_THE BEAR._
ABOUT ten o'clock the water was high enough to float the boat, and
Caspar, once more betaking himself to his oars, found himself being
carried by the tide up one of the most crooked rivers he had ever
seen. The boat's head did not point the same way for half an hour at
one time. The banks were very lonely, low but not marshy, and covered
with a low growth of pines and glossy-leaved oaks mixed with holly and
laurel, while now and then from some low ground came the warm spicy
breath of the magnolia. Caspar saw no signs of human habitation.
"I wonder where all the people are?" he thought. "The general says the
country is well settled, so I suppose I shall come to them some time
or other. I shall have to tie up by and by, I suppose, when the tide
turns. I wonder what time it is?"
And then he remembered Jonathan Elmer's watch, and took it out. It was
a plain double-cased one, with the owner's name engraved on the inside,
where was a small water-colour drawing of a pretty dark-haired little
girl. Caspar looked at the picture till the tears came to his eyes.
"It is like our little Gertrude, who went to heaven so long ago," said
he. "Oh, if I only knew what they were all about at this moment!"
Just then a sound fell on his ear strange to hear in the midst of such
a wilderness—a child's voice calling for help in tones of distress and
alarm. Caspar turned his boat's head toward the bank, but a thought
made him pause for a moment. He had heard of an animal in the woods of
America which imitated the sound of children's voices in order to draw
compassionate travellers into its clutches. * Another cry—articulate
this time—made him hesitate no longer:
"Father, father! Come to Kitty, quick!"
* This story used to be told of the panther, and believed when I was
young; and I believe it is still credited by old woodsmen.
In an instant, Caspar had reached the shore, and sprang up the bank. He
pushed on through the thick bushes, and came upon a curious scene. A
pretty little girl about eight years old stood with her back against
a tree, brandishing with all her strength a dry stick which she had
snatched up, while about four feet away was a black bear sitting on
his haunches and regarding the child with great attention. The animal
seemed rather curious and interested than angry.
Kitty had no notion of falling an unresisting prey, and brandished her
pine stick womanfully, while she called for help at the top of her
voice. The moment her eyes fell on Caspar, she exclaimed,—
"Oh, Mr. Man, please to drive away that thing."
Caspar shouted and drew a pistol from his belt, but the bear had no
mind to wait for any such arguments. He dropped on his fore legs with
an angry snarl and shuffled away. The moment he was out of sight, Kitty
dropped her weapon, and, tumbling all in a heap at the bottom of the
tree, began to cry bitterly.
Caspar sat down on a stone, and taking her in his lap endeavoured to
soothe her, but it was no easy task. She was a very pretty child, and
had been neatly dressed, but her clothes were torn and stained and her
little shoes nearly worn from her feet.
"Hush, hush, little dear!" said Caspar, pressing the little dark
head against his breast and holding the hands which clung to him
desperately. "The bear is gone; he shall not hurt you nor scare you any
more."
"It is naughty to cry, I know," sobbed Kitty, finding her voice at
last; "but the thing was so ugly and black; and when I told him to go
away, he—he—just grinned! He wouldn't mind me a bit!" She sobbed afresh
at the remembrance of the bear's disrespectful conduct.
"Naughty bear, not to mind the little girl!" said Caspar. "But where
dost thou live, little dear?"
"My father lives in Bridgeton, but I am staying at Aunt Deborah's,"
said Kitty; "and I got lost and have been out in the woods all night,
and I am so hungry you don't know."
Caspar put his hand in his pocket and drew out a couple of hard
biscuits, which Kitty eagerly seized upon.
"But don't you want some yourself?" she asked after she had eaten one.
"Oh no; I have had my breakfast. But now try and tell me where thy aunt
lives. Is it on the river here?"
"Yes; it is on the river, right across from Greenwich," explained Kitty
with her mouth full of biscuit. "Aunt Deborah preaches in the meeting
at Greenwich, and it was that that made me get lost."
"How so?" asked Caspar, much wondering what sort of an aunt it was that
preached.
"Why, she went to meeting and she wouldn't take me, and I was angry,
and so I ran away and got lost. It was very naughty of me," concluded
Kitty, penitently, "because Aunt Deborah is real good generally; only I
did want so very much to go and see Elizabeth Fithian's kittens."
"But thou shouldst mind what thou art told, my child," said Caspar.
"Yes, I know I should, and most generally I do," said Kitty; "but I
wanted some magnolias and lady-slippers.—But who are you?" she asked,
struck with a new fear. "You are not a Hessian, are you?"
"What dost thou know about Hessians?" asked Caspar.
"They are wicked men who fight for King George, and kill people, and
drive away their cattle," said Kitty. "Recompense Joake said the
Hessians would catch me if I went out in the pasture, and cut my head
off. You are not a Hessian, are you?"
"I am a Hessian, certainly, but I will not hurt thee," said Caspar.
"The Hessians are not all bad. I will carry thee home if only we can
find the way. I think we had better go down to the river and take to
the boat. If thy home is up the river, we shall reach it sooner in that
way."
"There, now! I shall tell Recompense Joake that he doesn't know
everything," said Kitty, in a tone of satisfaction, as they turned
toward the bank. "But Hessians do hurt people sometimes?"
"Yes, when they are soldiers. That is the trade of a soldier, you know."
"And are you not a soldier?'
"I am a smith," said Caspar, evading the question. "I had a dear little
girl just about thy age, who died."
"Did you?" asked Kitty, much interested. "What was her name?"
"Her name was Gertrude Reinhart, and mine is Caspar Reinhart."
"And my name is Catharine Elmer, but everybody calls me Kitty, even
Recompense Joule," said Kitty, in an injured tone.—"There, now! I
should like to know how we are to get into your boat?"
Caspar looked in dismay. In his hurry to save the child, he had not
secured his boat. It had floated off into the middle of the stream,
and, the tide having turned, it was making good progress toward
Delaware Bay. Caspar could have beaten himself for his stupidity, but
there was no help for it now.
"Well, little one, we must trust to our own legs," said he, trying
to make the best of matters. "If we keep within sight of the river,
we cannot be far wrong. If only the boat had not carried away my
great-coat and provisions, it would not matter so much."
Kitty declared herself able to walk "miles upon miles," now that she
had had something to eat, and set off sturdily enough; but it presently
appeared that she had overrated her powers, since she was not only very
tired, but very lame.
"Thou canst not walk, my little one," said Caspar, presently.
"I am afraid I can't," answered Kitty, sorrowfully. "My feet are so
sore, and I think I have got a thorn or something in one of them."
Caspar examined the tender little feet, which were indeed sorely
blistered, drew out a thorn, and bound them up with leaves and strips
torn from Kitty's apron, which was pretty well reduced to rags already.
Kitty bore the operation bravely, though she winced now and then.
"Now you will have to carry me," said she, "and I don't see how you
will manage. But it is a good thing that I am small of my age, isn't
it? I shall tell Recompense Joake so when I get home. He is always
laughing at me and calling me a chipmunk and a sparrow, and what not."
Kitty chattered on till she chattered herself off to sleep. She was not
very heavy, but still she was something of a load, and Caspar found his
arms aching. The walking was difficult and slow, especially as he dared
not go out of sight of the river for fear of losing his way.
He was obliged to sit down and rest several times, and it was drawing
on toward sunset when he at last came out on an open space where there
were signs of a farm-clearing and a deserted and half-ruined log cabin.
Near by was a bit of low ground overgrown with bushes, out of which ran
a clear shallow stream, the first running water they had come across
that day. There had been a small barn, but it was broken down and
decayed. The cabin was a double one, and the roof and fireplace at one
end were tolerably entire, while the other held a heap of old straw and
a quantity of pine knots and roots which had evidently been gathered
for fuel at some time or other.
Caspar laid Kitty gently down on the straw and covered her with his
jacket. Then he climbed a tall tree—the only one of any size near—and
looked all about him. Far away on the other side of the river he could
see a smoke, but on this side all was as lonely as if no man had ever
set foot on the soil.
"What a long way the child must have wandered!" he thought. "But then
lost children do travel to an immense distance sometimes."
He descended, and sat down on a log at the door to consider the
situation. He was very tired himself; and horribly sleepy, having been
up all the night before. There was no appearance of their being near
any house. Some round headed clouds were rising in the west, betokening
a thunder-shower by and by. If they went on, darkness and the storm
would probably overtake them in the woods, and the child might perish
before morning. Here they at least had shelter and the means of making
a fire.
Caspar searched his pockets again, and discovered another bit of
biscuit. He also examined and reprimed his pistols. As he did so, a
mellow whistle made him look up to see a pair of quails running along
under the edge of a tumble-down bit of fence. Caspar was a capital
marksman, and the birds were within easy shot. He took a careful aim,
and to his great delight succeeded in killing one of them.
"Good!" said he. "Things might be worse, a great deal."
He picked up his prize, and turned to where Kitty, awakened by the
shot, was sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
"What was that?" she asked, apparently a little bewildered.
"I have killed a bird for our supper," said Caspar, "and now I am going
to make a fire and cook it."
"But I always have bread and milk for supper," said Kitty, "and I want
to go home and get some. I don't want to stay out another night."
"Nor I," answered Caspar, "but we cannot choose very well.—There! Don't
cry," he added, as Kitty put up a grieved lip. "Listen, and I will tell
you all about it."
Kitty listened while Caspar, in the plainest English he could muster,
explained the plan he had decided upon and his reasons for it. The
comment she made was an unexpected one:
"I like you, Mr. Hessian, because you talk sense and tell the reasons
of things. When I ask Recompense Joake the reason, he says, 'Oh, don't
thee bother! Little girls can't understand.' He did the other day when
I asked him what was the reason the shad come in the spring, and not in
the fall; and I don't believe he knew himself. Do you?"
"I dare say not," said Caspar much amused, but wondering who or what
Recompense Joake could be. "Then you will try to be content?"
"I will try to be good," said Kitty, piteously, "but I do want to go
home so much you don't know. And we always have warm gingerbread Friday
night; and oh, just suppose my father should come home and find me
gone!"
The thought was too much for Kitty's philosophy. She burst into tears
and cried bitterly.
Caspar hushed and comforted her as well as he could, speaking sometimes
English and sometimes German in his perplexity. At last, he hit on an
expedient.
"I wish you could stop crying," said he, "because I want you to help me
about supper."
The thought of being useful brought comfort to Kitty's soul. She looked
up from Caspar's bosom, where she had hidden her head, and wiped her
eyes with what remained of her frock.
"You are very good to like me when I cry so much," said she. "I can't
bear children that cry, myself. There, now! I am good. What shall I do?"
"You may pick the bird's feathers off if you like, while I make the
fire."
A very satisfactory fire, kindled by Caspar's tinder-box, was soon
roaring up the long-unused chimney. Caspar brought in all the pine
knots and what wood he could find without going too far away, arranged
a bed of straw covered with pine boughs, and finding the shutter which
had once closed the window, he barricaded that and the broken door as
well as he could. Then he broiled on the coals the bird, which Kitty
had picked very neatly. It was not much of a supper for two, but it was
far better than nothing, and Kitty grew quite cheerful over it. Supper
over, he proposed that she should go to bed.
"I must say my prayers first," said Kitty. "Will you hear me?"
"Truly I will, little dear."
And Kitty knelt down and said her prayers, ending with, "God bless my
father and that good man who saved his life!"
"Who saved your father's life, Kitty?" asked Caspar as he arranged her
straw bed.
"I don't know his name, but he was a good man, and my father gave him
his watch with my picture in it. I don't think he should have given
away my picture, though, do you?"
"Perhaps he had no time to take it out," said Caspar, greatly
wondering. So this was Jonathan Elmer's child?
"Oh, well, I dare say he did not mean any harm. Aunt Deborah says men
are naturally inconsiderate." And with this wise remark, Kitty lay
down, and went to sleep as suddenly as a bird tucks its head under its
wing.
Caspar had thought himself very sleepy, but the disposition to sleep
had vanished with the opportunity of gratifying it, and he had never
been more wide awake in his life. The thunder-storm had come up very
quickly, and though the sun had hardly set, it was already very dark.
The thunder rolled nearer and nearer, and the wind roared furiously
among the trees, so that Caspar congratulated himself more than ever on
the shelter of the old cabin. He heaped up the fire and kept his ears
open, for he remembered the bear, and feared there might be other wild
animals in the neighbourhood. He took out his Bible and tried to read,
but the light was too uncertain, so he put up the book and fell to
musing on his present condition.
"Certainly, the last thing I thought of was finding myself in such a
place as this. It seems as if I had been sent on purpose to save the
child. Little Gustaf must be about her age. I am thankful I came in
time to save her from a horrible death. She must be the child of my
friend the smith, who was no more a smith than I am a general. I wish
I could sleep; I shall be good for nothing to-morrow. I am beholden to
him for the use of his watch."
He took out his watch and wound it up, looking at the picture as he did
so. It certainly was very much like Kitty.
The storm seemed to be over. He made up the fire anew with knots
and dry sticks, and lay down across the door in Indian fashion, so
that nothing could enter. He was just dropping off to sleep when he
started at some noise, and came broad awake again. He listened. It was
repeated—a loud shout, and then, "Kitty! Kitty Elmer!"
"They have come to look for the child," was his instant thought. He
sprang to the door and shouted loudly.
The answer came back from no great distance: "Where are you?"
"This way—in the—" Caspar could not remember the word for clearing, so
he shouted again.
He heard the noise of approaching steps, and in a minute two or three
men burst through the bushes and rushed up to the cabin.