The roar of the bison bull was hardly out of his ears, when the boy heard another slight rustling in the leaves and grass near-by, and peeping out from behind his cap, he saw that the moccasins had again shifted their position. Looking in the direction toward which their toes were turned, he saw an object more to be dreaded, by far, than a bison bull.
A wild-cat it was, already too near at hand, creeping up in that soft, sly way peculiar to animals of the cat family whenever they have a victim in view. A wild-cat—fat; sleek sides, all ribbed with stripes of black and white; white teeth, very long and sharp; black claws, longer and sharper still; ringed tail, very long and very lithe, waving softly all the time from side to side, with a sort of quivering eagerness in its motion, as if the owner were trying his best to hold it still, and for the life of him could not do so.
By this time, the handsome savage had slipped himself within easy springing distance of his intended quarry. Here he paused, and fixing his wild, sly eyes on those of the boy, began purring in a soft way, and licking his red chops with his long, red tongue in a soft way—that uncontrollable tail still waving from side to side in the same soft way—all in the softest, slyest way that you could well imagine, as if he were saying within himself: "But won't a wild-cat pap and a wild-cat mam and their wild-cat kittens feast and be merry to-night?"
All this took the boy but three winks of the eye to observe; though, in the time, he had not winked once, so fascinated was he by the gaze of those wild, sly eyes, which shone like balls of green fire, rather than eyes. Now was Wild Tom of the Woods making his squat for the long spring, and the poor little runaway screaming again to pap for help. But just then, in the very nick of time, with a swiftness that left a red streak in the air, the red moccasins darted directly at the wild-cat's face, and kicking the green fire out of his eyes, spoiled their charming expression in a twinkle. With a scream of amazement, fright and pain, which struck on the ear like the shriek of a terrified woman, the nimble creature spun lithely 'round, and, like the bull, reckless of all save the unseen foe behind him, made a blind leap sheer over the brink of the precipice, and in a moment sank out of sight.
This happily accomplished, the moccasins, precisely as they had done before, returned to their post; and the boy, precisely as he had done before, hid his face in his coonskin cap. Nor even yet one word of thanks for timely rescue from untimely end.Now, had you been in our hero's place, you would have up and made friends with the moccasins, there on the spot, for so kindly stepping in betwixt you and peril—shaken hands with them as whole-souled fellows, with whom it was to a bare-footed boy's behoof to stand on a good footing. But Sprigg was the worst spoiled boy in the world; which, unless I am mightily mistaken, you are not; and it still rang in his foggy young noddle that it was all the red moccasins' fault that he had been brought to straits so sad and desperate. Therefore, he owed them no thanks whatever for helping him out, let them kick as they might. Such being the case, Sprigg would not have made friends with the moccasins, had it been to save their soles.
So, there sat the boy, with his face in his coonskin cap; and there stood the thing, with its feet in the moccasins; and there flung the sun his last red beams, then went his way, unrecking who wept to see him go.
Now, shade by shade, with foot as stealthy and soft as the furred paw of the gray cat, came the gray twilight, creeping, creeping on. The hour, when the gray owl, with a whoop, from his hole in the tree; and the gray wolf, with a howl, from his cleft in the rock, come forth in quest of their prey. And woe to the fawn! And woe to the birdling! strayed from home for the first time, should the shadows of night, that tempt the famished foe abroad, find him stillfar from the old one's side; for chased shall he be, and caught up by the claws, or dragged down by the fangs of the dread destroyer!
And Sprigg—poor child! How weak and helpless to be in a spot so lonely and dreary and perilous, and so far away from the dear old hearts of home! Hearts, by this time, so overburdened with grief and distressing apprehensions—all for him! How weary, too, and faint he felt! And how he longed to lay him down to sleep and be at rest! But this, he dared not, lest he should awake but to find long, sharp horns at his breast, or long, sharp teeth at his throat. Or, if not this, he might, while yet asleep, be borne away to some spot, still more distant and lonely, by the strange being, who stood just there in the moccasins, the gaze of whose unseen eyes he now felt in his inmost heart.
At last, in spite of all his efforts to keep awake, the weary child was dropping off to sleep, when his ear, as yet but half closed, was caught by a dog-trot sort of a noise in the leaves quite near at hand. Rousing with a start and looking out, the boy saw there a wolf—gray, grim and gaunt, with eyes that glared upon him through the dusky shades, like balls of red fire, rather than eyes. Sprigg was on the point of screaming again to pap for help, when he bethought him of the moccasins, and glancing down and perceiving that they had turned their toes toward the monster, he choked himself into silence.Though he still feared them, he had, by this time, learned to trust the red moccasins, and now felt assured that they would defend him against the wolf as they had done against the bull and the cat. Nor was he mistaken. Just as Wild Tray of the Woods would have made his spring and sprang on the boy, the moccasins made their spring and sprang on the wolf, driving directly at his ugly eyes, with a kick into each, which brought the red fire flashing out into the darkness. Back, with a terrified howl, cowered the monster, and spinning swiftly 'round, vanished like the bison and the wild-cat, with a blind leap over the precipice. But this time, when the moccasins came back, a voice came with them; a new voice, whose tones, gentle and kind, reminded the poor boy of his mother's, and thus the new voice spoke:
"Now our Sprigg must feel assured he may trust us. Then sleep, poor boy! You are weary, faint and sick at heart, and have but too much need of rest! A friend is here, who will watch over you and keep you safe from harm. Then, sleep, poor child, sleep!" And with these words the forlorn little castaway felt a tiny hand laid upon his head, and with a touch so gentle that a gush of soft, warm, grateful tears came welling up from his overburdened heart; and straightway a sense of rest and slumber stole over his spirit, and he sank into a deep sleep. Just then the moon wheeled up from behind the forest-boundEast, and shot her first silver arrows, long-and level, against the shaggy breast of the giant hill. Round-faced, she was, and as bright as moon could well be, not to make day of night; for, be it borne in mind, that it was still the first of June, though gone the joyous sun, who had been blazing the thing to the world the livelong day.
The boy had slept but an hour or so, when he was aroused by a voice, whose tones seemed those of his father's, which said:
"Up, Sprigg! Up! They come!" as if he who spoke were in haste. With a wild start the boy sprang to his feet, and the first thing he knew he was standing bolt upright, looking straight down the vista, which ran along the crest of the ridge, as if his head had been turned by him that had spoken on purpose that way, that he might see what there he saw. And had Sprigg seen the bison, the wild-cat, the wolf, all there in a row, the sight could hardly have daunted him more than did that of the object which now met his eyes. A sight, it was, which brought to his memory all that his mother had told him concerning that terrible thing of the wilderness—the Indian mystery—Jibbenainesy, called by the white men, Nick of the Woods.
Yes, fancy it out as you please—it was a bear, with black hair, so shaggy and long that his legs could scarcely be seen, and his tail not at all.
Sprigg's first thought, after the hundred thoughtswhich the object before him had awakened, was to reassure himself that the moccasins still stood guard. He looked! Dire to relate, the red moccasins had deserted their post—abandoned their trust! Nothing—no one left him to look to now for help! Down he crouched again at the foot of the old oak tree, hiding himself in its deepest shadow, in the forlorn hope that the monster might pass by without discovering his presence. On came the huge bulk of shaggy blackness—now in the shadow of a tree, now in the belt of moonlight, slowly, steadily, trudged he along—his head bent down with the air of one who, while he walked, is absorbed in profound thought. When his deliberate pace had brought the bear to the third or fourth belt of light, Sprigg spied an object, which, for the moment, in spite of the terror he felt, caused his young heart to burn with indignation, reminding him, as it did, how he had been made a fool of, by something, or somebody, he had not fairly decided yet what or who. But the moment after, remembering the voice, which, so like his mother's, had lulled him to sleep with words of rest and peace—this feeling gave place to one of joy and trusting reassurance.
Side by side with the bear, and keeping exact step with his sloomy pace, Sprigg saw his cast-off moccasins, coming quietly on, as if with the sole intent of guiding the monster directly up to the tree, in whose dark shadow he had trusted to find a hidingplace. Thus leading, thus led, composedly on they came together, step for step—now the three right feet, now the three left feet—each as pat to the other's movement as were they walking arm in arm. The next broad patch of moonlight gained, brought them square abreast with the boy; and here, within easy speaking distance, they came to a dead halt—the red moccasins and the bear.
"Sing a song of moccasins,Pockets full of rye.Four and twenty black bears.Sniff! I smell a lie!"
"Sing a song of moccasins,Pockets full of rye.Four and twenty black bears.Sniff! I smell a lie!"
"Sing a song of moccasins,
Pockets full of rye.
Four and twenty black bears.
Sniff! I smell a lie!"
So said the bear, in a nursery, sing-song tone of voice; then fetching a quick sniff at the air, began peering about him—first this way, then that way, then another way—every way, indeed, but straight at Sprigg.
"First behead the headsman,Then we'll fry the friar;Next we'll hang the hangman.Snuff! I smell a liar!"
"First behead the headsman,Then we'll fry the friar;Next we'll hang the hangman.Snuff! I smell a liar!"
"First behead the headsman,
Then we'll fry the friar;
Next we'll hang the hangman.
Snuff! I smell a liar!"
Again said the bear, still jingling out his words, and still stiffly sniffing the air. He now looked down at the earth, then up at the moon, then straight at Sprigg.
"Holloa!" he cried, abruptly modulating his voice into quite a different key, "who sits here, at this late hour, on Manitou hill, hiding himself from my moonshines?" And with these pleasant preliminaries to their better acquaintances, his bearship seated himself upon his stump of a tail, with his amiablemuzzle directly confronting the boy, as though he were in for a good, long talk and meant to be at his ease while so engaged. He had the look of one who was conscious of being the possessor of immense wisdom, and was accustomed to seeing whatever he might choose to let drop from his sagacious jaw waited for, snatched at and borne away as precious bits to be treasured up for lifelong use.
The moccasins daintily adjusted themselves beside the bear, the toe of the left foot resting on the ground, with the heel turned upward, as if the wearer were standing with his legs crossed, and with the left arm thrown carelessly over the bear's shoulders. The attitude was, doubtless, an easy and graceful one: too fine, indeed, to be all lost in the air. But it pleased Sprigg exceedingly just as it was. It made him feel that the bear could not be such a terrible fellow after all, if the moccasins could make themselves so completely at home in his presence.
"Who, I say?" repeated the bear. "Who sits here at this late hour on Manitou hill, hiding himself from my moonshine? What's wrong about my moonshine?"
But Sprigg said never a word, moved never a limb, winked never an eye.
"I say, what's wrong about my moonshine? If you have a tongue, speak!"
Poor Sprigg had a tongue, but it stuck fast to the roof of his mouth, and when he world have told the bear as much, it stuck still faster.
"Speak, I tell you! None of your mums with me!" the bear's voice terribly gruff by this time. "If you don't——"
"Sir!" gasped out Sprigg at last.
"Sir!" mockingly echoed the bear. "Sir! and is 'Sir' all a boy has to say for himself, who dodged my moonshine? I knew that much before. Now, sir, to the purpose, and tell me something I don't know."
"Yes, sir," which was as near to the purpose as anything the boy could think of just then. His grim questioner looked at him with so hard a countenance that it kept his scared wits from performing the very office demanded of them.
"Now, there is some sense in that," remarked the bear, with a grim smile and with a nod of the head to the right, as if the comment was intended for his ear, who stood there; and Sprigg could see that the moccasins shook, as if the wearer were laughing heartily.
"Having discovered that he has a tongue," continued the bear, "we will now take a fresh start and find out, if we can, what stuff the cub is made of. Now, sir, what's your name?"
"Sprigg," replied the boy, glad to have an opportunity, at last, of saying something to the purpose.
"Is that an English name, or Indian name?" inquired the bear.
"It is my name, sir; and you can see that I am not an Indian, by my coonskin cap."
"Bless a body!" exclaimed the bear, "but that was well turned. Now, sir, as you are getting a little glib, will you go still further and tell us how old you are?"
"Twelve years old, sir, next June-day come a year," replied the boy, in the peculiar sing-song way in which old-fashioned children were wont to answer the question.
"Why, that's to-day, you young gump!" cried the bear, "and your answer still leaves me in the fog as to your age—whether it's eleven or twelve.'
"I was eleven years old the last time, and I was to be twelve years old the next time, whenever that might be."
"Better and better," quoth the bear, with an approving nod, "and now I shouldn't be surprised if he were prepared to tell us whose son he is. Can you tell us that?"
"Oh, yes, sir, very easily!"
"Then why don't you, and prove it?"
"My pap's name is Jervis Whitney, and my mam's name is Elster Whitney;" and the poor little runaway choked as he pronounced the dear names.
Whereupon, as if musing on what he had just heard, the bear made that peculiar sound, which, uttered through the nose, with the lips closed, amounts to a doubtful, undecided yes: "Oo-hooh"—then a pause—"he says his pap's name is Jervis Whitney."
"Yes, sir, and my grandpap's name is JervisWhitney, too," added Sprigg, thinking that the fuller he gave his pedigree, the more satisfactory might prove his information, "and I have an uncle who goes by the name of Benjamin Whitney, who was shot through the knees at the battle of Brandywine, so that he now goes about on wooden legs."
"And the better husband for his pegs, too, I warrant you," quoth the bear, "for he will stick by his wife so long as she will stick to him."
"Yes, sir, and I have another uncle, who goes by the name of——"
"Ooh-hooh," said the bear, relapsing into his musing mood, "he has another uncle. But, Jervis Whitney—now, where did I ever hear that name? It sounds as familiar to my ear as the hum of a bee. Ooh-hooh—Jervis Whitney. Yes, yes! Now I have it! I know the man; know him like a book! It's the white hunter, whom Will-o'-the-Wisp and I fell in with one moonshiny night last week; and a very pleasant sort of a fellow we found him, too. Yes, and I gave him a pair of red moccasins for his little son. Yes, and he told me his son's name was Sprigg. All as clear as moonshine now. Sprigg!"
"Sir!" The urchin would have said "what" to pap and mam.
"A particular friend of yours sent you a pair of red moccasins one night last week—did your father deliver them to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you worn them yet?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you worn them to-day?" To which, after a pause, Sprigg owned that he had.
"Did you have them on when you left home?"
"Well, no, sir; not exactly."
"But I want it exactly—yes or no."
"Well, I was barefooted when I left the house, and wasn't barefooted when I left the spring."
"What particular place did you have in your mind, as your journey's end, when you set out from home?"
"Grandpap's house, sir."
"And did you ask permission of your father or mother, sir?"
"Yes, sir."
"And did you obtain their permission?" The bear's eyes, by this time, as sharp as gimblets; as piercing as sprig-awls. Sprigg made a long pause before answering this question; and when, at last, he did do so, he pulled out the words, as a dentist pulls out teeth—with a twist and a wince—"No, sir, I didn't."
"Did any one see you as you were taking your departure?"
"Yes, sir; mam saw me as I was climbing the fence."
"And what did your mam say to you, as you were climbing the fence?"
"She asked me where I was going with the big cedar bucket."
"And what did you tell her? Now, have a care, Sprigg! Be certain you come square up!" and the bear raised his right fore-foot paw with a warning gesture, awful to see, at the same time showing a double row of teeth, which gleamed like crooked little dirks in the moonshine.
"Oh! Please, sir, don't look at me so with your teeth! I don't like to see you look that way!" and our hero mashed up his face for a cry.
"Oh, you don't like my looks, hey! Hold your brine! You don't like my looks! Aye, and bad boys never do! Never did! So, when bad boys find fault with my looks, I just say: 'If you don't like 'em, you can lump 'em.' That's what I say. 'It's your own fault, if my looks don't please your fancy.' I say that, too. 'You see right, and I'll look right,' that's something more I say. Now, sir, out with it—straight as an arrow, plump as a bullet—what did you tell your mother, as you were climbing the fence?" And the bear again raised his right fore paw, and showed the double row of crooked little dirks.
"Oh! if you please, sir, don't look that way," said our hero, still with his face mashed up for a cry. "Please don't look at me so with your long, sharp teeth! It scares me all but into fits! My name's Sprigg!"
"And who said it wasn't?" growled the bear; and then in a mocking tone added: "Oh, he is trying to dodge me, is he? His name's Sprigg, is it? With this for a fresh start, we'll pass on again to his age, and from that to his pedigree; when he will tell us how his Brandywine uncle took to preaching, because of his wooden legs. Speaking of preachers, up comes his catechism, which, when well said, good little boys get the pat on the head and go out to play. Thus, he was going to lead us by the nose from point to point, till the point in point was clean lost sight of. No, no, my sly cub; you don't bamboozle an old bear so easily as all that. Then out with it at once, and mind how you blink it again! What did you tell your mother?"
Sprigg would have blinked it still, but when he had looked this way and that way at the bear, and down at the moccasins and up at the man in the moon, he saw that to dodge the question longer were but to hide his head, so to speak, under a fence rail, like a goose, or a pig, and fool himself into thinking he was safe. So, with a great gulp, to keep his heart down, which would come heaving up to his throat, he at last cried out:
"Oh, I told her a lie! I told her a lie!" and bursting into tears, he hid his face in his coonskin cap for shame.
The bear paused for a moment; then, in a voice quite soft and gentle for him, said:
"But you mourn in your heart for having done this thing?"
"Yes, indeed; that I do!" and the little prodigal shook from top to toe with the violence of his sobs.
"And for why?" asked the bear, in the same gentle way, only more so, almost fatherly.
"Because," sobbed the boy, "had I not done so, I should not be here now, in this dark and lonesome place, with nobody for company, nobody to give me my supper, nobody to put me to bed, nobody to—to—"
"And nobody to sing you to sleep with a hymn, hey!" put in the bear with a mocking grin, his fatherly manner gone In a twinkling. "No, no, my laddie! You are showing me the matter wrong side out, giving it to me wrong end foremost. You must mourn in your heart for the little lie you have told, before you put up such a pitiful mouth for the ills you have thereby brought upon yourself. Viewed in the right light, these ills are precisely what you deserve; precisely what you need for your own good. But come, quiet down and cheer up, and take a fresh start; go on and make a clean breast of it by telling us the whole story. You climbed the fence——"
Thus put to it, Sprigg fell to and told the whole thing, from beginning to end—all just as it had happened. Indeed, he made so clean a breast of it as to confess that he had cursed the moccasins on flinging them away in his pet of wrath. When he had ended,greatly surprised was that little sinner to find how much better he felt that, for once in his life, he had told the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The grim confessor had kept his eyes the while fixed full and hard on those of the young delinquent, without saying a word. Now he turned his head to the right, with a look as were he inquiring of him who stood in the moccasins if what they had heard were true. This look must have been answered by an affirmative nod from the head in the air, which Sprigg could not see; for, with a soft "Ooh-hooh," long drawn out, the bear bent his eyes to the ground, as if he must needs meditate awhile on what he had heard before he could fairly make up his mind what to say or do next. Thus he remained for some moments, absorbed in thought; then, looking up at Sprigg, he gravely shook his head—took several little spells of shaking it before breaking the awful silence.
"It's a bad case, Sprigg; a mighty bad case, indeed. But before we proceed any further, you may as well tell me how you like the looks of the bull and the cat and the wolf—as well as do you mine?"
"Oh, no, indeed, sir! Not half so well!" And Sprigg was perfectly sincere in the compliment. The bear improved the looks so complimented by a beaming smile of gratified vanity; and the boy could perceive that the moccasins were again agitated, as if the imp, or elf, or whatever it was that stood in them, were laughing in his sleeves.
"It is true, Sprigg," resumed the bear, with a look of bland self-satisfaction, "quite true that I have a rough coat and a rough voice, and, it may be, a rough way with me sometimes, but they who know me best can and do testify that my heart is in the right place, for all that; and that it is a truer and kinder heart than many a one that beats under wool, or fur, or even buckskin. But I am deviating and bearing rather too near upon the unpardonable. A person may sooner hope to find forgiveness for speaking ill of his neighbor than well of himself. Vice versa, he who speaks to his own discredit, as you, Sprigg, have just been doing, gains more credit thereby than were he to speak in the highest praise of another. And why? Because those who listen to such a person are sure to begin thinking of their own merits, while he is confessing his demerits; and to think of them is to discover how immense they are. This is a fact, for which we need not go one step out of our way to find an example. We have it right here. The bad account you have given of yourself had set me to thinking the better of myself. Your confession of fault, putting me in a good humor with myself, puts me also in a good humor with you. My merits, then, and your demerits are on the best of terms. In short, Sprigg, to sum it all up in a nutshell, I am not only one of the best fellows in the world, but one of the best friends you ever had, or ever shall have; which assurance,though you may doubt it now, I will prove to your entire satisfaction, even while yet the month of June is young and rosy."
"Sprigg!" The boy said, "Sir," and the bear went on: "You have been a bad boy to-day; indeed, you have been a bad boy all the days of your life. You have never yet seen that day, Sprigg—neither winter nor summer—when, eating a Christmas pie, you could put in your thumb and pull out a plum and say: 'What a good boy am I!' Yet, to be just, you are a boy of excellent parts in many ways, which encourages us to hope that we may yet be able to bring out the good that is in you, and, at the same time, bring out the evil; at any rate, crumple it up where it is, which amounts to the same. How this desirable end is to be attained is not yet quite clear to my own mind. So you will have to go home with us to-night, where you shall make the acquaintance of our cubs, who will gladly share their bed with you. And pleasant bed-fellows shall you find them, too—so soft and warm! So affectionate, too! Only you mustn't let them hug you too hard. Meanwhile, I shall consider your case, which, being a peculiar one, I shall lay before my wife, that I may have the benefit of her good advice. This she will gladly give, believe me; for there is nothing in the world that pleases a wife more than for her husband to beg the benefit of her good advice. Though I fear it is the misfortune with some husbands—I won't say howmany—to have wives so overstocked with the treasure in question that they can not wait to be called on, but must give it gratis, whether anybody wants it or not. Like giving a man a bottle of bear's grease for his hair, when his scalp is already sufficiently oily by nature; or by giving a boy a bearskin cap, when he has already a coonskin one of his own, which answers every purpose, especially if the tail is left on. These are the wives who save their husbands' grindstones from being eaten by the cows, and thereby keep their scissors sharp, to say nothing of their tongues."
"Sprigg!" said the bear, and rose from his tail.
"Sir!" said the boy, as he rose from his seat.
"Can you ride a bear?"
"I don't know, sir; I never tried it," said the boy, dubiously.
"Come, and try it now," said the bear encouragingly. But being by no means perfectly sure, even yet, of the burly monster, our hero was in no hurry to accept the invitation.
"Come and try it, I tell you!" repeated the bear in his old, gruff voice.
"You won't bite me with your long, sharp teeth, will you?" whined the boy.
"No," growled the bear.
"And you won't scratch me with your long, sharp claws?" again whined the boy.
"Scratch you with my long, sharp claws! No!" again growled the bear.
"And you won't, like the bull and the cat and the wolf, go a-jumping over there, at that steep place in the hill?" still urged the boy, though a little less whiningly.
"Do like the bull and the cat and the wolf? No!" rejoined the bear, a little less growlingly.
"And you won't kick up, and rear up and cut capers, like a horse?" The boy, by this time, not whining at all.
"Kick up, and rear up and cut capers, like a horse? No! Spur me, if I do!" And this time, so far from growling, the monster actually chuckled—so funny could he be when he tried.
"And now, having felt around on every side, you have, I hope, succeeded at last in finding out on which side of your mug your nose is, and are ready to come up and take me at my offer. And Sprigg, my boy, for once and for all—of this be assured—that so far as you trust me, so far are you safe. Perfect your trust—perfect your safety."
Sprigg was by no means of a confiding nature; people prone to lose sight of the truth never are. But on receiving this reassurance of good faith, he walked up boldly enough to the bear, who, as his young rider drew near, swayed his back to enable him, with the greatest ease, to mount.
"But I have nothing to hold myself on by," said our hero, now fairly astraddle of his strange steed, though pressing as lightly upon it as possible.
"Take a lock of my hair! If a lock of hair is good for keeping one's mind on a friend, why not as good for keeping his body there, too?" Here he chuckled a little again, then added:
"But the young human thing, brave as he is, may not have as much faith in a lock of hair as some people have, or pretend to have. So, up with you, Manitou-Echo, and give him a lock of your arms."
Whereat, fetching first a nimble flounce, the red moccasins, as if their wearer made a pivot of his head in the air, described a circular flourish aloft, and in a twinkle, there they were at the bear's flanks, each with a toe at one of our hero's naked heels. In another twinkle Sprigg felt himself clasped tightly around the waist, by what seemed to be a pair of small arms; small, but, bless me! how strong, as the boy was but too glad to discover the moment after.
"All right?" To which, receiving an affirmative kick from the moccasins, the bear, to Sprigg's dismay, made directly for the brink of that horrible steep, where the bull, the cat and the wolf had vanished. Here, on the dizzy verge, bear-like, he wheeled about, that his tail might take the lead in the descent, which he evidently meditated. The boy glanced fearfully over his shoulder. The top of the tallest trees which grew at the foot of the hill were hundreds of feet beneath him, and so directly beneath him, it seemed to him that were he to fall from the bear's back he would drop like a stone into their branches.
In one long, smooth, unbroken slide, down they swept, from summit to base of that tremendous steep. Well it was for Sprigg that the little armswhich held him on were so firm and strong, else must he inevitably have slipped from the bear's back and found his way to the world below by his own natural gravity, instead of by somebody else's super-natural power.
The descent accomplished, the bear changed ends, that his nose might take the lead. With a slightly waving motion, as were he swimming in the air, now was he gliding swiftly onward at a speed which soon brought him and his riders to the edge of a wide swamp, where the forest foliage became so thick as wholly to exclude the moonlight. Here he paused, and in a loud voice called out:
"Will-o'-the-Wisp! Will-o'-the-Wisp!" A voice so tremendously loud that it must have been heard through all the wilds around; yet never an echo it left to tell it had sounded.
Had an echo awakened, it could hardly have fallen asleep again before the boy espied approaching them swiftly through the gloom a large ball of light, which shown with a phosphorescent gleam, so dead and dim, that the luminous circle it made in the pitch-black darkness of the swamp seemed scarcely to exceed its own circumference. Without any preliminary abatement of motion, the glimmering ball, as were it a lantern borne by an unseen hand, came suddenly to a pause in the air directly before them. Then followed an odd sort of a dialogue, made up of questions on one side, with motions for answers onthe other, the wisp-light moving up and down for "yes," from side to side for "no," and for "I don't know," 'round and 'round.
Bear. "Will-o'-the-Wisp, have you lighted the robber's feet to the pit-fall?"
Wisp. Up and down.
B. "Did he swear?"
W. From side to side.
B. "Did he pray?"
W. Up and down.
B. "Will he be less of a thief for the pit-fall?"
W. 'Round and 'round.
B. "Has Friar's lantern lighted the hypocrite's feet to the quicksands?"
W. Up and down.
B. "Did he swear?"
W. Up and down.
B. "Did he pray?"
W. From side to side.
B. "Will he be the less of a scamp for the quicksands?"
W. 'Round and 'round.
B. "Has Jack-o'-Lantern lighted the bad boy's feet to the frog-pond?"
W. Up and down.
B. "Did he swear?"
W. From side to side.
B. "Did he pray?"
W. From side to side.
B. "Then he must have swum?"
W. Up and down.
B. "Will he be the less of a rogue for the frog-pond?"
W. 'Round and 'round.
The questions duly answered, and evidently to his entire satisfaction, the bear wound up the dialogue thus:
"Then, Will, lead on, over mire and clay,And when you come where the dead men lay,Hold your lantern close to the mound,That we may keep on Manitou ground."
"Then, Will, lead on, over mire and clay,And when you come where the dead men lay,Hold your lantern close to the mound,That we may keep on Manitou ground."
"Then, Will, lead on, over mire and clay,
And when you come where the dead men lay,
Hold your lantern close to the mound,
That we may keep on Manitou ground."
With Will-o'-the-Wisp now at their head, again were they speeding swiftly onward. Of their guide, Sprigg could at first see nothing, saving his big, dim lantern; but, soon chancing to look a little lower, there, directly under the light, he saw, strange to tell, a pair of red moccasins, gliding on over the tops of the rank swamp weeds, and so lightly that the long, lithe sedge, swaying to the slightest breeze, bent not under their tread. The boy glanced quickly down at his heels to reassure himself that the wispy elf had not stepped into and walked off in his own moccasins. But there they still dangled, just the same, each with a toe at one of his heels. Then flashed it upon his mind that he had not really seen his own moccasins since he had flung them from him up there on the Manitou hill; and so, for aught he or anybody else could tell, red moccasins, ifpeople could only see them, might prove to be as plentiful in the world as Yankee shoes.
How long, how far they traveled Sprigg, of course, had no means of judging; but the moon had well nigh climbed to the top of the sky, when, having left the morass far behind them, they came to the foot of another lofty mountain, where, under the shadow of a beetling cliff, yawned the rocky jaws of a huge cavern, into which Will-o'-the-Wisp led the way, his big, dim lamp beginning to brighten the moment it entered the subterranean gloom. Hardly had they crossed the threshold when Sprigg could perceive that they were descending as steeply as, but now, they had been rising. Deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain they sank; deeper and deeper into the heart of the earth; the ball of light no longer a phosphorescent gleam, but a flame of living fire. But it was not long before they had descended again to the level ground, which they traversed for some distance, then, for the first time since quitting the farther side of the swamp, came they to a pause.
Sprigg looked around him. Nothing could he see, saving the bear, the red moccasins behind him, the red moccasins before him; and just over the latter the ball of light, which was now burning with such brilliancy that the luminous hemisphere around it formed a wide and lofty dome in the solid darkness of the cavern. For some moments past he hadheard a murmuring sound, as of abundant waters rippling over a rocky bed; and filling all the air was a delectable perfume, as if flowery fields and fruitful groves must be blooming and waving not far off. By this time nothing amazed him. Nothing frightened him. He moved and felt and thought as one in a dream; and so, indeed, had it all appeared to him from the moment he had lost sight of his father, there at the old hunting camp.
"Meg of the Hills! Meg of the Hills!" So called the bear in a loud voice; very loud, indeed, yet in the tone of the voice was something which Sprigg had not before observed there, so deep and mellow and musical was it. In answer to the summons, forth into the luminous circle, from some mysterious depth of the cavern, soon came gliding a bearess, who seemed in every way a match for the bear, excepting that she was of a smoother, gentler type.
"Meg of the Hills, have all come home,From mountain climb and forest roam,From river mist and ocean foam,From moon-rise white and sun-set red,From elk-stag lair and bison bed,From panther ambush still and dread,All, all returned?"
"Meg of the Hills, have all come home,From mountain climb and forest roam,From river mist and ocean foam,From moon-rise white and sun-set red,From elk-stag lair and bison bed,From panther ambush still and dread,All, all returned?"
"Meg of the Hills, have all come home,
From mountain climb and forest roam,
From river mist and ocean foam,
From moon-rise white and sun-set red,
From elk-stag lair and bison bed,
From panther ambush still and dread,
All, all returned?"
To which the bearess answered:
"Yes all returned to Manitou den,Save those who walk by night with men.To bring the deeds in darkness done,To the dread light of the tell-tale sun."
"Yes all returned to Manitou den,Save those who walk by night with men.To bring the deeds in darkness done,To the dread light of the tell-tale sun."
"Yes all returned to Manitou den,
Save those who walk by night with men.
To bring the deeds in darkness done,
To the dread light of the tell-tale sun."
Then suddenly assuming a tone of voice as different from the former as fiddle from violin, and with a particular eye to our hero, where he still kept hisseat on his charger's back, or rather was kept there by the unlocked arms of Manitou-Echo, the bearess added:
"And you did find the little runaway, sure enough, Nick?"
"Aye, that did I, and a stiff-necked, strong-backed, hard-muzzled cub of a human thing do I find him, too! Tough! Tough!"
"Then all the accounts we have heard of him are but too true," sadly observed the bearess, whom the bear called "Meg."
"But too true!" echoed the bear, whom the bearess called "Nick."
Meg. "Is it really a fact, then, that his thoughts by day and his dreams by night are so taken up with red moccasins that he is in a fair way to make a monkey of himself?"
Nick. "Really a fact."
Meg. "A fact, too, that he had no thanks in his heart for the beautiful moccasins, which his kindest of fathers gave him one night last week?"
Nick. "A fact, too!"
Meg. "A fact, also, that his thoughts are so wrapped up in the moccasins that he has none left for his prayers?"
Nick. "A fact, also!"
Meg. "And, likewise, a fact that he sneaked off, like a spit-thief dog, when his best of mothers had told him and told him, times and times, that he ought not, and he should not?"
Nick. "Like—wise—a—fact!" slowly pulling the words, as if he could hardly find it in his heart to testify to behavior so shabby.
Meg. "But, Nick," and she looked earnestly at her lord, as if hoping that for this one time, at least, he would vary his affirmative echoes just a little, "that slip of the tongue on the fence, which Manitou-Echo reported to us—surely, now, you can't say 'yes' to that?"
But Nick said neither "no" nor "yes." He answered never a word! All mum, he hung his head, and but for the hair on his face he would have been seen to blush up to the very eyes.
Meg. "I spare you the verbal answer. I read it but too plainly in your looks. Hard is it for us poor Manitous to imagine how a boy—a Christian, human boy, who knows his catechism—could be so false to the mother that bore him! Using the very breath she gave him to tell her a lie! Then we can no longer doubt that, in addition to all, he did actually curse the red moccasins, when he spurned them from him up there on Manitou Hill. The beautiful moccasins he had so earnestly longed for, and which had been procured for him at such cost, and had borne him so bravely through wood and swamp, over hill and dale!"
Nick. "My dear, to give the round sum of the matter, it is all precisely as Manitou-Echo has reported. But, if you need additional evidence to setyour doubts at rest, know, then, that the boy himself has made a clean breast of it to me, and the two stories tally from beginning to end—tally as nicely as our two tails."
Meg. "What! Not to leave out those secret designs on—what did Manitou-Echo call them—the boy and the girl?"
Nick. "Young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant."
Meg, "Not to leave out his secret designs on young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant? The boy to lose his life for envy; the girl her senses for love—all because of the beautiful moccasins!"
Nick. "Well, well, Meg, mum's the word just there. He's human, remember, and you know they say that 'Adam's fall made fools of all;' and so, with their tails up, here they come; and, with their tails down, there they go—in that respect resembling dogs, who, in their turn, acquired the habit from their human masters. But I am deviating, and I perceive that you are wishing to make some further inquiry. What is it, my dove?"
Meg. "I was longing to ask if—what's his name?"
Nick. "Sprigg."
Meg. "If Sprigg has not manifested the deepest sorrow and repentance for what he has done to-day. Does he not mourn to think of the pain and distress which, by his most undutiful conduct, he is causing his dear father and his dear, dear mother?"
Nick. (With a sad shake of the head.) "Not with heart-grief, I fear; not with heart-grief! He mourns over the ills which he has brought upon himself by his undutiful conduct, rather than over the wrong thereof, or because of the pain and distress which it must be causing his dear mother and his dear, dear father!" And again Nick shook his head, as were it a desperate case almost beyond hope.
Meg. (With almost as hopeless a shake of the head as Nick.) "Ah, me! who would have thought it? Who could have thought it? Why, Nick, he is as bad as Robinson Crusoe, is he not?"
Nick. "Oh, worse than Robinson Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe, it is true, ran away from home against the command of his father and the prayers of his mother. But he used no deception in the matter. Robinson did not go a-sneaking off, with a lie in his mouth and his shoes in the water bucket; a-sneaking off like a spit-thief dog, to use your own expressive words. And yet, even his case was considered serious enough for a putting through on a desert island. Yes! A good deal worse than Robinson Crusoe, else no need were there of putting him through so."
Meg. "But come, now, Nick; you can't stand there and tell me that Sprigg is as bad a boy as Jack Bean-Stalk?"
Nick. "Well, no; not so bad as that. Not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk. Jack Bean-Stalk was so near the very tipping-over edge of total depravitythat I have often wondered since—in fact, wondered at the time—that it did not require a more tremendous putting-through than sliding up and down, between earth and moon, for developing such a hard case of a boy into an honest man. Perhaps, the man in the moon, while the rogue was up there, lent us a helping hand, not suffering him to come down to earth again, excepting on condition that he would thenceforth keep his shadow, as much as possible, in the sunshine; as little as possible in the moonshine; sow no more wild oats, plant no more wild beans."
Meanwhile, the subject of this moral confab remained comfortably seated upon his charger's back. The matter and the manner of the confab smacked so much of the kind he was used to, that he was beginning to feel himself quite at home, and fancied that he could have little to fear for life or limb, so long as he found himself in the company of people, with feeling so home-like in their hearts, and with words so home-like on their lips. Therefore, the more home-like grew the moralizers, the more Sprigg-like grew the subject. But, bearing in mind how sensitive he was to ridicule, you can well imagine how he winced to hear himself compared to a "spit-thief dog;" and how he squirmed to find his secret designs on young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant, which he had not openly owned to himself, thus come popping out into the tell-tale light of Will-o'-the-Wisp. The wispy lamp was now notonly burning as a living flame, but twinkling like a living eye, which winked or blinked or stared at the boy, as were it perfectly cognizant of all that was passing among them. But if it was all a dream, as Sprigg by this time was half persuaded it must be, what mattered it, though Will-o'-the-Wisp did snuff his lamp into a tell-tale brightness, for Meg of the Hills to show a "spit-thief dog" in, or for Nick of the Woods to hold up a bug-bear lie in? It was only a dream, which, coming soon to an end, should be wondered over for a moment, then forgotten. Yes, and in the like sense, so is life.
"Then, dear Nick," answered Meg at length, after they had shaken their heads for some moments in silence, "as Sprigg's case is not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk's, it is not yet too late to bring the poor, stray cub back to his milk again. But he must first be made, not only to see, but to feel and acknowledge the error of his ways before we can hope to amend them. Now, how is this to be brought about? How is this case to be treated?"
"My dear Meg, that is the very question I have been asking myself all this time, and to find the answer I must be allowed a few hours' privacy for thinking the matter over. So you and the children go to bed and leave me to my reflections, and in the morning we will hold another consultation."
So saying, the bear, with the look of one preparing himself for deep thought, and all unconsciousof what he was doing, seated himself upon his haunches. Whereat, Manitou-Echo suddenly quitted his seat, when, with a swift, sleek slide down his charger's back, plump to the ground came Sprigg, still in a sitting posture, his straddled legs as nicely adjusted to the bear's broad rump as spur to heel.
"Bless a body," cried the bear, glancing 'round at our hero, where he sat with his face all crumpled up for a cry; not that he was hurt in the least, but that Manitou-Echo and Will-o'-the-Wisp were laughing at him, as he could see (for he could not hear them) by the fantastic capers of their moccasins and by the lantern bobbing up and down. "Bless a body! But it had quite slipped my mind that the cub was on my back. There, now! Don't rub so hard, and save your brine for your sins."
"He-he-he!" laughed Manitou-Echo, now aloud.
"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Will-o'-the-Wisp.
"Ho-ho-ho!" Elfin laughter resounding now from every side. The boy looked quickly about him. To his astonishment, he found the floor of the cave, as far as the light of the bobbing lantern allowed him to see, alive, so to speak, with red moccasins, all dancing about on tip-toe, or kicking gleefully into the air.
"Hush, children, hush!" cried Meg of the Hills, in a voice of gentle remonstrance. "Do you not see how it hurts the poor boy to be laughed at? Hush, I charge you!"
The elfin laughter ceased at once. But straight, the void thus left was filled by a long, calf-like howl from our hero, who, now that he had found there some one capable of understanding what a human boy could suffer, must need give vent to his wounded feelings—laugh who would. His lamentation had not reached the modulating point, when, from the hollow depths around, there came, first, a big buzz, then a hoarse hum, and then a mumbling, rumbling, grumbling sort of a noise, which striking his ear as no empty echo, caused him to cut short his longest howl in the middle, to listen and glance about him.
"It's only a trick," drily observed the bear. "Our old house is in the habit of playing our guests, when they sing or laugh too loud."
"Or, rather a fashion," gently observed the bearess, "our old house has of reminding us when it is time we were putting our weary guests to bed. Here, Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo, show our young guest to bed, and be so courteous as to allow him the choice side, and charge the cubs not to crowd him or hug him, as he is an only child, and not accustomed to our litterish way of sleeping."
So, with Manitou-Echo on one side and Will-o'-the-Wisp on the other, the young guest was shown, in quite a stately style, to bed. The bed he found to be as nice and snug as the cleanest of leaves and grass and the most velvety of moss could make it, and was already occupied by three or four youngbears; while close beside it, ranged in a row, were three or four pairs of red moccasins. At first this circumstance struck the boy as somewhat curious, but on perceiving that Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo had kicked off their moccasins, and set them in the same row with the others, and now, in the likeness of two young bears, were lying side by side in bed, the mystery was made as clear to him as the light of Will's lamp, which still hung in the air where he had left it.
As Sprigg stood hesitating whether to turn in or not, Meg came up behind him, and with a gentle push of the nose against his back, said: "There's your bed, and there are your bedfellows. So in with you, my stout one, and make yourself comfortable." As he still hesitated, the bearess brought him a soft dab of her paw on his back with a somewhat stronger push, which left him no alternative but to turn in as he was bidden and make the best of it. Then, humming a low, lullaby sort of a tune, Meg went 'round the bed, softly pushing up and smoothing down the grass and moss, all in a motherly way, which was so like dear mam that it brought the tears to the lost boy's eyes—the softest, the sweetest tears he had ever shed. He would fain have kept them back, but in spite of all he could do they would come stealing out and trickling down. But Meg was glad to see them, hailing them as precious indications that, hard as he seemed, there was still enough of humanaffection in his nature to encourage the hope that he might be easily won over to the side of love and truth.
With the blossom-like odors and the water-like murmurs still in the air around him, the little castaway was dropping off to sleep, when that voice, so like his mother's, which he had heard on the hill at twilight, came again to his ear, repeating the same words: "You have but too much need of rest! Then, sleep, poor child, sleep!"
It was the hour when good boys, with cheerful hearts and innocent thoughts, are wont to rise to the cheerful duties and innocent pleasures of the day, that Sprigg was awakened from a sweet dream of home by a voice close beside him, which came to him like his mother's gentle morning call. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing, save a dense, red mist, bright and luminous, yet as impenetrable to sight as the blackest darkness. But when, on reaching out his hand, he had felt the moss and grass of the bed he lay on, and the hairy coats of the bears he lay with, then knew he but too well that his sweet thoughts of home—his mother's gentle morning call, his father's jolly laugh, and Pow-wow's loud, heroic bark—were all an empty dream. And yet, hardly more assured was he that what his senses were insisting on telling him were not things just as empty and unsubstantial.
What the voice was saying when it woke him, the boy could not recall, but it left a feeling in his heart as if pitying tenderness had been the burden of the words it had spoken. Tones were still lingering in his ear, and with effect so soothing that he shouldprobably have fallen asleep again; but in answer to it he heard another voice, so abrupt and stern that he started up wide awake, and, in an instant, was all attention. What passed between the invisible speakers, whom we shall distinguish as the "Stern Voice" and the "Soft Voice," ran, word for word, as follows:
Stern Voice. "He must run the Manitou race."
Soft Voice. "Is that terrible ordeal his only chance?"
Stern Voice. "It is. Though so young, his heart is already so proud and deceitful and hard that we must all but break it, to bring it to the good for which it is destined, and of which it is capable."
Soft Voice. "But he can hardly as yet have strayed so far from good as to need so severe an experience for bringing him back. There were tears on his face last night when he fell asleep—soft, sweet tears—and there are fresh ones upon it now. May not these plead for him?"
Stern Voice. "True, there is something of human affection in these tears. But apart from this, they are shed, not in contrition for the sinfulness of his course, but in grief for the pitiful plight to which it has brought him. Being the tears of self-pity, and not of repentance, they are not the kind to divert us from our fixed purpose—that purpose, our highest duty."
Soft Voice. "But, then, he is so young yet!"
Stern Voice. "But, then, he is so bad already!"
Soft Voice. "But, bethink you, how much it lacks of being wholly his own fault? Indeed, he is scarcely at all responsible for being what he is, and it seems hard that he should be made to suffer for the folly of others."
Stern Voice. "That is very true; and just there is represented to us a mystery, not ours to fathom! We are the Manitous of the Great Spirit, and what he bids be done, he bids uncounseled, and would have done unquestioned. They, who reared this boy to be the false young self we find him, should and shall be made to suffer, also; and even more than he, though the fond love and the indulgent kindness with which they have spoiled him, and thereby wronged him, be never so tender and unselfish. Having so erred, they must be made to feel the consequences of their error, to be made sensible of its sinfulness; and thus, through suffering, brought to a knowledge of the duty they owe their maker, their offspring and themselves. So, then, what we propose doing, or, rather, what we are charged to execute, shall redound to their good no less than his."
Soft Voice. "But may we not postpone the trial for a season, till he be stronger to endure it?"
Stern Voice. "Then shall he have but the more to endure and the less to be hoped for. Thus, 'by and by,' might be too late, when 'now' is none too soon; and the hope of to-day becomes, by postponement, the despair of to-morrow. Last night wemarked him well, and perceived that our running commentary upon the evil of his way, with the gentle rebukes couched in them, had little or no other effect upon him than to make him feel at home and easy in his strange position. And yet he could set up the pitiful howl at being ridiculed, as were it the worst, grievous injury that a human boy could be made to suffer. Yes, his heart is so proud and deceitful and hard that we must all but break it, to bring it to its better nature."
Soft Voice. "Oh, Nick of the Woods; but you are stern! So stern!"
Stern Voice. "But, Meg of the Hills, you are merciful! So merciful! Your mercifulness and my sternness temper each other, and the result being justice, makes the mission we are pointed to fulfill a labor both of use and love. You plead for postponement. This indulgence, without some sign of repentance on his part, we can not show the culprit. Yet, to satisfy you, I will give him one more chance of exhibiting his repentance, should there be any in his heart. I will tempt him once more with the red moccasins. Should he manifest no disposition to renew his acquaintance with them, then but too gladly will I defer his day of reckoning, according to your desire. Or, even should he show the least sign of diminished affection for them, diminished and just in that proportion shall be the severity of his punishment. On the other hand, should it appear that, inspite of the wholesome lesson his yesterday's experience should have taught him, he would still take pride and pleasure in the red vanities, to the exclusion of better thoughts and things, then there is nothing left for it but to put him through at once; no alternative but the Manitou race."
Soft Voice. "Well, well! So be it! But I greatly fear the test shall prove too severe for the virtue of the poor, vain boy. He has a lively fancy, and the moccasins are very beautiful; their glitter and gleam would dazzle—have dazzled older eyes than his! Yes, so be it! And, after all, why deplore it? For——