'm in an awful scrape! Your snake's gone!"
"My snake," repeated Edmund, feebly.
"Yes; the one you bought to-day. I saw it in the glass box on your table."
Edmund remembered that he had left the box in full view when he went for mice. His face grew red. "Did you let it out?" said he.
"Of course I didn't," Oscar answered. "Did you think I'd do such a thing? I opened the door to speak to you and I saw it on the table and I remembered you'd been talking of buying some snakes, so I knew it was yours. I didn't go into the room at all, but this afternoon when I came into my own room, Ned, its little green head was sticking out of my overcoat pocket—ugh! I pretty near put my hand on it! I'd have called you, but you'd gone, and it wasn't any use calling Aunt Nellie—she'd just jump on the bed and scream; so I didn't know what to do, for I can't handle those things like you, Ned, so I pushed its head down with my tooth brush and pinned up the pocket with my scarf pin. Then I waited a while for you, and I thought it had gone into a torpid condition like you read of, and Jack Dale came for me to go to see a Punch-and-Judy and when I got back the little deceitful beggar had cleared out! I'm awful sorry, Ned."
Edmund from red, had turned pale; he did not lift his eyes from the floor; he was feeling more ashamed of himself than he had ever thought to feel in his life. Poor blundering Oscar whom he had despised had conquered his horror of snakes to do a service to a boy who had never given him a pleasant word; while he—hehad tried to steal Lady Margaret's pet! Now Oscar was avowing his carelessness without a thought of concealment, while he could not summon courage to tell the truth.
"It may be in the rooms somewhere," he managed to say finally; "and never mind, Oscar, you did your best to keep him."
"I'm awful sorry, I am, for a fact," said Oscar; "but of course it's my fault. You're good not to row me, Ned!"
"Don't!" said Edmund quickly.
"Why"—began Oscar; but his words were drowned by a tumult that suddenly arose outside; shrieks, voices, a great trampling of feet.
"They've found Marcus! They're killing him!" cried Oscar.
Both boys flew out of the room. "Don't kill him!" called Edmund.
"He is our snake!" shouted Oscar.
People opened doors in all directions as the boys raced past. One timid woman put her head out of her window, screaming, "Police!" until quite a small army of blue-coated fellows had assembled. Another of bolder stamp thought the hotel was on fire and rushed to the rescue with her water jug.
"Don't kill him!" Oscar and Edmund kept crying, a cry not calculated to reassure the nervous. Down the hall dashed the boys. At the far end an agitated group, variously armed with canes, brooms and umbrellas, was gathered about a fainting chambermaid supported in the arms of a waiter and fanned by another chambermaid with a brush broom. Just behind her stood the head waiter in his immaculate dress suit, disgust painted on his countenance and a dustpan held aloft in his hand.
Something very like a groan burst from Edmund's lips; for, there, on the dustpan, his gleaming length trailing limply over the edges, bruised, battered, crushed, lay poor little dead Marcus Aurelius. Thus tragically had all his travels ended.
"It's our snake!" cried Oscar, making a spring and snatching the dustpan from the man's hand. Without another word he darted off at full speed. He did not hear the head waiter's dignified reproof: "Young gentlemen as keeps snakes for pets better keep 'em safe 'ome, inmyopinion;" or one of the women's speeches: "I expect he have got a baby tiger hid somewhere; them American children will do anythink!"
But Edmund heard. Too dejected to retort, he crawled back to his room. This was the end of it, then. The poor pet must die because of his wicked wishes. He knew only too well that it was his haste to hide the snake lest his aunt should see it, that had displaced the cover. Had he spoken up like an honest boy he could have taken time to be careful and poor Marcus would still be rejoicing in the sun. He did not dare to lift his eyes as he entered the room; he was afraid to look again on that pitiful spectacle of his making. Oscar had laid a newspaper on the bed and placed the dustpan on it and now was looking mournfully down at Marcus. "'Tain't no use," he muttered, "head's smashed. It's an awful shame! Don't see how it got out of the room—I shut the door tight. Wish I'd locked it! Guess Aunt Nellie'll be vexed when she finds I've lost Ned's snake. Well, she's vexed about something most of the time, so it can't be helped!" Then, for the first time seeing Edmund's miserable face, he tried to comfort him. "It's lucky you didn't have him long, Ned, so you hadn't got fond of him. And I'll buy you another"—
Edmund lifted his head. Though Oscar did not guess it, in those last few moments he had fought; a bitter fight with himself. He interrupted his cousin: "The snake isn't mine. I didn't buy it. It's Lady Margaret Vincent's." He went on to tell of his finding the snake.
"Whew!" whistled Oscar. "You're bright to guess all that; probably 'tis hers. And you didn't tell Aunt Nora or Aunt Nellie?"
"They'll know fast enough now," replied Edmund gloomily, "after all this racket—they're running about yet!"
"Well, we'd had to told them anyhow," said candid Oscar, "and I guess I'll catch it. It's truly my fault.Youdidn't do nothing. But I ought to have staid and watched and—I declare I'd forgotten it till this very minute—aunt Nellie told me I mustn't run out in the streets, ever, without Celeste; she tells me so many things I can't keep track of all. And there's Lady Margaret too"—
"M-must we tell her?" stammered Edmund.
"Why, it's her snake," said Oscar, opening his honest eyes; "how can we help it?"
"I suppose wecan'thelp it," said Edmund.
"But we might telegraph," said Oscar; "it's a heap easier than writing and you can get lots of words for a shilling."
"No, we'll have to write," said Edmund; "I'll do it."
But Oscar shook his head. "No, Ned, that ain't fair. I'm the most to blame and I ought to do it. Besidesyouwouldn't say it was my fault."
Then the last barrier of Edmund's pride broke down. "Don't," he cried again. "I tell you it's I'm to blame, not you. And— and—Oscar, I've been very mean to you all along"—
"No, you haven't," said Oscar promptly; "it was me bullying you in the first place made all the trouble. Aunt Nora told me maybe you wouldn't be friends for a while, and she told me all about the mad dog and I thought you were a pretty nice boy and I wished you would like me, but you wouldn't, so I pretended I didn't care. But I did. It's lonesome travelling around with a feller that's mad with you all the time."
Edmund swallowed a little lump in his throat. "If you'll make up with me, now, I'll never be mad with you again," said he, holding out his hand.
Oscar clasped it across the bed over the mangled remains of the too-adventurous Marcus Aurelius, whose adventures, thus, were not quite in vain.
Edmund kept his word. Indeed, he was surprised to find how easy it was to like Oscar; and Nora's prediction was fulfilled. The two boys were very happy in Europe; but Edmund never forgot Marcus. He told the truth to Nora and she persuaded Mrs. Morris to deal gently with Oscar. He went to the races, after all. Previously Edmund had written the whole story to Lady Margaret in a letter which she read with smiles and tears. The postscript was by Oscar. It ran as follows:
Ned wont let me see his letter but I'm sure he took all the blame on himself becaws he always dose but it was me too blame and not him becaws I pined the snake in my coat pocket becaws I was affraid to handel it and ran off too the punch and gudy show and it got out and the head water killed it I didn't give him any tip when he went away I'm very sorry and I'm sorry I kicked the mormossits but they bit my legs No more at pressent from your obedient servent too comand.
It only remains to say that Marcus Aurelius is back home, at Lady Margaret's; but she never makes a bracelet of him, now; most ingeniously mended and stuffed, he abides perpetually in a glass case; and she describes his perfections and his lamentable end with tears in her eyes.
By Mrs. Cornell
A voice rose wrathfully in the back yard, "Wee-lie! What iss this?You fell in the pig trough? Come here, that I beat you! Come here,I say!"
Willie did not accept the invitation. A shrill whimpering was his sole response. Twelve-year-old Anna stepped to the kitchen door, peering round the sash. "Pa's scolding Willie," she announced to her mother.
The storm continued to rage in the back yard.
"Shust look at your clothes! Go now! To the creek wit' you! Comenotin the house until you are cleaned. Ach!"
Ex-Sea-Captain Schulz, now prune-grower in the mountain boundary west of Santa Clara Valley, turned in at the kitchen door.
"I don't know what to do wit' the boy. Go, mine Anna, get the lad a clean shirt, and take it down to the creek."
On Anna's return from the bathing pool she said softly to her mother, "Willie isn't at the creek. Perhaps he has run off."
"O child, don't bother me about Willie! He'll run back again fast enough, he's that scared of the mountains and the trees."
Anna was conscious of an undercurrent of sympathy with the forlorn waif her father had brought from the city some months before. The very love and awe with which the mountains filled her imaginative soul gave her comprehension of the fear with which they imbued the dull-witted offspring of San Francisco gutters.
Willie did not return all that long, August day. The captain and his American wife spread and dipped prunes busily on the hot south slope. The box-laden wagon rolled by at intervals. Household duties went helter-skelter under Anna's management. At six o'clock Mrs. Schulz, hot and tired, wakened her lazy little daughter, outstretched beneath the hollyhocks and poppies in the small front garden.
"For gracious sake, Anna! Hurry! You've not done the dinner dishes!"
"Have the cows come?" Anna asked, resourcefully.
"Land! If I hadn't forgotten about Willie! Come—hurry! You'll have to go for the cows. I'll wash the dishes."
Anna felt quite in the mood to go for the cows. It meant an hour or so of patting barefooted and bare headed along the soft dust of the road, or over the slippery brown grass of the mountain pastures, with tall pines on every hand and a gold-blue sky above.
She mused about the missing Willie. Had he carried out his occasional threat to run away?
"The road is open, go when you like," was her father's one reply to such futile outbursts. But they well knew the road was not open to Willie. The six mountain miles intervening between their ranch and the station formed an impassable barrier to his timorous soul.
"I guess he's afraid of the bigness of things," Anna concluded. "And he's got no call to run away. Papa threatens him, but he's never laid hand on him yet. I s'pose it's on account of the bath he ran away."
There was no Willie at the bathing-pool. The checked gingham shirt fluttered lonesomely where she had that morning placed it.
Some minutes later, shuffling deliciously among the dappled leaves of a hill trail, she sprang aside in quick dismay.
"Goodness!" What had seemed to be a bunch of dry leaves and grass coiled swiftly, with the rattling whir that goes straight to the fear center of the human heart. In a flash Anna's hands were full of rocks. The first article in every California mountain child's education is to destroy every rattlesnake that comes in sight. Anna dodged the first strike of the snake, and before he could get nearer she began a fusillade of such efficiency that the reptile enemy sought retreat.
Then Anna was privileged to witness a strange thing—a very strange thing; so unusual, in fact, that when reported to the head of the zoological department of the State university that conservative gentleman would have given the story little credence had it not been for the unimpeachable authority of a celebrated naturalist, who had reported it as occasionally occurring among the large, much-to-be-dreaded species of the Eastern States—theCrotalus horrible, or banded rattler.
To Anna's unutterable surprise, the snake turned for refuge to a near-by oak-tree. Perhaps he came against it unintentionally, as the rattlesnake sees badly by daylight. At any rate, he reared his head against it much as he would have done in ascending the side of a sunny boulder in the early days of his chilled awakening from his winter sleep.
He writhed spirally but slowly up its rough trunk, which seemed from eighteen to twenty inches in circumference. When the rocks ceased flying he would halt, evidently not half-liking his task, to wave his bluntly triangular head in the direction where the moving shadow indicated to his blurred vision the position of his enemy. But on the resumption of active hostilities, he would begin again his painful ascent.
"Ow-w-w-ch!" sounded a howl from above.
Looking up at the cry, Anna discerned among the clustering leaves of the black oak a huddled figure, with raccoon-like eyes, peering down at the mounting snake, to escape from which he had, in fact, climbed the tree.
"Willie," she shouted, "jump! The snake's coming! Jump!"
"Ow-w-w-ch!" he continued to wail.
The snake stopped, confused, craning its head upward at the new complication, then downward at its known adversary. Its hesitation would make Willie's escape practicable, if he could conquer his crazy fear.
"Willie, break off a limb—beat it back! I can run!"
The snake undulated a few inches farther. The reiterated cry wasWillie's only response. Anna's quick eye saw another chance.
"There's that big limb on the redwood. You can reach it. Swing across. It's easy. You must!" stamping. "O Willie, do it! Do it!"
Her sailor father had often reproved Anna for her delight in climbing and swinging from tree to tree, by means of her long arms and practised hands.
"It iss not goodt for you to be a monkey, mine Anna," he would say. "Little girls need nefer to go to the masthead. Thou hast no call to be a sailor. Be only a bravekindchen, and help our goodt mother wit' the dishes."
His admonition would dissolve in an unrestrained roar of laughter as she wickedly "shinned" up the porch post to a coign of vantage on the vine-covered roof.
But she could not climb the tree where the snake still clung. There was the neighboring redwood, huge-girthed, smooth-boled, with limbs out of reach, yet with the lowest bough almost touching the limb on which Willie crouched, mechanically clutching the body of the tree, but dumb and stupefied with the horror of his situation.
Anna hurriedly piled large rocks under a thick, broken branch-stump of the redwood, which was at least eight feet from the ground. Four times she leaped upward and fell back, wounding her tough little feet. She noticed blood-stains on the rocks as she heaped them with a broader base for her fifth attempt. The snake rested, waving his head downward as if in query. Fortunately, he was full and sluggish.
Once more Anna crouched and shot upward. Her right hand caught the projecting stump, her left easily followed. Clasping the decreasing trunk of the tree with her slim, muscular legs, hanging also by her hands, she dropped her head backward to take observation. The snake hung out, also, toward her, from his tree, then resumed his deliberate climbing. Evidently the task was neither easy nor to his liking.
Anna hitched breathlessly up toward the coveted limb. Reaching it, she took out her jack-knife,—inseparable companion,—scientifically cut a wedge from a short limb above her, and broke off the weakened branch. Recovering her balance, she reached out with this flexible club, but could not touch the snake, now roused to accelerated activity.
Holding her weapon between her teeth, Anna worked her way nearly to the end of her tough support. Throwing out her right hand, she was able to catch the big limb, at the base of which Willie, almost insensible, still huddled. Then she swung, pendulum-like, by her hands, increasing her momentum. At the right moment she released the redwood bough and flung her light body full upon the young oak. Grasping the limb with both hands, she hauled herself up beside the terrified boy.
The snake, shaken by the tumult above, wavered and stopped. As a rule, a rattlesnake, conscious of his defense, makes a good fight; but here the conditions were unusual and confusing. On level ground, where he could have coiled, and where his sensitive under surface could have slid comfortably over smooth earth, he would not have shirked combat when cornered. Now, with his enemy mysteriously above, his one idea seemed to be escape.
Willie jabbered an idiotic welcome.
"He can't strike until he gets clear here," Anna reassured him. "He can't coil."
Her rapid blows still further dismayed her antagonist. He bit viciously at the stick, touching it more than once; for the rattler's strike is deadly swift, despite his languid locomotion.
At last Anna, settling herself firmly on the limb, raised her club with both hands and delivered a slashing blow on the neck of her foe, breaking, as they afterward found, his vertebral column.
The darting head hung limp; a progressive loosening ran through the mottled coils; there was a slight rasping sound, a thud, and then a whitish heap on the ground, which Anna cleared when, swinging down by her hands to a safe distance, she leaped lightly to the ground.
Willie followed, dazed and fearful. He helped round up the cows, casting furtive glances ahead and on each side at every footstep. Before entering the house, he slunk, although still agonized with fear, through the golden twilight to the abhorred bathing-pool and the languidly fluttering cross-bars of the repudiated gingham shirt.
But Anna, too ill for supper, crept into her father's arms, where he sat on the vine-darkened veranda, and fell asleep on his shoulder.
"Ach, mine Anna," the captain said, tenderly, "it iss sometimes goodt for little girls to make themselves to be sailors!"
By Mrs. Alfred Gatty
"Let me hire you as a nurse for my poor children," said a Butterfly to a quiet Caterpillar, who was strolling along a cabbage-leaf in her odd lumbering way. "See these little eggs," continued the Butterfly; "I don't know how long it will be before they come to life, and I feel very sick and poorly, and if I should die, who will take care of my baby Butterflies when I am gone? Willyou, kind, mild, green Caterpillar? But you must mind what you give them to eat, Caterpillar!—they cannot, of course, live onyourrough food. You must give them early dew, and honey from the flowers, and you must let them fly about only a little way at first; for, of course, one can't expect them to use their wings properly all at once. Dear me! it is a sad pity you cannot fly yourself. But I have no time to look for another nurse now, so you will do your best, I hope. Dear! dear! I cannot think what made me come and lay my eggs on a cabbage-leaf! What a place for young Butterflies to be born upon! Still you will be kind, will you not, to the poor little ones? Here, take this gold-dust from my wings as a reward. Oh, how dizzy I am! Caterpillar! you will remember about the food—"
And with these words the Butterfly drooped her wings and died; and the green Caterpillar, who had not had the opportunity of even saying Yes or No to the request, was left standing alone by the side of the Butterfly's eggs.
"A pretty nurse she has chosen, indeed, poor lady!" exclaimed she, "and a pretty business I have in hand! Why, her senses must have left her or she never would have asked a poor crawling creature like me to bring up her dainty little ones! Much they'll mind me, truly, when they feel the gay wings on their backs, and can fly away out of my sight whenever they choose!"
However, there lay the eggs on the cabbage-leaf; and the green Caterpillar had a kind heart, so she resolved to do her best. But she got no sleep that night, she was so very anxious. She made her back quite ache with walking all night round her young charges, for fear any harm should happen to them; and in the morning says she to herself—
"Two heads are better than one. I will consult some wise animal upon the matter, and get advice. How should a poor crawling creature like me know what to do without asking my betters?"
But still there was a difficulty—whom should the Caterpillar consult? There was the shaggy Dog who sometimes came into the garden. But he was so rough!—he would most likely whisk all the eggs off the cabbage-leaf with one brush of his tail. There was the Tom Cat, to be sure, who would sometimes sit at the foot of the apple-tree, basking himself and warming his fur in the sunshine; but he was so selfish and indifferent! "I wonder which is the wisest of all the animals I know," sighed the Caterpillar, in great distress; and then she thought, and thought, till at last she thought of the Lark; and she fancied that because he went up so high, and nobody knew where he went to, he must be very clever, and know a great deal, for to go up very high (whichshecould never do), was the Caterpillar's idea of perfect glory.
Now in the neighbouring corn-field their lived a Lark, and the Caterpillar sent a message to him, to beg him to come and talk to her, and when he came she told him all her difficulties, and asked him what she was to do to feed and rear the little creatures so different from herself.
"Perhaps you will be able to inquire and hear something about it next time you go up high," observed the Caterpillar, timidly.
The Lark said, "Perhaps he should;" but he did not satisfy her curiosity any further. Soon afterwards, however, he went singing upwards into the bright, blue sky. By degrees his voice died away in the distance, till the green Caterpillar could not hear a sound. So she resumed her walk round the Butterfly's eggs, nibbling a bit of the cabbage-leaf now and then as she moved along.
"What a time the Lark has been gone!" she cried, at last. "I wonder where he is just now! I would give all my legs to know!" And the green Caterpillar took another turn round the Butterfly's eggs.
At last the Lark's voice began to be heard again. The Caterpillar almost jumped for joy, and it was not long before she saw her friend descend with hushed note to the cabbage bed.
"News, news, glorious news, friend Caterpillar!" sang the Lark; "but the worst of it is, you won't believe me!"
"I believe everything I am told," observed the Caterpillar, hastily.
"Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what these little creatures are to eat. What do you think it is to be? Guess!"
"Dew, and the honey out of flowers, I am afraid," sighed theCaterpillar.
"No such thing, old lady! Something simpler than that. Something thatyoucan get at quite easily."
"I can get at nothing quite easily but cabbage-leaves," murmured the Caterpillar, in distress.
"Excellent! my good friend," cried the Lark, exultingly; "you have found it out. You are to feed them with cabbage-leaves."
"Never!"said the Caterpillar, indignantly. "It was their dying mother's last request that I should do no such thing."
"Their dying mother knew nothing about the matter," persisted the lark; "but why do you ask me, and then disbelieve what I say? You have neither faith nor trust."
"Oh, I believe everything I am told," said the Caterpillar.
"Nay, but you do not," replied the Lark; "you won't believe me even about the food, and yet that is but a beginning of what I have to tell you. Why, Caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs will turn out to be?"
"Butterflies, to be sure," said the Caterpillar.
"Caterpillars!" sang the Lark; "and you'll find it out in time;" and the Lark flew away, for he did not want to stay and contest the point with his friend.
"I thought the Lark had been wise and kind," observed the mild green Caterpillar, once more beginning to walk around the eggs, "but I find that he is foolish and saucy instead. Perhaps he went uptoohigh this time. I still wonder whom he sees, and what he does up yonder."
"I would tell you if you would believe me," sang the Lark, descending once more.
"I believe everything I am told," reiterated the Caterpillar, with as grave a face as if it were a fact.
"Then I'll tell you something else," cried the Lark; "for the best of my news remains behind.You will one day be a Butterfly yourself."
"Wretched bird!" exclaimed the Caterpillar, "you jest with my inferiority—now you are cruel as well as foolish. Go away! I will ask your advice no more."
"I told you you would not believe me!" cried the Lark, nettled in his turn.
"I believe everything that I am told" persisted the Caterpillar; "that is"—and she hesitated—"everything that it isreasonableto believe. But to tell me that Butterflies' eggs are Caterpillars, and that Caterpillars leave off crawling and get wings, and become Butterflies!—Lark! you are too wise to believe such nonsense yourself, for you know it is impossible."
"I know no such thing," said the Lark, warmly. "Whether I hover over the corn-fields of earth, or go up into the depths of the sky, I see so many wonderful things, I know no reason why there should not be more. Oh, Caterpillar! it is because you crawl, because you never get beyond your cabbage-leaf, that you callanythingimpossible."
"Nonsense!" shouted the Caterpillar, "I know what's possible, and what's not possible, according to my experience and capacity, as well as you do. Look at my long green body and these endless legs, and then talk to me about having wings and a painted feathery coat! Fool!—"
"And fool you!" cried the indignant Lark. "Fool, to attempt to reason about what you cannot understand! Do you not hear how my song swells with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the mysterious wonder-world above? Oh, Caterpillar; what comes to you from thence, receive, asIdo, upon trust."
"That is what you call—"
"Faith," interrupted the Lark.
"How am I to learn Faith?" asked the Caterpillar.
At that moment she felt something at her side. She looked round—eight or ten little green Caterpillars were moving about, and had already made a show of a hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had broken from the Butterfly's eggs!
Shame and amazement filled our green friend's heart, but joy soon followed; for, as the first wonder was possible, the second might be so too. "Teach me your lesson, Lark!" she would say; and the Lark sang to her of the wonders of the earth below and of the heaven above. And the Caterpillar talked all the rest of her life to her relations of the time when she should be a Butterfly.
But none of them believed her. She nevertheless had learnt the Lark's lesson of faith, and when she was going into her chrysalis grave, she said—
"I shall be a Butterfly some day!"
But her relations thought her head was wandering, and they said,"Poor thing!"
And when she was a Butterfly, and was going to die again, she said—
"I have known many wonders—I have faith—I can trust even now for what shall come next!"
By Carl Ewald
In among the green bushes and trees ran the brook. Tall, straight-growing rushes stood along its banks, and whispered to the wind. Out in the middle of the water floated the Water-Lily, with its white flower and its broad green leaves.
Generally it was quite calm on the brook. But when, now and again, it chanced that the wind took a little turn over it, there was a rustle in the rushes, and the Water-Lily sometimes ducked completely under the waves. Then its leaves were lifted up in the air and stood on their edges, so that the thick green stalks that came up from the very bottom of the stream found that it was all they could do to hold fast.
All day long the Larva of the Dragon-Fly was crawling up and down the Water-Lily's stalk. "Dear me, how stupid it must be to be a Water-Lily!" it said, and peeped up at the flower.
"You chatter as a person of your small mind might be expected to do," answered the Water-Lily. "It is just the very nicest thing there is."
"I don't understand that," said the Larva. "I should like at this moment to tear myself away, and fly about in the air like the big, beautiful Dragon-Flies."
"Pooh!" said the Water-Lily. "That would be a funny kind of pleasure. No; to lie still on the water and dream, to bask in the sun, and now and then to be rocked up and down by the waves—there's some sense inthat!"
The Larva sat thinking for a minute or two. "I have a longing for something greater," it said at last. "If I had my will, I would be a Dragon-Fly. I would fly on strong, stiff wings along the stream, kiss your white flower, rest a moment on your leaves, and then fly on."
"You are ambitious," answered the Water-Lily, "and that is stupid of you. One knows what one has, but one does not know what one may get. May I, by the way, make so bold as to ask you how you would set about becoming a Dragon-Fly? You don't look as if that was what you were born for. In any case you will have to grow a little prettier, you gray, ugly thing,"
"Yes, that is the worst part of it," the Larva answered sadly. "I don't know myself how it will come about, but I hope itwillcome about some time or other. That is why I crawl about down here and eat all the little creatures I can get hold of."
"Then you think you can attain to something greatby feeding!" the Water-Lily said, with a laugh. "That would be a funny way of getting up in the world."
"Yes; but I believe it is the right way for me!" cried the Dragon-Fly Grub earnestly. "All day long I go on eating till I get fat and big; and one fine day, as I think, all my fat will turn into wings with gold on them, and everything else that belongs to a proper Dragon-Fly!"
The Water-Lily shook its clever white head, "Put away your silly thoughts," it said, "and be content with your lot. You can knock about undisturbed down here among my leaves, and crawl up and down the stalk to your heart's desire. You have everything that you need, and no cares or worries—what more do you want?"
"You are of a low nature," answered the Larva, "and therefore you have no sense of higher things. In spite of what you say, I wish to become a Dragon Fly." And then it crawled right down to the bottom of the water to catch more creatures and stuff itself still bigger.
But the Water-Lily lay quietly on the water and thought things over. "I can't understand these animals," it said to itself. "They knock about from morning till night, chase one another and eat one another, and are never at peace. We flowers have more sense. Peacefully and quietly we grow up side by side, bask in the sunshine, and drink the rain, and take everything as it comes. And I am the luckiest of them all. Many a time have I been floating happily out here on the water, while the other flowers there on dry land were tormented with drought. The flowers' lot is the best; but naturally the stupid animals can't see it."
When the sun went down the Dragon-Fly Larva was sitting on the stalk, saying nothing, with its legs drawn up under it. It had eaten ever so many little creatures, and was so big that it had a feeling as if it would burst. But all the same it was not altogether happy. It was speculating on what the Water-Lily had said, and it could hardly get to sleep the whole night long on account of its unquiet thoughts. All this speculating gave it a headache, for it was work which it was not used to. It had a back-ache too, and a stomach-ache. It felt just as though it was going to break in pieces, and die on the spot.
When the sky began to grow gray in the early morning it could hold out no longer. "I can't make it out," it said in despair. "I am tormented and worried, and I don't know what will be the end of it. Perhaps the Water-Lily is right, and I shall never be anything else but a poor, miserable Larva. But that is a fearful thing to think of. I did so long to become a Dragon-Fly and fly about in the sun. Oh, my back! my back! I do believe I am dying!"
It had a feeling as if its back was splitting, and it shrieked with pain. At that moment there was a rustle among the rushes on the bank of the stream.
"That's the morning breeze," thought the Larva; "I shall at least see the sun when I die." And with great trouble it crawled up one of the leaves of the Water-Lily, stretched out its legs, and made ready to die.
But when the sun rose, like a red ball, in the east, suddenly it felt a hole in the middle of its back. It had a creepy, tickling feeling, and then a feeling of tightness and oppression. Oh, it was torture without end! Being bewildered, it closed its eyes; but it still felt as though it were being squeezed and crushed. At last it suddenly noticed that it was free; and when it opened its eyes it was floating through the air on stiff, shining wings, a beautiful Dragon-Fly. Down on the leaf of the Water-Lily lay its ugly gray Larva case.
"Hurrah!" cried the new Dragon-Fly. "So I have got my darling wish fulfilled!" and it started off at once through the air at such a rate that you would think it had to fly to the ends of the earth.
"The creature has got its desire at any rate," thought theWater-Lily. "Let us see if it will be any the happier for it."
Two days later the Dragon-Fly came flying back, and seated itself on the flower of the Water-Lily.
"Oh, good-morning," said the Water-Lily. "Do I see you once more? I thought you had grown too fine to greet your old friends."
"Good-day," said the Dragon-Fly. "Where shall I lay my eggs?"
"Oh, you are sure to find some place," answered the flower. "Sit down for a bit, and tell me if you are any happier now than when you were crawling up and down my stalk, a little ugly Larva."
"Where shall I lay my eggs? Where shall I lay my eggs?" screamed the Dragon-Fly, and flew humming around from place to place, laid one here and one there, and finally seated itself, tired and weary, on one of the leaves.
"Well?" said the Water-Lily.
"Oh, it was better in the old days—much better," sighed the Dragon-Fly. "The sunshine is really delightful, and it is a real pleasure to fly over the water; but I have no time to enjoy it. I have been so terribly busy, I tell you. In the old days I had nothing to think about; now I have to fly about all day long to get my silly eggs disposed of. I haven't a moment free. I have scarcely time to eat."
"Didn't I tell you so?" cried the Water-Lily in triumph. "Didn't I prophesy that your happiness would be hollow?"
"Good-bye," sighed the Dragon-Fly. "I have not time to listen to your disagreeable remarks. I must lay some more eggs." But just as it was about to fly off the Starling came.
"What a pretty little Dragon-Fly!" it said; "it will be a delightful tit-bit for my little ones."
Snap! it killed the Dragon-Fly with its bill, and flew off with it.
"What a shocking thing!" cried the Water-Lily, as its leaves shook with terror. "Those animals! those animals! They are funny creatures. I do indeed value my quiet, peaceful life. I harm nobody, and nobody wants to pick a quarrel with me. I am very luck—"
It did not finish what it was saying, for at that instant a boat came gliding close by. "What a pretty little Water-Lily!" cried Ellen, who sat in the boat. "I will have it!" She leant over the gunwale and wrenched off the flower. When she had got home she put it in a glass of water, and there it stood for three days among a whole company of other flowers.
"I can't make it out," it said on the morning of the fourth day. "I have not come off a bit better than that miserable Dragon-Fly."
"The flowers are now withered," said Ellen, and she threw them out of the window.
So there lay the Water-Lily with its fine white petals on the dirty ground.
By C. A. Stephens
There is a tiny borer which eats seasoned oak wood, boring thousands of minute holes through it till it becomes a mere shell, and turning out a fine white powder known among country folk as "powder-post." When a shovel or a pitchfork-handle snaps suddenly, or an axe-helve or a rake's tail breaks off under no great strain, the farmer says, "'Twas powder-post."
If this small pest obtains lodgment in a barn, or in the oak finish or furniture of a house, it is likely to do a vexatious amount of damage, and no practicable method of checking its ravages has been found. Varnishes do not exclude it. Boiling will kill the borer, but furniture and wainscotings are not easily boiled.
From the frames of old buildings, when of oak, powder-post will sometimes run in streams when a beam or brace is struck.
But everything has its virtues, if only they can be found out; and long ago, in New England, some rustic AEsculapius discovered that powder-post was a sovereign balm for all flesh-wounds, causing them to heal rapidly, without "proud flesh." And if proud flesh appeared, the wound would still heal if it were opened and dressed with powder-post.
What modern medical science would predicate concerning this panacea, I know not, but thousands of cuts in rural districts treated with powder-post did very well, and faith in it waxed strong. So when Sam Eastman cut his foot over in the "east woods," all the wiseacres in the neighborhood declared that that foot must be done up in powder-post. "If it isn't," they said, "proud flesh will get into it, and that boy will be lame all winter."
It was a bad cut. Sam and Willis Murch had been splitting four-foot logs, when Sam's axe, glancing from a log, had buried the blade in his instep; the very bones were cut. There were four of us boys at work together. We ran to him, tied a handkerchief round his ankle, and twisted it tight with a stick; but blood flowed profusely. We did not know how to apply a tourniquet.
When at last we had helped Sam home, night was at hand; and although we went to all the neighbors, we could not collect enough powder-post to dress the cut. Several people said, however, that plenty of it could be obtained at the old Plancher barn, for the braces of that barn had been made of cleft red oak, and were "all powder-posted." But the Plancher barn was four miles distant, in the clearing in the "great woods." A settler bearing the name had cleared a farm there forty years before, and had lived there for over twenty years. Ill fortune beset him, however. His children died, his house burned on a winter night, and he moved away in discouragement, abandoning the property.
The clearing was known to all the boys of the locality as a favorite haunt of foxes.
The next morning Sam's younger brother, John, Willis Murch and I went up to the old barn to get powder-post. John had a small axe with which to split the timbers, four old newspapers in which to gather up the precious dust, and a bottle in which to put it.
It was Thanksgiving morning. The sun rose in a clear, straw-colored sky. It was cold; the ground was frozen, and there was skating on the small ponds.
Red squirrels were scolding on the borders of the wood-lots, and blue jays came squalling into the orchards.
"This is a weather-breeder," grandmother remarked at breakfast.
Low down on the southern horizon, scarcely visible above the hilltops, was a line of slate-gray cloud.
Willis and I were not sorry of an excuse for a jaunt through the woods, for Willis owned a gun—an old army rifle bored out smooth for shot. Our only anxiety was to get back in good season for dinner. Thanksgiving dinner was always at three o'clock.
We set off immediately after breakfast. There was no need for haste on Sam's account, for John told us that the cut foot was no longer very painful, and Sam had slept well. The distance was about four miles, but there was neither road nor path through the forest.
It was a good time for hunting, for the swamps were frozen and the foliage was off the trees. The leaves were sodden, and no longer rustled underfoot. Red and gray squirrels scampered across our path, but Willis disdained to fire at them. He was loaded for deer; besides he had but three extra charges. Powder and shot were usually scarce with us.
At length we heard a deer run, and followed it for an hour or more.Then John espied a hedgehog in a poplar-tree, and Willis shot it.The long black-pointed quills were a curiosity to us, but we didnot deem such game worth carrying home.
It was near noon when we reached the clearing, and the sky had become overcast, but as we crossed the Plancher brook a new diversion presented itself. The pools were frozen over, but the ice was so transparent that the bottom was plainly visible, and we could see trout lying sluggishly in the deep water. Several of them were fine fish, that looked as if they might weigh a pound or more.
I had heard older boys say that if a gun is fired with the muzzle held just through the ice of a frozen pool, the concussion will so stun the fish beneath that they will float up to the under side of the ice. Willis was afraid that this would burst his gun, but the trout looked so alluring that at last he ventured the experiment. John cut a small hole with the axe, and then Willis, lying down, thrust the muzzle of the gun about six inches beneath the ice.
Then he edged away, and stretching out his arm at full length, pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled, but no apparent damage was done.
For a few moments the water was turbid with the smoke, but when it cleared, there, sure enough, were five or six of the very largest trout floating, belly upward, against the ice. We had but to cut through and take them out, but John was so slow with his axe that two of the trout recovered and darted away.
We had four fine fish to show for the charge of powder, and immediately searched for another pool. We soon came to one much deeper and better stocked with trout, and Willis fired under the ice again. Eight fish were secured here; and going on up the brook, we found still another pool. This time Willis thrust the gun deeper into the water, with the result that about a foot of the muzzle was split open!
We had angry words about this accident, for Willis, much chapfallen over the mishap, blamed me, and declared that I ought to buy him a new gun. As I had but fifty cents in the world, there was no other way for me but to scoff at Willis's claim. He then seized all the trout. This did not altogether please John Eastman, and he and I turned our backs on Willis, and hit upon a stratagem for capturing trout on our own account. Knowing that it was the concussion of the shot that stunned the trout, we went up to the old barn and procured a long, sweeping board. Using this like a flail, we could strike the ice a blow that made a noise well-nigh as loud as a gun. When we gave just the right sort of blow, the trout below would turn on their backs and float up to the ice. John and I soon secured two good strings of trout; and by this time Willis, who had followed us, thought it best to make peace.
"Come on, boys!" he exclaimed. "We had better be going. It's two o'clock, and beginning to snow."
We had become so engrossed in our novel method of fishing that we had not heeded the weather. Fine snow was falling.
"But I must get the powder-post for Sam's foot!" exclaimed John.Willis and I had forgotten that.
"Hurry, then," said Willis, "or we shall be late to Thanksgiving dinner! I'm hungry now!"
We ran to the barn. The lean-to door was off its hinges, but wooden pins held the oak braces of the frame in position. We knocked out the pins, and prying out two of the braces, split them, and then beat the pieces on the newspapers. The white powder ran from the perforated wood in tiny streams. The bottle filled slowly, however, and it needed much splitting and hammering to obtain even a teaspoonful of powder-post. Then, at the last moment, Willis spilled nearly all that he had collected, and another brace had to be taken out and split.
By this time our newspapers were torn in pieces, and altogether we had much trouble in collecting half a bottleful. When at last we corked up the bottle and hurried out of the barn, a heavy snowstorm had set in. We could not even see the forest across the clearing. But we ran as fast as we could, and for fifteen minutes scarcely slackened our pace.
The whole forest had taken on a wintry aspect. The snow rattled on the bare twigs and sodden leaves, and the rising gusts of wind sighed drearily.
"It seems to me we ought to come to that little hollow where the muck-holes are," John said.
"So I think," replied Willis, stopping to look about.
"I think we're heading off too far toward Stoss Pond," said I.
"Oh no, we're not!" cried Willis. "Come on!"
Gripping our strings of fish, we ran on again, but presently we were perplexed to discern the side of a mountain looking up directly ahead.
"There, now, what did I tell you?" said I. "That's Stoss Pond mountain."
Thereupon we tacked again, and ran on.
The storm thickened and the forest darkened, but on we went through brush and thicket till we came to the bank of a large brook.
"We didn't cross any such brook as this on our way up!" John exclaimed.
"We're away down on Stoss Pond brook," said Willis. "We've come wrong! If you both think you know more than I, keep on; I'm going in this other direction," and Willis set off to run again. John and I followed him. In the course of five minutes we came suddenly out into cleared land.
"There! What did I tell you?" cried Willis. "This is Wilbur's pasture. We're almost home now."
John and I were too much gratified to question Willis's superior wisdom and followed after him, intent only on getting home to dinner. The storm was now driving thick and fast. We could not see a hundred yards ahead, but we seemed to be on level ground, such as I had never seen in Neighbor Wilbur's pasture. Soon we came to another large brook.
"There's no brook in Wilbur's pasture!" exclaimed John, stopping short.
"I don't care!" cried Willis. "This must be Wilbur's pasture!" He crossed the brook.
"Of course it is!" he shouted back to us, "for there's Wilbur's barn—right ahead of us!"
We hastened after Willis, plodding through dry, snowy grass, and came to a barn about which the storm eddied in snowy gusts.
"But where's Wilbur's house?" asked John.
We looked round in perplexity. There was no house in sight; but here was a barn, and the door was ajar. We went in. It was empty of hay or cattle. The barn looked curiously familiar; but it was not till we perceived the torn newspapers and the pieces of split oak brace on the floor that the full truth dawned on us. It was the old Plancher barn!
We had run five miles through the woods, only to reach the place from which we had started.
John looked at me, and I looked at Willis. A sense of utter bewilderment fell on us. John and I did not even think to revile Willis. In fact, we were terrified. All hope of dinner, or of reaching home at all that night, deserted us. The storm was increasing; the late November day was at an end.
For a while we scarcely spoke. John Eastman, who was the youngest, began to cry. The old barn creaked dismally as each gust of wind racked it, and loose boards rattled and banged. No created place can be more dreary than an old and empty barn.
After our exertions we soon felt very chilly. We should not have dared build a fire in the barn, even if we had had matches. Willis groped about in the old hay bay and gathered a few handfuls of musty hay, which we spread on the barn floor, and then lay down as snugly together as we could nestle, but nothing that we could do sufficed to warm us, and we lay shivering for what seemed hours.
John and I finally fell asleep, and perhaps Willis did also, although he always denied it. At last he waked us, shaking us violently.
"You mustn't sleep!" he exclaimed. "You'll freeze to death and never wake up!"
"It's getting terribly cold," he continued; "we'd better get up and jump round."
But John and I did not wish to stir from that one small slightly warmed spot. Our toes and fingers ached. A fine dust of snow sifted down on our faces; and how that old barn did creak! A gale was raging.
"I guess it would be warmer under the barn floor," Willis said, at last. "There's almost always old dry stuff under a barn floor. If we can only lift up a plank or two, we'll get down there."
"Yes, let's do it!" quavered John. "If we get under the floor the barn won't kill us, maybe, if it blows down."
Willis crept to the ends of the floor planks, next the lean-to, and tried first one and then another. Soon he found one that could be raised and tipped it over, making an aperture large enough to descend through. It was "pokerish" moving about in the dark; but we thrust down our legs and found that there was dry chaff and hay there. Willis let himself down and felt around, and then bade us get down beside him. We snuggled together under the floor, and with our hands banked the old stuff about our shivering bodies.
It seemed safer down there, and we felt the wind less, but lay listening to the gusts—expecting with every one to hear the barn fall over us.
Probably we fell asleep after a while; for my next recollection is of coughing chaff, and then noticing that it had grown slightly light. The wind appeared to have lulled. John, who was in the middle, felt warm as a kitten. I was but half awake, and so cold that I selfishly crept over between him and Willis. That waked John; he began to crawl back over me into the warm spot, but bumped his head against a sleeper of the barn floor and landed on Willis, who waked in a bad temper.
"What you doing!" he snarled. "Getting the warm chaff all away from my back!"
John thrust out a hand and grasped what he supposed to be Willis's hair.
"Where is your old head, anyway!" he exclaimed. "Is that it? Your mouth isn't with it, is it?" Willis did not reply; he was falling asleep again.
"Say, Willis, has your mouth got strayed away from your head?" saidJohn.
"Is that your head?" he exclaimed a moment after, speaking to me.
"Keep still, can't you?" I growled. "You've been in the middle all night! I want to go to sleep now."
"Well, by gummy, it isn't his head either!" cried John. "Whose head is that over there?"
"You lie down, John," said Willis.
"But there's somebody else here!" cried John, with a queer note in his voice; and with that, he scrambled back over us both. The space was all too narrow for such a maneuvre, and his knees felt hard. "Now look here," said Willis. "You quit that!"
But John was climbing through the hole to the barn floor above. "You must get out of there!" he cried. "There is something down there."
By this time Willis was fully waked up. He reached over with his hand, on the side where John had been, and then he, too, gave a spring and climbed out on the floor! That alarmed me in turn, and I followed them, bumping my head in my haste. "What is it?" I exclaimed.
"I don't know," said Willis, his voice shaking from excitement.
"He's got an awful thick head of hair," said John; "but he felt warm! Seemed to be all hair!"
"I'll bet it's a bear!" cried Willis. "Denned up, under the floor!"
With that John and I made for the door; but Willis said he did not believe it would come out, if it was asleep for the winter.
For some time we stood near the door, prepared for flight. It was growing light, and with the daylight our courage revived. First Willis, then John and I, went back to the hole in the floor and peeped down; but it was too dark to distinguish any object.
Growing bolder, Willis ventured slowly to lift another floor plank over where our hairy bed-fellow lay; and even now I seem to see John's dilated eyes, as we looked down on a great round mat of shaggy black hair!
We had now no doubt that it was, indeed, a bear. Willis lowered the plank gently into its place; and going outside, we discovered that there was a hole at the far end of the barn where the old stone work under the sill had fallen out.
The discovery excited us so that we forgot our miseries. The bear's skin and the state bounty would be worth sixteen dollars. As Willis's gun was useless, we concluded that the thing for us to do was to run home—if we could find the way—and get assistance.
We had scarcely left the barn when we saw two men come out of the woods. One of them had a gun. As they drew nearer, we perceived that the foremost was Willis's older brother, Ben Murch, and the other John's father.
"They're hunting for us! Now don't you tell them we got lost!" said Willis, with the guile so apt to develop in a boy who has older brothers who tease him.
"But we did," said John.
"If you tell them I'll lick you!" exclaimed Willis. "Make them believe we've been guarding this bear!"
John and I did not know what to think of so glaring a deception; but Willis did the talking; and when Ben called out to demand why in the world we had not come home, Willis shouted:
"We've got a big bear under the barn! He's ours, and we are afraid he'll get away!"
Neither Ben nor Mr. Eastman asked us another question, but hastened to see the bear. A plank was pulled up, and then Ben shot the beast at short range. It did not even growl.
They made a rude sled of saplings, of the kind known to hunters as a "scoot," and drew the bear home; and from the vainglorious talk of Willis one might have thought us the three most valiant lads that ever ranged the forest! John and I said little. It was rather fine to be considered heroes, who would not leave a bear even to go home to a Thanksgiving dinner; but I am glad to remember that we did not feel quite right about it; and soon afterward John and I revealed the true state of things to our folks at home.
The Murches claimed the lion's share of the spoils, but gave John and me a dollar apiece; and I recollect that I had a very bad cold for a week. Sam's cut foot healed promptly. It was dressed three times with powder-post, and showed no sign or symptoms of "proud flesh."