But now while Scampadoro was in the heat of his excited circumnavigation of the “Clovis,” Tommy happened to direct his “weather eye” toward the cottage. Lo and behold! There was Crumple bearing down with all sails set, as it were, upon that young corn as if an entirely original idea had just penetrated her mind.
Tommy felt obliged to tear himself away. With a regretful look at poor Scamp, he betook himself up the hill with a very creditable activity of heel. He arrived on the shore of that forbidden sea of vegetation, the kitchen garden, just as Crumple was placidly steering through the expanse of the onion bed.
“Hi, there! Hello! Get out of that!” bawled Tommy, in tones of virtuous wrath.
This sudden hail seemed to take Old Crumple aback, for she gave an abrupt lurch out of the onions into the tomatoes. Then as Tommy approached nearer, wildly waving his hat and uttering volleys of complicated and incoherent orders, she seemed to lose her head entirely. Into the sage and summer-savory she tacked in a decidedly floundery and jerky style, then shot wildly into the Lima beans. Headed off there by Tommy, she hauled her course, and after narrowly escaping shipwreck on Tommy’s wheelbarrow, she found herself stranded in the midst of the cucumber vines. Tommy’s excited shouts continued, and as they now began to be reinforced with a shower of stones and sticks, the idea seemed all of a sudden to dawn in Crumple’s mind that her presence was unwelcome in the garden, and that she was wanted on the lawn. After a moment of meditation, which was cut short by the whack of a bean-pole from Tommy’s nervous hands, she became fully convinced of the correctness of this idea. Being always obliging, she delayed no longer, but meekly held a straight course out of these too tempestuous seas with the air of a cow whose motives had been strangely misunderstood.
As soon as Crumple resumed her grazing, Tommy sat down upon the door-stone. Very hot and very red in countenance, he fanned himself vigorously with his hat, inwardly resolving with great emphasis that if Crumple played that trick upon him again he would know the reason why. Moreover as he glanced at the ravages of the recent storm in the garden, a pang of remorse pierced him for his neglect of duty. However, he did not fail to direct a glance toward the bank of the river.
Scampadoro had swam ashore, and was now lying upon the little wharf to which the sharpie was fastened in which Bertie Holden had rowed ashore from the “Clovis.” This wharf was merely a plank projecting from the shore, and supported at the outer end upon a bit of timber nailed across two posts.
Just as Tommy’s gaze took in the situation, Scampadoro rose up, trotted down the wharf, and leaped into the sharpie. He ran to the stern, supported himself by his paws on the thwart, and with an eager look towards the “Clovis,” began to howl dismally. This being of no avail, he wandered restlessly up and down the sharpie a few times. Then suddenly darting to the bow and pulling in a bit of the painter with which the boat was fastened, he began eagerly to gnaw it apart. He tore away at it so fiercely that in a minute or two the rope parted, and with two or three feet of it dangling over the bow, the Sharpie began to drift slowly down the river.
As it swept past the “Clovis” Scampadoro became intensely excited. This was something upon which he had not counted. He expected, no doubt, to get back to the “Clovis” after the fashion of his master. As it was, his brilliant device was a failure. Indeed it might be worse, for he was drifting away to sea without even a bone on board in the way of provision for the voyage. The unlucky mariner began to yelp more dolefully than before, but all to no avail. Down the river swept the little craft with its unhappy and helpless crew.
None of these proceedings had escaped the notice of Tommy Winch. At first he was mystified by Scampadoro’s tactics. When he discovered the sagacious design of the dog, his admiration knew no bounds. However, his fresh recollection of Crumple’s adventuresome excursion held him to the door-step until he saw the sharpie drifting helplessly down stream. Then his excitement carried him away, and he set off at full speed for Bertie Holden’s house, leaving old Crumple to be the sport of circumstances. He met Bertie coming over the hill with his gun upon his shoulder.
“O, Bertie!” he cried, “just look there! Scamp’s gone and gnawed himself adrift in the sharpie, and there he goes down the river.”
These tidings were confirmed by Scampadoro himself, who having descried the approach of his master, gave vent to an outbreak of appealing howls and lamentations.
“The little rascal!” exclaimed Bertie. “How came he to leave the ‘Clovis?’ He’ll drift out into the Sound, sure. Let’s go for Captain Kinney’s sharpie, and put after him!”
And dropping his gun, off went Bertie on a keen run for Captain Kinney’s landing, which was a little further up the river than Bertie’s wharf. Tommy raced after him in a fever of excitement.
The landing was soon reached. The boys jumped into the sharpie and cast off. Bertie seized the oars and began to pull away vigorously. Tommy was eager to take an oar himself, but as he was a rather clumsy hand, Bertie declined his aid, and bent his back to his work with such energy that the little craft seemed fairly to leap ahead in the water. Past the “Clovis” they flew, leaving a long train of bubbles in their wake, and began to gain rapidly upon their chase.
Scampadoro was about half a mile ahead, and was nearing the mouth of the river. The wind blew freshly outside, and his little skiff began to feel the swell, and to pitch in a decidedly disagreeable manner. The little captain did not appear to relish commanding a sharpie of his own, for he bobbed about in an agitated manner, and now and then as a dash of spray flew into his face, gave vent to sundry yelps which had a tone of excessive discontent. Finally he lay down in the bottom of the boat, as his habit was when he had any thinking to do. He remained quiet for a short time, and then suddenly sprang up, took a rapid survey of the situation, and leaped overboard.
When Captain Scampadoro gnawed off the painter which moored the sharpie to Bertie’s wharf, he left as we have noticed two or three feet of it dangling from the bow. This short bit of line he now seized with his teeth, and struck out energetically for the shore. This manœuvre showed that he had thought to some purpose. But dogs when they do their thinking usually lake into account only one thing at a time. Scampadoro’s idea was excellent, but he had not included in his reckoning the strength of the tide, the heavy waves, and the shortness of his tow-line.
In spite of his struggles, the tide swept the sharpie along towards the Sound. Then to add to his perplexities, the rope was so short that he found it almost impossible to head away from the boat and swim to the shore. Besides the little sharpie was so tossed about on the waves that several times the tow-line was jerked entirely out of his mouth. Amid these difficulties Captain Scamp was having a serious time of it. For all this, however, he made a gradual progress towards the beach, but as the tide was carrying him downward at the same time, his course bore directly upon a ledge of rocks which projected into the Sound near the river’s mouth, and upon which the waves beat furiously.
But at this crisis the boys were fast overhauling the canine mariner.
“There goes the rascal overboard!” shouted Tommy, as the dog executed the manoeuvre just described.
Bertie kept silence, but pulled as if he were rowing for the championship. His skiff had begun to feel the force of the sea, and Bertie was growing tired.
“O, Bertie, he’s drifting straight on to Black Ledge! He’ll stave the sharpie all to pieces, and get drowned himself. He never can land there in the world!”
Bertie glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the case was indeed desperate. Captain Scamp was in greater peril of shipwreck than if he had stuck to the deck of his craft.
“Now Tommy Winch, you look out lively,” exclaimed he. “As soon as ever we come alongside you seize hold of the sharpie. If she strikes on Black Ledge in that sea, she’s a goner sure!” And Bertie bent to his oars with desperate vigor.
They were close upon the chase now; and close upon Black Ledge also. The waves tumbled in upon the rocks wit
h a dash and a roar, and flung great showers of spray high upon their rough and weatherbeaten sides. It was hard rowing here, and Bertie found use for all his strength and skill.
“O Scampadoro! Good fellow! Good fellow!” shouted Tommy, by way of encouragement; and the dog, hearing his voice, struggled hard to turn the sharpie’s head about and drag it toward the boys. This desperate effort really saved Captain Scampadoro’s ship from wreck. Tommy seized hold of it when only a few feet distant from the ledge.
“Back her, Bertie! Back her! I’ve got the sharpie!” he shouted. And with much effort and a mighty splashing, Bertie did back her; and then, with a few sturdy strokes, pulled the two sharpies out of danger. Except that both boys were thoroughly drenched by the seas that had come aboard in the rough water near the ledge, everything was safe and sound.
Scampadoro quickly paddled alongside, and was hauled, panting and nearly exhausted, into the boat. Bertie caressed him affectionately, in spite of his dripping coat, and poor Scamp blinked his eyes, and waved his tail in a rather languid manner, as if to say: “I know I’ve done my duty, old fellow, but I’ll take a nap if you please.” And accordingly, he proceeded to curl up in the snuggest corner of the sharpie, where, in spite of the wet and the general discomfort, he devoted himself to repose.
The boys made fast to the rescued skiff with Captain Kinney’s line, and pulled slowly up the river. Silence prevailed for some minutes, and then Bertie muttered, half aloud: “I should really like to know how Scamp came to quit the ‘Clovis.’ That’s what puzzles me. He never did such a thing before when I left him in charge.”
Then the secret came out. Tommy was too honest and truthful to let any unmerited blame rest upon Scampadoro. “It was I, Bertie! It was all my fault!” And he proceeded to confess.
“Never mind it, Tommy,” said Bertie; “if that’s the way of it, I am satisfied. I’m so glad Scamp didn’t desert his post like an ordinary cur. Good old fellow, Scampero; he shall have a nice bone just as soon as we get home!”
Scampadoro opened his eyes, whisked his tail, and crept nearer to his master. He seemed to know that his fidelity was perfectly understood and appreciated.
As the sharpie was nearing the wharf, Tommy, for the first time, bethought himself of Old Crumple. He glanced hastily toward the cottage. There she was — the designing beast — engaged in the most surprising evolutions among the young corn, aided and abetted in her feats of agility by Mrs. Winch with a broom, and Tommy’s sister Ellen with a parasol. Faintly across the breeze were borne to his ears the echoes of “Shoo! shoo!”
“Co-boss! co-boss!” and other language of command, indicative of a state of intense domestic excitement. Tommy glanced at Scampadoro, and a genuine blush of shame reddened his features. A few moments later he arrived at the cottage, quite out of breath, just as Madame Crumple, for the second time that morning, came innocently strolling out of the sage and onion beds. From the expression of her countenance one would have guessed that “her name must be “Miss Moses.”
“Why, Tommy, h ow could you?” exclaimed Mrs. Winch. “Crumple has almost ruined the garden, because you neglected your duty to play with a dog. I’ll warrant Scampadoro would have watched her much better himself, if he had undertaken it.”
“Oh mother, please don’t say anything more,” begged Tommy, with a quivering voice, his eyes filling with tears as he saw her distress and the damage his neglect had caused. “You can’t think how sorry and ashamed I am. I had no business to go off with Scampadoro; but one thing is certain, he has taught me something I am not going to forget. I tell you, mother, whenever I go on duty again I shall not be beaten by a dog. You see!”
And Tommy never was again.
CHINESE DECORATION FOR EASTER EGGS.
YOU should select a good-sized egg, and of a rich dark color. I have found that eggs laid by the Brahma hens are just about the right shade for pleasing effect.
First make an opening in the large end and drop out the contents of the shell. Then with your pencil trace lightly on the shell some features as in fig. 1. Next paint the whites of the eyes with solid white, and the lips a bright vermilion. Then go over your outlines with black paint or India ink, filling the eyeball with black. Use water-color paints.
Now we have a showy-looking Chinaman, but he has no cap on; neither does he sport the national pigtail. To supply the first of these necessary articles, you will cut a piece of bright-colored paper after the fashion of fig. 2. If you please, you can decorate it with a heavy line of black paint. Its pieces 1, 2, 3 and 4, are to be bent tightly up at the dotted line, so as to receive a decided crease. Then each one may be touched with stiff paste, slipped within the shell and fastened. Then the strip must be pasted to gether at A and B, drawing one end over the other far enough to make the cap fit well.
To make the pigtail, take some black silk twist and make a braid about four inches long, and about as thick as single zephyr worsted. Tie one end with a bit of thread, and paste the other end on the top of the back part of the head. This you will do before you fasten the cap on. Now our Chinaman is finished — and when you have hung him up by a silken ribbon pasted inside of his cap, he will look very much like fig. 3, and he can be made to hold popcorn or any light candy.
THE ISLE OF PEACE.
NO one ought to be angry on Christmas eve, and yet Tom Fowler as he dashed out of his father’s house, slamming the door behind him, and strode down the path to the front gate, showed that he was in a violent passion.
“I’ll never come back!” he declared. “Never! So long as I live!”
It was a cold afternoon and the wind blew piercingly down towards the shore. But Tom did not feel it. He was too angry to be cold. Walking rapidly along the road he came in a few minutes to the beach, where the waves were rolling in with a sullen roar, which expressed perfectly Tom’s own feelings. For a moment or two he stood and listened, while the sound seemed to echo along the curve of the bay from Marblehead to Boston. Far out at sea — as he gazed in that direction — the horizon presented an unbroken line. There was nothing between him and France; though while he looked Tom recollected the tales which he had heard the fishermen tell of the Phantom Island that hovers around the Massachusetts coast, and shelters the Quakers who were exiled two hundred years ago. The spectacle of the sea at length suggested to Tom a means of escape.
“I don’t care what becomes of me,” he said gloomily; “I might as well be drowned as not.”
A little way up the shore, where a creek set in, was his father’s boathouse, in which Tom’s own dory was kept. Going to the place and unlocking the door he rolled the dory out, launched her in the creek, set the mast and rudder, and unfurled the sail. There were crackers and water, and a compass in the locker, which would serve him until he got to Boston or fell in with an outward-bound ship — he did not care which. All that he wanted was to get away, and that the fresh wind would easily enable him to do. The wind, indeed, was almost too fresh. It caught the little sail as Tom steered out into the bay; and if he had not hauled off a little, it might have capsized him at the start. Presently he was under way. The boat dove through the waves, and Tom felt that at last he was carrying out his plan.
Now, however, he began to feel cold. The sun was setting, and though its rays had not given much heat before, it seemed colder when they had gone. He buttoned his jacket up tightly around him, but that did not keep out the penetrating wind. Before long the twilight had deepened into night. Tom shivered with the increasing cold, but he would not run into shore. By and by he began to feel numb and sleepy. His hands were chilled and the ropes were icy with the frozen spray.
“I’d better drop the sail,” he concluded, “and wrap myself up in it. I’d rather drift than freeze.”
It took but little time to put his idea into effect. Lowering the sail and unshipping the mast, Tom infolded himself in the canvas and stretched out underneath the seats. The tide was running out, and he knew that with the wind it would carry him out to sea.
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“I’ll be somewhere in the morning,” he said, “it don’t matter much where.”
He closed his eyes, and in a few moments the stars were looking down out of the cold dark sky on a drifting boat and a sleeping boy.
It was bright daylight when Tom woke up; and to his great surprise he was very warm. The air was soft and balmy as summer, or as though he had sailed around Cape Hatteras in the night and was skirting the Carolina coast. To his greater surprise there was land off his port bow. Had he turned around and drifted back to shore? Tom looked at his compass and found that the boat still headed towards the east. He looked backward and no land was in sight, while that in front seemed only an island, whose long blue line reminded him of Block Island as he had once seen it from Point Judith. What could it be? Tom knew the chart of the coast perfectly well, and was quite sure that there was no island within one night’s sail of Marblehead. His curiosity was excited and he felt like a second Columbus discovering a new part of the American coast. Re-shipping the mast and hoisting the sail, he headed the boat for the island which every moment grew more and more distinct. It was not long before Tom could see houses, which proved to him that, whatever the place might be, he was not its original discoverer. Indeed, as he drew near, he could detect a single figure standing upon the strand. When he had come into shallow water, Tom dropped the sail and steered the boat on to the shelving sand. The figure which moved back a step or two at his approach, was that of a little girl quaintly dressed in a blue homespun frock, with a white handkerchief around her neck and crossed at the throat. Her eyes, Tom thought, as she raised them to his, were like those ‘of a deer.
Tom lifted his hat politely.
“Can you tell me where I am?” he asked.
“Thee is on the Isle of Peace,” she said gravely.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 588