CHAPTER XII.
THE "CHICHAGOFF DECADE."
"We have two whole days before us," said Kittie the next morning, asshe promenaded up and down the deck with Fred, "and the steamer isgoing right over the same path we took in coming. Can't we get upsomething new so as to have some fun?"
"We might have charades, or tableaux," suggested Fred. "But we shouldhave to stay below, getting ready for them."
"And we've had 'em all before," interpolated Tom, who was stretched outat his ease in a steamer chair.
"It's going to be pretty foggy, I'm afraid," said Randolph, joiningthe group. "They say that will delay us, for we shall have to runhalf-speed, or stop altogether. Do you see how thick it begins to lookahead?"
They had left Sitka in the early morning, and had only Juneau to touchat--probably in the night--before reaching the coaling station ofNanaimo, on Vancouver's Island.
"Why don't you get up a paper?" suggested Mr. Percival. "That's whatArctic explorers do, I believe, when they are frozen in for the winter."
"Good, good!" cried Pet. "And everybody in our party mustcontribute--except me!"
There was a laugh at this, and Kittie, seizing her friend around thewaist, gave her a little impromptu waltz which set her hair flying andeyes dancing more merrily than ever.
"What shall we call it?" was the next question.
"'The Alaskan Herald.'"
"'The Northern Light.'"
"'The Illustrated Totem Pole'"--this from the wounded warrior in thechair.
All these names being rejected, they decided to leave the choice ofnames to the editor, to which position Mr. Selborne was unanimouslychosen.
"All contributions," he announced, "must be in my hands at five o'clockthis afternoon. The paper will then be put to press, and will be readaloud at precisely eight o'clock, on deck, in front of Stateroom 2 (Mr.Percival's), if the weather permits; if not, in a corner of the lowercabin, after the supper table has been cleared."
All that day the literary circle thus suddenly formed were hard at workat their manuscripts; and many were the gales of laughter in which thegirls indulged, as they compared notes from time to time. The editor,it should be said, had laid down the rule that any contribution mightbe in verse or prose, but if the latter, it should not contain overtwelve hundred words.
One by one in the course of the afternoon, the manuscripts, signedby fictitious names, were dropped into a box provided by the editor,who was busy, meanwhile, not only with his own contribution, but inarranging an artistic heading for the sheet which was to form the firstpage of the paper. He had also furnished all the aspiring authorsand authoresses with sermon paper of uniform size, so that the wholecollection might afterward be bound together, if desired.
Evening came at last, and to the gratification of all concerned,the fog lifted, so that there was a bright sunset, which wouldrender out-of-doors reading easy until after ten o'clock. The partyaccordingly met at the appointed spot on deck, having kept their plan aprofound secret among themselves, so as not to have strangers presentat the reading.
Mrs. Percival sat just within the door of her stateroom, while therest grouped themselves outside in various comfortable attitudes. Theeditor, with a formidable-looking flat package in his hand, took hisposition on the seat by the rail, where the light was favorable forreading.
"I will first," he said, "pass round the title page of this uniqueperiodical, merely premising that its simple and musical title wassuggested in part by the name of the island, the wood-clad shores ofwhich we were passing when the idea of the paper was first promulgated."
The title sheet was accordingly inspected and praised, with shouts oflaughter, by the circle of authors. Fortunately it has been preserved,and can be given here in fac-simile, just as it came from the hand ofRossiter and of his sister, who, he admitted, had helped him by drawingthe lifelike designs with which it was embellished.
The title chosen, as you see, was the "Tri-Weekly Chichagoff Decade."
"Why 'Tri-Weekly'?" asked Pet and Mr. Percival together.
"Because," replied Mr. Selborne, in his gravest tones, "it has greatlyinterested your editor to see you all _try weakly_ to produce"--
The rest of the sentence was drowned in a chorus of outcries andlaughter.
"But," persisted Mr. Percival, "do you expect to sail these watersagain, in just ten years from now? Else, why is it the 'Decade'?"
"Oh! that, sir, merely indicates that it is a _deck aid_ tocheerfulness."
Here Tom collapsed and fell over upon Randolph, murmuring that it wasenough to give a _weakly-chick-a-cough_ to hear such puns. But suchill-timed levity was promptly suppressed.
Mr. Selborne now squared his shoulders, and opened the reading with ashort editorial, which he called his
SALUTATORY.
It is seldom that an editor finds himself in the position of one whogreets his friends with one hand and bids them farewell with theother; who combines, as it were, his welcoming and his parting bow;who enters the room and backs out of it simultaneously; who, in short,is obliged to write at one and the same moment, his Salutatory andValedictory.
Such is the novel and mildly exciting task of the present incumbent ofthe editorial chair of the "Decade." We greet most heartily the hostof subscribers who are sure to flock to its standard; and we beg toassure them of the integrity of its aims, and the sound financial basisof this enterprise. We pledge ourselves to endeavor, at any cost, tomaintain the high standard we have set up, and so long as the "Decade"is published, to suffer no unworthy line to disgrace its fair pages.
At the same time we feel obliged to give notice that this is the lastissue of the paper. Circumstances over which we have no control compelthe proprietors to suspend its publication. The editor, in resigninghis position, wishes to express his deep sense of the obligation underwhich his readers have placed him, in the universal and constantsupport they have given him and his assistants, from the very inceptionof the enterprise, and the kindly criticism with which he has alwaysbeen favored.
* * * * *
The editorial was received with a round of subdued applause, whichsubsided the more quickly that the little circle around the reader sawcurious eyes cast in their direction, and an evident inclination on thepart of other passengers to share in the fun, which was, however, oftoo personal a nature to admit a general public.
"The opening piece," remarked Mr. Selborne, "is contributed by a notedhistorian, who of late seems to have given his most serious attentionto verse. I am glad to have the opportunity of laying before you thisexquisite production, which gives an accurate review of our travelsthus far, and, as the dullest reader must admit" ("Don't look at me!"put in Tom), "blends instruction with poetry with the most delightfulresult. The poem is entitled--with no reference, I believe, to thefarming interests of the Territories--
WESTWARD, HO!
AN HISTORICO-POETICAL REVIEW.
BY HERODOTUS KEATS MACAULAY, A. E.
"What does 'A. E.' stand for?" asked Mrs. Percival.
"'Animated Excursionist,' I presume, ma'am."
READING THE "CHICHAGOFF DECADE."]
"Alaskan Editor," "Expatriated Amateur," and various other suggestionswere kindly offered by the boys, but were frowned down by the oldermembers, who now called for the poem itself.
"One bright summer morning in early July Our party assembled in Boston, to try Of travels abroad an entirely new version Afforded by Raymond & Whitcomb's Excursion."
"Hold on!" shouted Tom, who was privileged by his lameness. "That's anad. Herodotus Keats wants a free ticket next year. Who is he, I wonder?"
"Thomas," remarked Fred, eying him severely through his glasses, "don'tdisplay your ignorance of the great authors, nor interrupt with ribaldcomments. Go on, please, Mr. Selborne."
"I know now, any way," muttered the Irrepressible. The editor paid nofurther attention to him, but resumed the r
eading:
"The train was on hand in a place you all know well, The Causeway Street depot marked "Boston & Lowell"; It started, and cheers rose above lamentation As, waving our hands, we rolled out of the station. The daisies were white in the fields around Boston, Like meadows in autumn with garments of frost on; And fair were the skies over Merrimac's stream, As onward, still onward, with rattle and scream, We flew o'er the rails ever faster and faster, With never a thought of impending disaster."
"But there wasn't any disaster--unless the historian foresaw, in hisprophetic soul, a certain bear"--
"Oh! let up, Ran. That's poetical license. Macaulay couldn't findanything else to rhyme with 'faster.'"
"Arriving at Weirs, on Lake Winnepesaukee, Our iron steed stopped, and became sort of balky, Backed, snorted and started again with such speed That some of us nearly 'got left' then, indeed! At the Pemigewasset we halted to dine, Then northward we sped to the Canada line, Where Thomas was homesick until pretty soon he Began to sing sadly of dear 'Annie Rooney.' In Montreal all the attractions were seen; We dizzily whirled down the falls of Lachine Till we hardly knew whether 'twas Memphremagog or The turbulent rapids of far Caugnawauga."
"Oh!" groaned Tom.
"And now came the splendid Canadian Pacific-- Through scenes now sublime, now tame, now terrific, Past forests of fir, and along the wild shore And storm-beaten crags of Lake Sup-e-ri-or.
There was such an outcry at this that the captain, who was facing thebridge, looked back to see what was the matter.
"All right, Captain," sung out Randolph. "No iceberg in sight--only aqueer kind of ore."
"I'm glad it isn't mine," remarked Tom.
"The Winnepeg grasshoppers followed Miss Bess Entangling themselves in each silken tress, Nor struggled for freedom, for when they were caught They thought them but meshes the sunbeams had wrought.
"We halted at Banff, where the Bow and the Spray Come leaping from cradles of snow far away; And joining white hands, the bridegroom and bride Glide silently down toward the sea side by side.
"Again we have entered our palace on wheels, And cry out anew, 'How homelike it feels!' The 'Nepigon' broad and the stately 'Toronto' We can never forget, not e'en if we want to; Nor 'Calgary' sturdy, and fair 'Missanabie'; But nearest our hearts, there can no better car be Throughout the whole world, whatever befall, Than faithful old 'Kamloops,' the dearest of all.
"At Glacier we saw the great river of ice, And a bear almost ate up a boy in a trice; While one of the girls gave her poor little ankle A twist and a wrench, whose twinges still rankle! At last we arrive at our long journey's end; The continent crossed, at Vancouver we send One glance of regret and a farewell combined O'er the car we are leaving forever behind.
"At our next stopping place we had to try hard To pronounce the name of our hotel 'Dri-ard'; Victoria's awfully English, you know, And nothing that's 'Yankee' was found high or low, Except our excursionists, everywhere seen Until they embarked, northward bound, on the _Queen_. We sailed and we sailed, through channels and reaches, Past wild, rocky shores and verdure-clad beeches, Until we emerged from the tortuous tangle And moored at the dreary old wharf of Fort Wrangell, Where many a totem pole reared its proud head, Once gorgeous in trappings of sable and red.
"At Juneau we halted--ah! how can I tell Of all the adventures that shortly befell Two hunters, who started out boldly to kill Any sort of a beast that roamed on the hill. Their perils and hardships, when distant from Juneau And lost in the woods, I am sure that you do know Enough that on meeting the enemy there, _Venerunt, viderunt, vicerunt_--a bear!
"Since then our startling events have been fewer; We've mounted the glacier that's named after Muir, And trembled to see its blue pinnacles fall In fragments before us, like Jericho's wall. We saw all we could in the fair town of Sitka, But could not go far for want of a fit car, And now we're sailing o'er Frederick's Sound, On board the good _Queen_ safe and well, Homeward bound!"
The applause which followed this effusion was tremendous. It wassuggested that the last half of the journey had been rather slighted;but Mr. Selborne explained that he had it direct from the author thatthis disproportionate treatment was caused by lack of time in which tofill out the poem as originally sketched.
"The next piece," he continued, "was in the nature of an epic. It wascertainly personal in its bearings; but so was every epic, and too muchdelicacy in an editor always results in an insipid periodical."
The curiosity of his auditors having been thus aroused, he gravely read:
THE BEAR-HUNTER'S FATE.
BY AN OLD SUBSCRIBER.
Tom, Tom, the valiant one, Shot a bear and away he run; The bear was fleet, Poor Tom was beat, And Bruin stepped upon his feet.
"Is that what Kittie manes by my 'fate'?" shouted Tom, laughinggood-naturedly with the rest. "Sure I knew something was brewin' when Isaw her writing!"
"The contribution I have now to read," said the editor, as soon assilence was restored, "is accompanied with an apology from the author,stating that for lack of original material he has drawn largely uponsuch printed sources as were at his command, in giving you a briefaccount of
MYSTERIOUS ALASKA.
BY DARWIN FITZ-AGASSIZ THOMPSON.
The interior of Alaska is at present one of the few remaining habitablespots on the surface of the globe, which remain practically unexploredby the white man.
A few years ago Central Africa held this distinction, but Speke,Grant, Du Chaillu, Livingstone, Stanley, and dozens of others have nowpenetrated those somber jungles, the land of mystery, the fabled abodeof hideous monsters, giants and dwarfs, and soon a transcontinentalrailroad will connect Zanzibar with Stanley Pool and the mouth of theCongo.
Within half a dozen years, Alaska has been similarly assailed, and atthis very moment there are bands of intrepid men camping here and therein that lonely interior, and calling upon the hitherto impenetrableforests and desolate tundras to deliver up the secrets they have heldfor untold ages.
Doubtless many wonderful discoveries await these explorers and theirsuccessors. New plants will be found, mountains of precious ore, a vastwealth of timber and water-power, and, it may be, strange creatureshitherto unknown to science.
It is believed by many that the mastodon, whose skeleton rears itselfhigh above the elephant's, in our museums, is not entirely extinct,but actually roams the tangled thickets of inner Alaska. It is statedthat Professor John Muir himself lends countenance to this belief,asserting that he has seen the bones of these mighty animals, with thefresh flesh adhering to them. Certain it is that the great, curvedtusks of the mammoth (as it is sometimes called) are found all over thesouthwestern slope of Africa, and that natives report encounters withhuge living animals with similar tusks.
An animal which is unnamed, save by the coast hunters hereabouts, isthe "Mt. St. Elias bear," such as was shot by members of our party lastweek.
The head is very broad, and the fur a silvery gray. The skin is highlyprized, not only for its rarity, but for its beauty, and Indians havebeen known to refuse a hundred dollars for one. They sometimes hang upsuch a skin in front of the "big house" of their village, as a talismanto aid them in future hunting, such is its magic power.
Within a few years the American bison, once so familiar in allstories of Western adventure, has become almost wholly extinct. A fewindividuals are said to lurk in the meadows and high tablelands ofAlaska; but soon they must rank with the mastodon.
I have had time to but touch upon the mysteries of our greatNorthwestern Territories. Little by little its marvels, its wealth,its beauties will unfold to modern research, and the schoolboy ofa generation hence will look back with incredulous wonder upon themaps, the charts and the scientific works upon Alaska that alone areavailable to-day.
* * * * *
"I know who wrote that," said Randolph, looking meaningly at the e
ditor.
The latter, however, took no notice of the implication, and, turningover the next sheet in the pile, read aloud the following poem, whichwas unsigned:
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Only a bird on a bough of fir-- Look, can you see his feathers stir, And hear his wee notes, soft and low, Echoes of songs of long ago?
I am not bearing my cross, you see, For the cross itself is bearing me. When birds are frightened, or suffer loss, Alone in the darkness, they fly to a cross, And never are heard to moan, "I must," But always twitter, "I trust! I trust!" For not a fluttering sparrow can fall But into His hand, who loveth all.
Lord, hear thy children while they pray, Make us thy sparrows this Christmas Day.
"Bessie wrote that," whispered Pet, glancing at the little Captain, whodid not deny the authorship, but smiled a little as she nestled closerto her father's side.
"While I am reading verse," remarked Mr. Selborne, "I may as well read,though a little out of course, another short poem about sparrows.
SPARROWS.
From the orchard, sweet with blossoms, From the waving meadow-grasses, From the heated, dusty pavement Where a tired city passes,
Rise the happy sparrow-voices, Chirps and trills, and songs of gladness-- Bits of sunshine, changed to music, Brightening, scattering clouds of sadness.
At the first fair flush of dawning, At the twilight's last faint shining, Sparrows sing, through storm and darkness, Never doubting nor repining.
Fluttering to and fro, wherever Faith is fainting, life is dreary, Bear they each his little message To the hopeless and the weary:
"Sparrows trust their Heavenly Father; Centuries ago he told us We should never fall unheeded; In his love He would enfold us.
"So we cast our care upon Him, Never fearing for to-morrow; And we're sent by Him to help you, When your sky is dark with sorrow."
"I think the assistant editor knows who wrote that," said Mr. Percival,glancing toward Adelaide with a smile. "Mr. Selborne, it is gettingrather late. How many more articles have you in the----?"
"Three, sir; and one of them is very short, being a four-line poem orquatrain. Shall I read it now?"
"If you please."
"This poem is printed so neatly that the writer has evidently spent asmuch time upon it as the producers of some of the longer pieces," theeditor remarked, holding the sheet for all to see.
EXCELSIOR.
BY A. M. ATEUR.
'Tis said that in life the most exquisite rapture Lies not in possession, but striving to capture. Be sure that the proudest success is in vain That helps not a loftier conquest to gain.
"Very well, Tom," said Fred Seacomb approvingly. "The sentiment doesyou credit, my son. I recognize the authorship, however, by the styleof print rather than the high moral tone of the poem."
Tom laughed with the rest, and to cover his retreat called for the nextpiece, which he knew must be by Pet, as every one else but Mr. Percivalwas accounted for; and his was pretty sure to be a story.
Mr. Selborne's voice became very gentle as he read the story of
THE THREE WISHES.
"O, dear! I wish I were a tall palm-tree on the borders of a desert,where caravans and missionaries and pilgrims would rest in my shade.Then I should really be of some use in the world." That is what thePine said.
"O, dear! I wish I lived away up on a mountain-top, where the windalways blows cold and clear, and the snows lie deep in winter. Peoplewould come from far countries to visit the mountain, and I would be aguide by the way. Then I should really be of some use in the world."That is what the Palm said.
"O, dear! I wish I were a palm-tree down in the valley, where birdsmight build their nests in my boughs, and artists would make beautifulpictures of me. Then I should really be of some use in the world." Thatis what the little stunted Fir said, on the mountain-top.
Days and weeks came and went. The Pine waited impatiently, and rustledall its branches in the autumn winds, and let fall its brown needles,until a thick carpet of them lay about its trunk on the mossy ground.And out from the moss peeped a few rough green leaves. The Pinenoticed that they were shivering in the November wind, and pityinglydropped a few more needles around them.
When the storms of winter came, it stretched its broad, evergreenboughs above the leaves, and sheltered them with its shaggy trunk.
The long, cold months passed at last, and it was spring. Still the Pinegrieved and sighed because it could be of no use in the world.
To be sure it had protected the timid, furry leaves so well that theyhad lived, and now bore in their midst a cluster of small pink blossoms.
Just before sunset a man with coarse, roughened features and a bad lookin his face, came and threw himself down on the ground beneath thePine. His fists were clenched, for he was very angry about something,and, although the Pine never knew it, he was being tempted to aterrible crime.
As the man lay there thinking evil thoughts, and almost making up hismind to the wicked deed, he caught a breath of fragrance which made himfor a moment forget his anger.
It reminded him of home, of his boyhood, of a wee sister with blueeyes and waving golden hair, with whom he used to wander into thepine-woods near the old farmhouse and gather flowers.
He looked about him, and his eye fell upon the pink flowers.
"Mayflowers!" he murmured half-aloud. And stretching out his hand hegathered them and held their pure, sweet faces up to his own.
The fierce look left his eyes, and a strange moisture came instead.His lips quivered. He was thinking now of his mother. She had left herchildren for a far country while they were still tiny creatures. Buthe could remember her face as she lay in the darkened room, resting sopeacefully.
And some one--was it the little blue-eyed sister?--had placed a bunchof Mayflowers--
The man rose, and placing a small green spray of pine with theblossoms, carried them away in his big rough hand.
And the wicked deed was never done.
The Palm sheltered many weary travelers; but the greatest good it didwas after it died.
One day a stranger arrived and cut the tall tree down. From its broadleaves a hundred fans were made, and many were the fevered, throbbingbrows that were cooled by the Palm as its leaves, now hundreds ofleagues apart, waved to and fro above the sufferers. So the Palm,although it never knew it, was permitted to do the work of the Master,refreshing and healing those who were sick with all manner of diseases.
As to the Fir, it tried to keep a brave heart, but it became more andmore discouraged as not only months but years rolled by, and it grew nobigger, and could not see that it was of any use in the world.
"So homely am I, too!" it whispered to itself, glancing down at itslittle thick, gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.
Its only comfort was in giving a shelter to such small birds, and eveninsects, as were blown about on these heights by the fierce mountaintempests. Once it had a whole night of real joy, when a white rabbit,caught by the storm miles away from home, crouched under its boughs andlay there snugly, a warm, sleepy ball of white fur, till the sun calledit home in the morning.
"_O, Schwesterchen, seh 'auf! 'S ist ein Tannenbaum!_"
Of course all firs understand German, and our little friend knew thechild said, "O, little sister, look here! It's a fir-tree!"
The next word it heard filled it with delight. It was the girl whospoke this time, hardly above her breath, "_Weihnachtsbaum!_" which wasonly a queer way of saying, "Christmas-tree!"
They were, in fact, the children of a German peasant, who lived in asmall hut far down the mountain-side.
The Fir did not know it, but in reality the peasant had beenunfortunate of late, and had grown so cross and surly that he declaredhe would have no Christmas in his house that year. And Hans andGretchen had wandered away mournfully on the mountain-side to talk itover.
The Fir was so glad they talked German! If it had been Frenc
h, now, Idon't believe it could have understood them at all.
"It is such a little one!" said Hans.
"And it has such lovely crosses at the end of its boughs!" saidGretchen.
(The Fir never knew before that it had crosses. But there they were,sure enough.)
"Let's cut it down and try," said both together.
So Hans swung his small ax sturdily, and down came the tree. That is,it was too short to fall. It just tipped over on its side a little.
Well, to make the story short, the Fir was carried down and decked outin such simple ways as they could provide without spending any money.
When the peasant saw it for the first time on Christmas Eve--they hadkept it for a surprise--he clapped his hands with delight, in spite ofall his surliness. And that night, for the first time for many weeks,he brought out the old leather-covered Bible and read a chapter beforebed-time.
And what chapter was it?
Why, the story of the first Christmas Eve, when Christ was born inBethlehem.
* * * * *
As there was now but one article left, all knew that it must be Mr.Percival's.
They therefore composed themselves to listen with much interest to thestory entitled
GETTING SQUARE WITH HIM.
BY THE OLDEST INHABITANT.
"Let that girl alone!"
The speaker was a tall, slightly-built boy of perhaps sixteen. Hiseyes flashed, and his fists clenched nervously.
"Let that girl alone, I say, or"--
"Well, or what?" sneered a coarse-looking fellow, some two or threeyears older than the first. "You needn't think you own this town,Winthrop Ayre, if you did come from Boston!" And he once more advancedtoward a neatly-dressed girl, who was timidly cowering in a corner by astone wall and a high fence, to avoid the touch of her rough tormentor.The latter was supported by two more of his kind, and all three wereevidently trying to frighten her by their fierce looks and rude words.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mort Lapham!" exclaimed Winthropindignantly, placing himself directly in front of the frightened girl."Deacon Lapham's son might be in better business than insulting girlsin the street."
"So you want to put your finger in the pie, do you? Here, fellows,let's give him a lesson!"
Winthrop noticed that the attention of all three was now upon himalone, and motioned to the girl to run. She moved slowly a few stepsdown the street, and then stopped. Meanwhile the big bully raised hishand and tried to slap the city boy in the face. Winthrop warded offthe blow easily, and retreated into the corner where the girl had been."You'd better keep away, Mort," he said quietly, though his cheekswere hot; "and you, too, Dick and Phil. I don't want to fight, and nowyou've let the girl go, there's nothing to fight about, that I know of."
"Coward!" cried Mort, enraged at missing his blow. "Don't you wish youhad your Sunday-school teacher here to take care of you! She wouldn'tlet any one hurt you, would she, Sonny?"
The color in Winthrop's face deepened, but he said nothing. He wasrapidly turning over the question in his mind, whether Miss Kingsburywould want him to turn his cheek if three boys struck him at once.
A tingling blow on that exact spot put to flight his meditations. Hisfist drew back impulsively, but he would not strike yet. He was insplendid training, this boy, and still stood entirely on the defense,knowing that the true hero is not he who fights for himself, like abrute creature, but for somebody else.
"Coward!" hissed Mort Lapham once more, cautiously keeping out ofreach of the other's arm. "Hit him again, Phil!"
As the three closed about him, a determined look in their ugly faces,the girl who had lingered irresolutely at a few paces distance, gavea low cry for help, and rushed up to the group as if to protect herprotector.
"Take that!" shouted Mort, throwing out his hand and striking her,perhaps harder than he really meant to, full in the face.
Before he had time to see the effect of his blow, there was a crashbetween his eyes, and the earth seemed suddenly flying up into the sky.As he lay on the ground half-stunned, Winthrop, who felt that it wasat last time to act, turned fiercely on his other opponents. Surprisedby the suddenness of his attack, they forgot the superiority of theirnumbers, and started backwards. Another nervous blow from the slenderyoung athlete, and Phil was on his back beside his leader, while DickStanwood, tripping over a stone--purposely or not the boys neverknew--went down ingloriously with the rest. Above them stood youngAyre, like Saint Michael over his enemies, panting and glowing.
"Oh! are you hurt?" asked the girl, hurrying up to "Saint Michael," andlaying her hand on his arm.
Winthrop laughed. "Well, I'm able to walk," he said reassuringly. Then:"Let's leave these rascals to come to their senses. May I see you home?"
The girl flushed prettily in her eagerness. "You are so kind," shesaid. "I live just the other side of that hill, and if you'll come in afew minutes and see grandpa, I'll be very much obliged."
"But your forehead," added Winthrop, as they walked along the dustyroad side by side, leaving their three late assailants to sneak offin the opposite direction; "I'm afraid that fellow hurt you, though Idon't believe he meant to strike you so hard."
"Oh! it isn't much. I haven't told you who I am," she added shyly. "Iknow about you and your sister Marie, over at the Elms. Your Uncle Ayreand my grandfather are dear friends."
"Then you must be 'Puss' Rowan!"
"Yes," she laughed; "though it's rather saucy for you to say it. Myreal name is Cecilia."
"Excuse me, Miss Cecilia."
"O, dear me! Don't call me that, or I shall think you are speakingto somebody else. 'Puss' I've always been, and 'Puss' I must be, Isuppose!" And she gave a comical little sigh, ending in another rippleof laughter, which was very pleasant to hear.
"Yes," she went on, more soberly, "I've heard how your sister was ill,and you brought her here for her health, to stay all summer. May I comeand see her? She's just about my age, grandpa says."
"Do! It will do her good, I'm sure," replied Winthrop warmly, glancingat his companion's pretty face and sunny curls.
Puss blushed a little, and suddenly became very demure. "Here'sgrandpa's, where I live," she said, pausing before an old,gambrel-roofed house. "Won't you come in?"
All the houses in Taconic were pleasant inside and out. This one lookedparticularly so.
"Thank you; just for a minute," said Winthrop, walking up with Pussbetween two rows of lilac bushes. The girl led him into a cool,old-fashioned parlor, which had shells on the mantel-piece, and great,irregular beams in the ceiling.
Mr. Rowan, a silvery-haired gentleman, with much stately dignity andkindly manner, soon entered, and talked pleasantly with the boy, of hisuncle's younger days and Winthrop's own affairs. Altogether a half-hourpassed very quickly, and Winthrop was sorry to feel obliged to take hisleave.
Puss went down to the gate with him.
"Be sure to tell your sister I am coming to-morrow," she said. "Andyou'll call again here yourself, won't you? I shall not soon forget howyou took care of me!"
Winthrop drew himself up and lifted his hat in elegant city fashion;which, however, only made Puss laugh and shake her curls.
"It's no use to be the least bit dignified with me," she said merrily,"for I don't know what to do back. We just shake hands, here in thecountry, and say good-by."
"Good-by," said Winthrop, taking her little brown hand with mocksolemnity.
"Good-by," laughed Puss, "that's better. Don't forget your message!"
As Winthrop walked rapidly toward his uncle's house, he went over andover the exciting events of the afternoon. He had only arrived about aweek before, but he had already come in contact with the three boys whohad been amusing themselves by rudely teasing Miss Cecilia Rowan, thegentlest and prettiest girl in the village. They were notorious, he hadsoon found, for their ill-behavior and rough manners, and had even beensuspected of certain petty thefts in the neighborhood. Winthrop couldnot help fee
ling that he should hear from them again.
The meeting between his sister and Puss Rowan took place the verynext day, and the two girls were almost immediately warm friends. AsWinthrop had predicted, Puss's bright face and winsome ways won theheart of the pale city maiden at once, and "did her good," too.
One or two pleasant afternoons they passed together, and severaldelightful trips were planned. One of these was a small lunch party,to a favorite spot for the village young folks, called "Willow Brook."It was about four miles from Taconic Corner, and the road to it laythrough deep woods, adding an enjoyable drive to and fro, to thepleasures of the day.
Willow Brook is a noisy little stream that comes dancing down from aspur of the White Mountains, finding its way through a heavy growth ofspruce and fir, over half a dozen granite ledges, and so onward untilit reaches the upper Taconic meadows, where it suddenly becomes demureand quiet; but, nevertheless, is all dimples when the wind whispers toit through the sedges, or teases for a romp under the shadow of thebirch-trees that line its bank here and there. At length it reaches asmall picturesque valley, where the hills, though by no means lofty,perhaps remind it of its mountain childhood; for there it pauses, andholds in its bosom the pictures of the gently rising uplands, withtheir peacefully browsing flocks of lambs--and gathers white lilies,and so rests a while from its journey. At times, it is true, a dimpleof the old-time fun, or an anxious shadow as it hears the roar ofmachinery and busy life beyond, hides the treasured secrets of itsheart, but as the ruffled brow smooths, you can see again in thosequiet depths, lambs, lilies, fleecy clouds, alike snowy white andbeautiful.
The mill had stood at the foot of "Lily Pond," where the road crossedthe stream, nobody knows how long. There was an old-fashioned dam,built of a few logs and a good deal of earth and rock, now overgrownwith grass and bushes up to the very sluiceway of the mill. Thewaste-board, over which the water flowed in a thin, glistening sheetin the early spring when the pond was high, was scarcely more than tenfeet long. About a hundred feet further down the stream was a shadygrove of willows and other trees, growing down close to the water'sedge. Toward this spot Winthrop with his sister, Puss and her fatherrode merrily enough that hot July day. Mr. Rowan did not go down tothe grove at once, but, having let the young people jump out withtheir baskets at the Lily Pond Bridge, drove on to a neighbor's totransact some business, promising to join the party at lunch a half anhour later. Winthrop assisted his sister carefully down over a steepembankment to the willows, Puss springing ahead and calling to hercompanions that she had found "a lovely place right beside the water."
Baskets and shawls were soon safely stowed away, and Winthrop, with thehelp of the girls, arranged a sort of shelter of boughs. When a smallfire had been kindled on a flat rock just in front, Puss laughed withdelight, and Marie's delicate face showed a glow of healthy pleasure,which her brother noted with quiet satisfaction. Plainly Taconic lifewas bringing the frail invalid back to strength and health.
Leaving the girls to chatter over the beauties of the place and theirplans for the coming weeks, Winthrop strayed down stream a few rods,following a cat-bird, whose whimsical calls led him to suspect a nestamong the alders which lined the river at that point.
The bird kept persistently out of sight, but repeated its cry in a moreand more distressed tone, until Winthrop reached the very heart of athicket.
"I've got you now!" he said aloud, as he stooped and thrust aside amass of foliage. Then he started to his feet. He had very nearly laidhis hand on--not the pretty, rounded nest of the gray-winged thrush,but the evil, grinning features of Mort Lapham.
"I rayther guess we've got you this time, my Boston daisy," said Mort,rising in his turn. "Tie him up, fellows!"
The ugly youth's two boon comrades sprang forward from the rear, andbefore Winthrop could offer the slightest resistance, entangled as hewas in the tough, slender stems of the alders, he was bound, hand andfoot.
"What are you going to do with me, Phil Bradford?" asked the prisonerquietly, though his heart sank as the three cowardly assailants hurriedhim roughly through the underbush.
"You'll find out soon enough," growled the other, who had not forgottenthe blow given in defense of the girl by the roadside. They emergedpresently in a little opening that crowned a bluff, some half a dozenfeet or more above the surface of the river, where it here made asudden bend toward the steep bank forming at its base a deep, blackpool, with here and there a few pine needles turning slowly in itseddies.
In all this time Winthrop had not uttered a cry. He would not alarmthe girls unnecessarily, and might include them in his own dangeroussituation.
"Now," said Mort, with a cruel leer, "we'll square up our accounts. Thenext time I'm having a little fun on my own account, I reckon you'llmind your own business!"
With these words he proceeded to tie his victim firmly to a stout youngpine that grew close to the edge of the bluff. They placed his faceto the trunk, and clasping his hands around it, lashed them tightlytogether.
"I say," interposed Dick, as he saw the cords cut into the captive'swrists, "you needn't pull 'em so tight! Don't you see--you're hurtinghim awfully!"
Winthrop set his lips together, and said nothing.
"Hurting him!" repeated Mort savagely. "I guess he'll wish he wa'n'thurt any more'n that, before I get through with him! Gimme that whip!"
"Don't whip him!" cried Dick again. "We've scared him enough, now. Yousaid you only wanted to frighten him, Mort."
"Git out o' the way, will you? I'm running this job, and this slimSunday-school chap from the city has got to have a little more scarin'yet."
"But"--
"If you don't want a taste yourself, you'll keep quiet, Dick Stanwood.Phil an' I'll duck ye in the river, 'f you say much more!"
"All right," said Dick, who evidently regretted his part in the matter."If that's all the thanks I get, I'm off!" And turning suddenly on hisheel, he walked away through the woods.
"Hold on! Stop him, will you, Phil?" cried Mort angrily. But Dick hadhastened his steps and was already out of sight.
Still Winthrop said never a word. His face was white, and the twoguards thought he was too frightened to speak.
"Strip off his coat and vest," commanded Mort, brandishing the whip.Phil obeyed his leader like a lamb, untying the captive's handscautiously, and, with Mort's aid, fastening them again more securelythan ever.
"Now, then, here's one for interfering between me and the girl!"
Down came the leather lash across the thinly clad shoulders.
"One more for the lick you gave me between the eyes!"
Again the stinging, burning blow. Still Winthrop did not cry out.
"You want some more, do you?" cried Mort, enraged at his victim'ssilence.
The lash was raised again. As Mort raised and swung it, to give thefull force of the blow, he stepped backward. The embankment, long agoundermined by the river, crumbled under the bully's feet; with ashriek of terror he toppled over, and disappeared beneath the blackeddies of the pool. Winthrop could not see what had happened, for hisback, now smarting as if living coals were bound to it, was toward thebank. From the sound of the falling earth, the cry of his tormentor,and the loud splash that followed, he guessed what had occurred.
"Untie me, quick!" he shouted to Phil, who stood gazing stupidly atthe whirling bubbles where his leader had disappeared. "No, cut therope--take my knife out of my pocket!"
Phil, who was always ready to follow the party in power, obeyedmechanically. In a few seconds Winthrop was free.
"Can't he swim?" he cried, kicking off the last coils of the rope, asMort rose, screaming and splashing to the surface, and went under again.
"Not a stroke," said Phil stoically. "Serves him right, don't it? Say,Win, I'm awful sorry"--
But he was apologizing only to the pine-tree and the cut cords.Winthrop had sprung into the pool, and even now had his late assailantby the collar and was striking out for the shore lower down, where thebank was not so h
igh.
"Don't drown me!" yelled Mort, rolling up his eyes. "I didn't mean"--
"Stop kicking--you're all right!" gasped Winthrop. "There--put yourfeet down--can't you touch bottom?"
"Winthrop, my lad! Here--give me your hand!" cried a new voice; andPuss's father leaned perilously far over the bank to assist the boy. Atthe same time Phil and Dick--the latter of whom had brought Mr. Rowanto the scene--helped the choking, crest-fallen, dripping Mort to hisfeet.
"What does this mean?" demanded the older man sternly, surveying thecords and whip.
"O, Winthrop!--brother!" and the two girls came hurrying down to theriver's edge. Winthrop tried to toss on his coat, but did not succeedbefore the stains on his poor, smarting back told the story to hissister's anxious eye.
Of course the picnic was ended for that day. The whole party hurried tothe wagon and drove home. On the way, Winthrop begged Mr. Rowan not tohave either of his late captors prosecuted, or punished in any way.
"I'm satisfied," he said, "if they are."
"Well, I'm not!" burst out Mort suddenly, "and I sha'n't be, till Iget square with you somehow!"
The girls turned and looked at him in new amazement and terror. ButWinthrop understood him better.
"All right, old fellow," he replied simply, holding out his hand to theother.
Mort grasped it and said no more.
* * * * *
"Good story, father!" called out Tom, whose voice, whether for approvalor criticism, was never wanting. "I'd like to know how Mort got squarewith him, though."
Mr. Percival laughed as he rose. "That is not of so much consequence.In such a case, 'the readiness is all.' Does that finish the paper, Mr.Editor?"
"It does," said Selborne gravely. "And the publication of the'Tri-Weekly Chichagoff Decade' is suspended until further notice."
Gulf and Glacier; or, The Percivals in Alaska Page 12