LIFE IN THE CAÑON—THE HEIR APPARENT LOSES HIMSELF
‘Know’st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom,
Where the gold orange glows in the green thicket’s gloom;
Where the wind, ever soft, from the blue heaven blows,
And groves are of myrtle, and olive, and rose?’
ON the next morning, as we have seen, they named their summer home Camp
Chaparral, and for a week or more they were the very busiest colony of
people under the sun; for it takes a deal of hard work and ingenuity to
make a comfortable and beautiful dwelling-place in the forest.
The best way of showing you how they accomplished this is to describe the
camp after it was nearly finished.
The two largest bedroom tents were made of bright awning cloth, one of
red and white, the other of blue and white, both gaily decorated with
braid. They were pitched under the same giant oak, and yet were nearly
forty feet apart; that of the girls having a canvas floor. They were not
quite willing to sleep on the ground, so they had brought empty bed-sacks
with them, and Pancho’s first duty after his arrival had been to drive to
a neighbouring ranch for a great load of straw.
In a glorious tree near by was a ‘sky parlour,’ arranged by a few boards
nailed high up in the leafy branches, and reached from below by a
primitive ladder. This was the favourite sitting-room of the girls by
day, and served for Pancho’s bedroom at night. It was beautiful enough
to be fit shelter for all the woodland nymphs, with its festoons of
mistletoe and wild grape-vines; but Pancho was rather an unappreciative
tenant, even going so far as to snore in the sacred place!
Just beyond was a card-room,—imagine it—in which a square board, nailed
on a low stump, served for a table, where Dr. Paul and the boys played
many a game of crib, backgammon, and checkers. Here, too, all Elsie’s
letters were written and Bell’s nonsense verses, and here was the
identical spot where Jack Howard, that mischievous knight of the brush,
perpetrated those modern travesties on the ‘William Henry pictures,’ for
Elsie’s delectation.
The dressing-room was reached by a path cut through bushes to a charming
little pool. Here were unmistakable evidences of feminine art:
looking-glasses hanging to trees, snowy wash-cloths, each bearing its
owner’s initials, adorning the shrubs, while numerous towels waved in the
breeze. Between two trees a thin board was nailed, which appeared to be
used, as nearly as the woodpeckers could make out, as a toothbrush rack.
In this, Philip, the skilful carpenter, had bored the necessary number of
holes, and each one contained a toothbrush tied with a gorgeous ribbon.
In this secluded spot Bell was wont to marshal every morning the entire
force of ‘the toothbrush brigade’; and, conducting the drill with much
ingenuity, she would take her victims through a long series of military
manœuvres arranged for the toothbrush. Oh, the gaspings, the chokings
and stranglings, which occurred when she mounted a rock by the edge of
the pool, and after calling in tones of thunder,
‘Brush, brothers, brush with care!
Brush in the presence of the commandaire!’
ordered her unwilling privates to polish their innocent molars to the
tune of ‘Hail, Columbia,’ or ‘Auld Lang Syne’! And if they became
mutinous, it was Geoffrey who reduced them to submission, and ordered
them to brush for three mornings to the tune of ‘Bluebells of Scotland’
as a sign of loyalty to their commander.
As for the furnishing of the camp, there were impromptu stools and tables
made of packing-boxes and trunks, all covered with bright Turkey-red
cotton; there were no less than three rustic lounges and two arm-chairs
made from manzanita branches, and a Queen Anne bedstead was being slowly
constructed, day by day, by the ambitious boys for their beloved Elsie.
One corner of each tent was curtained off for a bath-room, another for a
clothes-press, and there were a dozen devices for comfort, as Dr. Winship
was opposed to any more inconvenience than was strictly necessary. Dr.
and Mrs. Winship and little Dicky occupied one tent, the boys another,
and the girls a third.
When Bell, Polly, and Margery emerged from their tent on the second
morning, they were disagreeably surprised to see a large placard over the
front entrance, bearing the insolent inscription, ‘Tent Chatter.’ They
said nothing; but on the night after, a committee of two stole out and
glued a companion placard, ‘Tent Clatter,’ over the door of their
masculine neighbours. And to tell the truth, one was as well deserved as
the other; for if there was generally a subdued hum of conversation in
the one, there never failed to be a perfect din and uproar in the other.
Under a great sycamore-tree stood the dining-table, which consisted of
two long, wide boards placed together upon a couple of barrels; and not
far away was the brush kitchen, which should have been a work of art, for
it represented the combined genius of American, Mexican, and Chinese
carpenters, Dr. Winship, Pancho, and Hop Yet having laboured in its
erection. It really answered the purpose admirably, and looked quite
like a conventional California kitchen; that is, it was ten feet square,
and contained a table, a stove, and a Chinaman.
The young people, by the way, had fought bitterly against the stove,
protesting with all their might against taking it. Polly and Jack
declared that they would starve sooner than eat anything that hadn’t been
cooked over a camp-fire. Bell and Philip said that they should stand in
front of it all the time, for fear somebody would ride through the cañon
and catch them camping out with a stove. Imagine such a situation; it
made them blush. Margery said she wished people weren’t quite so
practical, and wouldn’t ruin nature by introducing such ugly and
unnecessary things. She intended to point the moral by drawing a picture
of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden,—Eve bending over a cook-stove and
Adam peeling apples with a machine. Geoffrey scoffed at Margery’s
sentimentalism, put on his most trying air, and declared that if he had
his pork and onions served up ‘hot and reg’lar,’ he didn’t care how she
had her victuals cooked.
They were all somewhat appeased, however, when they found that Dr.
Winship was as anxious as they for an evening camp-fire, and merely
insisted upon the stove because it simplified the cookery. Furthermore,
being an eminently just man, he yielded so far as to give them permission
to prepare their own meals on a private camp-fire whenever they desired;
and this effectually stopped the argument, for no one was willing to pay
so heavy a price for effect.
The hammocks, made of gaily-coloured cords, were slung in various
directions a short distance from the square tent, which, being the family
sitting-room, was the centre of attraction. It was arranged with a gay
canopy, twenty feet square. Three sides were made by hanging full
curtains of awning cloth from redwood rods by means of huge brass rings.
These curtains were looped back during the day and dropped after dark,
making a cosy and warm interior from which to watch the camp-fire on cool
evenings.
As for the Cañon de Las Flores itself, this little valley of the flowers,
it was beautiful enough in every part to inspire an artist’s pencil or a
poet’s pen; so quiet and romantic it was, too, it might almost have been
under a spell,—the home of some sleepy, enchanted princess waiting the
magic kiss of a princely lover. It reached from the ocean to the
mountains, and held a thousand different pictures on which to feast the
eye; for Dame Nature deals out beauty with a lavish hand in this land of
perpetual summer, song, and sunshine. There were many noble oak-trees,
some hung profusely with mistletoe, and others with the long, Spanish
greybeard moss, that droops from the branches in silvery lines, like
water spray. Sometimes, in the moonlight, it winds about the oak like a
shroud, and then again like a filmy bridal veil, or drippings of mist
from a frozen tree.
Here and there were open tracts of ground between the clumps of trees,
like that in which the tents were pitched,—sunny places, where the earth
was warm and dry, and the lizards blinked sleepily under the stones.
Farther up the cañon were superb bay-trees, with their glossy leaves and
aromatic odour, and the madroño, which, with its blood-red skin, is one
of the most beautiful of California trees, having an open growth, like a
maple, bright green lustrous leaves, and a brilliant red bark, which
peels off at regular seasons, giving place to a new one of delicate
pea-green.
There were no birches with pure white skin, or graceful elms, or fluffy
pussy willows, but so many beautiful foreign things that it would seem
ungrateful to mourn those left behind in the dear New England woods; and
as for flowers, there are no yellow and purple violets, fragile anemones,
or blushing Mayflowers, but in March the hillsides are covered with red,
in April flushed with pink and blue, in May brilliant with yellow
blossoms; and in the cañons, where the earth is moist, there are flowers
all the year.
And then the girls would never forgive me if I should forget the superb
yucca, or Spanish bayonet, which is as beautiful as a tropical queen.
Its tall, slender stalk has no twigs or branches, but its leaves hang
down from the top like bayonet-blades; and oh, there rises from the
centre of them such a stately princess of a flower, like a tree in
itself, laden with cream-white, velvety, fragrant blossoms.
The boys often climbed the hillsides and brought home these splendid
treasures, which were placed in pails of water at the tent doors, to shed
their luxuriant beauty and sweetness in the air for days together. They
brought home quantities of Spanish moss, and wild clematis, and manzanita
berries too, with which to decorate the beloved camp; and even Dicky
trotted back with his arms full of gorgeous blossoms and grasses, which
he arranged with great taste and skill in mugs, bottles, and cans on the
dining-table.
Can’t you see what a charming place it was? And I have not begun to tell
you the half yet; for there was always a soft wind stirring the leaves in
dreamy music, and above and through this whispered sound you heard the
brook splashing over its pebbly bed,—splashing and splashing and laughing
all it possibly could, knowing it would speedily be dried up by the
thirsty August sun. Every few yards part of the stream settled down
contentedly into a placid little pool, while the most inquisitive and
restless little drops flowed noisily down to see what was going on below.
The banks were fringed with graceful alders and poison-oak bushes, vivid
in crimson and yellow leaves, while delicate maiden-hair ferns grew in
miniature forests between the crevices of the rocks; yet, with the
practicality of Chinese human nature, Hop Yet used all this beauty for a
dish-pan and refrigerator!
Now, confess that, after having seen exactly how it looks, you would like
to rub a magic lamp, like Aladdin, and wish yourself there with our merry
young sextette. For California is a lovely land and a strange one, even
at this late day, when her character has been nearly ruined by dreadful
stories, or made ridiculous by foolish ones.
When you were all babies in long clothes, some people used to believe
that there were nuggets of gold to be picked up in the streets, and that
in the flowery valleys, flowing with milk and honey, there grew groves of
beet-trees, and forests of cabbages, and shady bowers of squash-vines;
and they thought that through these fertile valleys strode men of curious
mien, wild bandits and highway robbers, with red flannel shirts and many
pockets filled with playing-cards and revolvers and bowie-knives; and
that when you met these frightful persons and courteously asked the time
of day, they were apt to turn and stab you to the heart by way of
response.
Now, some of these things were true, and some were not, and some will
never happen again; for the towns and cities no longer conduct themselves
like headstrong young tomboys out on a lark, but have grown into ancient
and decorous settlements some twenty-five or thirty years old.
Perhaps California isn’t really so interesting since she began to learn
manners; but she is a land of wonders still, with her sublime mountains
and valleys; her precious metals; her vineyards and orchards of lemons
and oranges, figs, limes, and nuts; her mammoth vegetables, each big
enough for a newspaper story; her celebrated trees, on the stumps of
which dancing-parties are given; her vultures; her grizzly bears; and her
people, drawn from every nook and corner of the map—pink, yellow, blue,
red, and green countries. And though the story of California is not
written, in all its romantic details, in the school-books of to-day, it
is a part of the poetry of our late American history, full of strange and
thrilling scenes, glowing with interest and dramatic fire.
I know a little girl who crossed the plains in that great ungeneraled
army of fifteen or twenty thousand people that made the long and weary
journey to the land of gold in 1849. She tells her children now of the
strange, long days and months in the ox-team, passing through the heat
and dust of alkali deserts, fording rivers, and toiling over steep
mountains. She tells them how at night she often used to lie awake,
curled up in her grey blanket, and hear the men talking together of the
gold treasures they were to dig from the ground—treasures, it seemed to
her childish mind, more precious than those of which she read in The
Arabian Nights. And from a little hole in the canvas cover of the old
emigrant wagon she used to see the tired fathers and brothers, worn and
footsore from their hard day’s tramp, some sleeping restlessly, and
others guarding the cattle or watching for Indians, who were always
expected, and often came; and the last thing at night, when her eyes were
heavy with sleep, she peered dreamily out into the darkness to see the
hundreds of gleaming camp-fires, which dotted the plain as far as the eye
could reach.
* * * * *
You will have noticed that this first week of camp-life was a quiet one,
spent mostly by the young people in getting their open-air home
comfortably arranged, making conveniences of all kinds, becoming
acquainted with the cañon so far as they could, and riding once or twice
to neighbouring ranches for hay or provisions.
Dr. Winship believed in a good beginning; and, as this was not a week’s
holiday, but a summer campaign, he wanted his young people to get fully
used to the situation before undertaking any of the exciting excursions
in prospect. So, before the week was over, they began to enjoy sound,
dreamless sleep on their hard straw beds, to eat the plain fare with
decided relish, to grow a little hardy and brown, and quite strong and
tough enough for a long tramp or horseback ride.
After a religious devotion to cold cream for a few nights, Polly had
signified her terrible intention of ‘letting her nose go.’ ‘I disown
it!’ she cried, peeping in her tiny mirror, and lighting up her too rosy
tints with a tallow candle. ‘Hideous objick, I defy thee! Spot and
speckle, yea, burn to a crisp, and shed thy skin afterwards! I care not.
Indeed, I shall be well rid of thee, thou—h’m—thou—well, leopard, for
instance.’
One beautiful day followed another, each the exact counterpart of the one
that had preceded it; for California boys and girls never have to say
‘wind and weather permitting’ from March or April until November. They
always know what the weather is going to do; and whether this is an
advantage or not is a difficult matter to settle conclusively.
New England boys affirm that they wouldn’t live in a country where it
couldn’t rain any day it felt like it, and California lads retort that
they are glad their dispositions are not ruined by the freaks of New
England weather. At all events, it is a paradise for would-be campers,
and any one who should assert the contrary would meet with energetic
opposition from the loyal dwellers in Camp Chaparral.
Bell returned one day from a walk which she had taken by herself, while
the other girls were off on some errand with the Doctor. After luncheon
she drew them mysteriously into the square tent, and lowered the
curtains.
‘What is it?’ Polly whispered, with an anxious expression of countenance.
‘Have you lost your gold thimble again, or your temper, or have you
discovered a silver mine?’
‘I have found,’ she answered mysteriously, ‘the most beautifully secret
place you ever beheld. It will be just the spot for us to write and
study in when we want to be alone; or it will even do for a theatre; and
it is scarcely more than half a mile up the cañon.’
‘How did you find it?’ asked Margery.
‘As I was walking along by the brookside, I saw a snake making its way
through the bushes, and—’
‘Goodness!’ shrieked Polly, ‘I shall not write there, thank you.’
‘Goose! Just wait a minute. I looked at it, and followed at a distance;
it was a harmless little thing; and I thought, for the fun of it, I would
just push blindly on and see what I should find, because we are for ever
walking in the beaten path, and I long for something new.’
‘A bad instinct,’ remarked Madge, ‘and one which will get you into
trouble, so you should crush it in its infancy.’
‘Well, I took up my dress and ploughed through the chaparral, until I
came, in about three minutes of scratching and fighting, to an open
circular place about as large as this tent. It was exactly round, which
is the curious part of it; and in the centre was one stump, covered with
moss and surrounded by great white toadstools. How any one happened to
go in there and cut down a single tree I can’t understand, nor yet how
they managed to bring out the tree through the tangled brush. It is so
strange that it seems as if there must be a mystery about it.’
‘Certainly,’ said Margery promptly. ‘A tragedy of the darkest kind!
Some cruel wretch has cut down, in the pride and pomp of its beauty, one
sycamore-tree; its innocent life-blood has stained the ground, and given
birth to the white toadstools which mark the spot and testify to the
purity of the victim.’
‘Well,’ continued Bell, impressively, ‘I knew I could never find it
again; and I wanted so much you should see it that I took the ball of
twine we always carry, unrolled it, and dropped the thread all the way
along to the brookside, like Phrygia, or Melpomene, or Anemone, or
whatever her name was.’
‘Or Artesia, or Polynesia, or Euthanasia,’ interrupted Polly. ‘I think
the lady you mean is Ariadne.’
‘Exactly. Now we’ll take papa to see it, and then we’ll fit it up as a
retreat. Won’t it be charming? We’ll call it the Lone Stump.’
‘Oh, I like that; it makes me shiver!’ cried Polly. ‘I’m going to write
an ode to it at once. Ahem! It shall begin—let me see—
‘O lonely tree,
What cruel “he”
Did lay thee low?
Tell us the facts;
Did cruel axe
Abuse thee so?’
‘Sublime! Second verse,’ said Bell slowly, with pauses between the
lines:—
‘Or did a gopher,
The wicked loafer,
Gnaw at thy base,
And, doing so,
Contrive to go,
And leave no trace?’
‘Oh dear!’ sighed Margery; ‘if you will do it, wait a minute.
‘O toadstools white,
Pray give us light
Upon the question.
Did gopher gnaw,
And live in awe
Of indigestion?’
‘Good!’ continued Bell:—
‘Or did a man
Malicious plan
The good tree’s ruin,
And leave it so
Convenient low,
A seat for Bruin?
For travelling grizzlies, you know. We may go there and see a hungry
creature making a stump-speech, while an admiring audience of
grasshoppers and tarantulas seat themselves in a circle on the
toadstools.’
‘Charming prospect!’ said Madge. ‘I don’t think I care to visit the Lone
Stump or pass my mornings there.’
‘Nonsense, dear child; it is just like every other part of the cañon,
only a little more lonely. It is not half a mile from camp, and hardly a
dozen steps from the place where the boys go so often to shoot quail.’
‘Very well,’ said the girls. ‘We must go there to-morrow morning; and
perhaps we’d better not tell the boys,—they are so peculiar. Jack will
certainly interfere with us in some way, if he hears about it.’
‘Now let us take our books and run down by the pool for an hour or two,’
said Bell. ‘Papa and the boys are all off shooting, and mamma is lying
down. We can have a cool, quiet time; the sunshine is so hot here by the
tents.’
Accordingly, they departed, as they often did, for one of the prolonged
chats in which school-girls are wont to indulge, and which so often, too,
are but idle, senseless chatter.
These young people, however, had been fortunate in having the wisest and
most loving guardianship, so that all their happy young lives had been
spent to good purpose. They had not shirked study, and so their minds
were stocked with useful information; they had read carefully and
digested thoroughly whatever they had read, so that they possessed a good
deal of general knowledge. The girls were bright, sensible, industrious
little women, who tried to be good, too, in the old-fashioned sense of
the word; and full of fun, nonsense, and chatter as they were among
themselves, they never forgot to be modest and unassuming.
The boys were pretty well in earnest about life, too, with good ambitions
and generous aspirations. They had all been studying with Dr. Winship
for nearly two years; and that means a great deal, for he was a real
teacher, entering into the lives of his pupils, sympathising with them in
every way, and leading them, through the study of nature, of human
beings, and of God, to see the beauty and meaning of life.
Geoffrey Strong, of course, was older than the rest, having completed his
junior year at college; but Dr. Winship, who was his guardian, thought it
wiser for him to rest a year and come to him in California, as his
ambition and energy had already led him into greater exertions than his
age or strength warranted. He was now studying medicine with the good
Doctor, but would go back to the ‘land of perpetual pie’ in the fall and
complete his college course.
A splendid fellow he was,—so earnest, thoughtful, and wise; so gravely
tender in all his ways to Aunt Truth, who was the only mother he had ever
known; so devoted to Dr. Winship, who loved him as his own elder son.
What will Geoffrey Strong be as a man? The twig is bent, and it is safe
to predict how the tree will incline. His word will be as good as his
bond; he will be a good physician, for his eye is quick to see suffering,
and his hand ready to relieve it; little children with feverish cheeks
and tired eyes will love to clasp his cool, strong hand; he will be
gentle as a woman, yet thoroughly manly, as he is now, for he has made
the most of his golden youth, and every lad who does that will have a
golden manhood and a glorious old age.
As for Philip Noble, he was a dear, good, trustworthy lad too; kindly,
generous, practical, and industrious; a trifle slow and reserved,
perhaps, but full of common sense,—the kind of sense which, after all, is
most uncommon.
Bell once said: ‘This is the difference between Philip and Geoffrey,—one
does, and the other is. Geoff is the real Simon-pure ideal which we
praise Philip for trying to be,’—a very good description for a little
maiden whose bright eyes had only looked into life for sixteen summers.
And now we come to Jack Howard, who never kept still long enough for any
one to write a description of him. To explain how he differed from
Philip or Geoffrey would be like bringing the Equator and the Tropic of
Cancer together for purposes of comparison.
If there were a horseback ride, Jack rode the wildest colt, was oftenest
thrown and least often hurt; if a fishing-party, Jack it was who caught
all the fish, though he made more noise than any one else, and followed
no rules laid down in _The Complete Angler_.
He was very often in trouble; but his misdemeanours were those of pure
mischief, and were generally atoned for when it was possible. He
excelled in all out-of-door sports. And indeed, if his prudence had at
all kept pace with his ability, he might have done remarkable things in
almost any direction; but he constantly overshot the mark, and people
looked to him for the dazzling brilliancy and uncertainty of a meteor,
but never for the steady glow of a fixed star.
Just now, Jack was a good deal sobered, and appeared at his very best.
The teaching of Dr. Paul and the companionship of Geoffrey had done much
for him, while the illness of his sister Elsie, who was the darling of
his heart, acted constantly as a sort of curb upon him; for he loved her
with all the ardour and passion which he gave to everything else. You
might be fearful of Jack’s high spirits and riotous mirth, of his
reckless actions and heedless jokes, but you could scarcely keep from
admiring the boy; for he was brave and handsome and winsome enough to
charm the very birds off the bush, as Aunt Truth acknowledged, after
giving him a lecture for some misdemeanour.
The three girls made their way a short distance up the cañon to a place
which they called Prospect Pool, because it was so entirely shut in from
observation.
‘Dear old Geoff!’ said Bell, throwing her shawl over a rock and opening
her volume of Carlyle. ‘He has gone all through this for me, and written
nice little remarks on the margin,—explanations and things, and
interrogations where he thinks I won’t know what is meant and had better
find out,—bless his heart! What have you brought, Margery? By the way,
you must move your seat away from that clump of poison-oak bushes; we
can’t afford to have any accidents which will interfere with our fun. We
have all sorts of new remedies, but I prefer that the boys should
experiment with them.’
‘It’s the softest seat here, too,’ grumbled Margery. ‘We must get the
boys to cut these bushes down. Why, you haven’t any book, you lazy
Polly. Are you going to sleep, or shall you chatter and prevent our
reading?’
‘Neither,’ she answered. ‘Here is a doughnut which I propose to send
down the red pathway of fate; and here a pencil and paper with which I am
going to begin our round-robin letter to Elsie.’
‘That’s good! She has only had notes from Jack and one letter from us,
which, if I remember right, had nothing in it.’
‘Thanks! I wrote it,’ sniffed Bell.
‘Well, I meant it had no news—no account of things, you know.’
‘No, I wouldn’t descend to writing news, and I leave accounts to the
butcher.’
‘Stop quarrelling, girls! This is my plan: I will begin in my usual
rockety style, sometimes maliciously called the Pollyoliver method;
Margery will take up the thread sedately; Bell will plunge in with a
burst of enthusiasm and seventeen adjectives, followed by a verse of poor
poetry; Geoff will do the sportive or instructive, just as he happens to
feel; and Phil will wind up the letter by some practical details which
will serve as a key to all the rest. Won’t it be a box of literary
bonbons for her to read in bed, poor darling! Let me see! I represent
the cayenne lozenges, sharp but impressive; Margery will do for jujube
paste, which I adore,—mild, pleasant, yielding, delicious.’
‘Sticky and insipid!’ murmured Madge, plaintively.
‘Not at all, my dear. Bell stands for the peppermints; Jack for
chocolates, “the ladies’ delight”; Geoffrey for a wine-drop, altogether
good, but sweetest in its heart; Phil—let me see! Phil is like—what is
he like?’
‘No more like candy than a cold boiled potato,’ said his sister.
‘He is _candid_,’ suggested Bell. ‘Let us call him rock-candy, pure,
healthful, and far from soft.’
‘Or marshmallow,’ said Margery, ‘good, but tough.’
‘Or caramel,’ laughed Polly; ‘it always sticks to a point.’
‘Thanks, gentle creatures,’ said a voice from the bushes on the other
side of the pool, and Phil stalked out from his covert, like a wounded
deer.
‘How long have you been in there, villain?’ cried Bell.
‘Ever since lunch; but I only waked from a sound sleep some twenty
minutes ago. I’ve heard a most instructive conversation—never been more
amused in my life; don’t know whether I prefer being a cold boiled potato
or a ladies’-delight!’
‘You haven’t any choice,’ snapped Polly, a trifle embarrassed at having
been overheard.
‘I’m glad it was my own sister who called me a c. b. p. (the most
loathsome thing in existence, by the way), because sisters never
appreciate their brothers.’
‘I didn’t call you a c. b. p.,’ remonstrated Margery. ‘I said you were
no more like candy than a c. b. p. There is a difference.’
‘Is there? My poor brain fails to grasp it. But never mind; I’ll
forgive you.’
‘Listeners never hear good of themselves,’ sighed Polly.
‘Are you writing a copy-book, Miss Oliver? I didn’t want to listen; it
was very painful to my feelings, but I was too sleepy to move.’
‘And now our afternoon is gone, and we have not read a word,’ sighed
little Margery. ‘I never met two such chatterboxes as you and Polly.’
‘And to hear us talk is a liberal education,’ retorted Polly.
‘Exactly,’ said Philip, dryly, ‘Come, I’ll take the books and shawls.
It’s nearly five o’clock, and we shall hear Hop Yet blowing his lusty
dinner-horn presently.’
‘Why didn’t you go off shooting with the others?’ asked Margery.
‘Stayed at home so they’d get a chance to shoot.’
‘Why, do you mean you always scare the game away?’ inquired Polly,
artlessly.
‘No; I mean that I always do all the shooting, and the others get
discouraged.’
‘Clasp hands over the bloody chasm,’ said Bell, ‘and let us smoke the
pipe of peace at dinner.’
Philip and Bell came through the trees, and, as they neared the camp, saw
Aunt Truth sitting at the door of Tent Chatter, looking the very picture
of comfort, as she drew her darning-needle in and out of an unseemly rent
in one of Dicky’s stockings. Margery and Polly came up just behind, and
dropped into her lap some beautiful branches of wild azalea.
‘Did you have a pleasant walk, dears?’ she asked.
‘Yes, indeed, dear auntie. Now, just hold your head perfectly still,
while we decorate you for dinner. We will make Uncle Doc’s eyes fairly
pop with admiration. Have you been lonely without us?’
‘Oh, not a bit. You see there has been a good deal of noise about here,
and I felt as if I were not alone. Hop Yet has been pounding soap-root
in the kitchen, and I hear the sound of Pancho’s axe in the distance,—the
Doctor asked him to chop wood for the camp-fire. Was Dicky any trouble?
Where is he?’
‘Why, darling mother, are you crazy?’ asked Bell. ‘If you think a
moment, he was in the hammock and you were lying down in the tent when we
started.’
‘Why, I certainly thought I heard him ask to go with you,’ said Mrs.
Winship, in rather an alarmed tone.
‘So he did; but I told him it was too far.’
‘I didn’t hear that; in fact, I was half asleep; I was not feeling well.
Ask Hop Yet; he has been in the kitchen all the afternoon.’
Hop Yet replied, with discouraging tranquillity, ‘Oh, I no know. I no
sabe Dicky; he allee time lun loun camp; I no look; too muchee work. I
chop hash—Dicky come in kitch’—make heap work—no good. I tell him go
long—he go; bime-by you catchum; you see.’ Whereupon he gracefully
skinned an onion, and burst into a Chinese song, with complete
indifference as to whether Dicky lived or died.
‘Perhaps he is with Pancho; I’ll run and see!’ cried Polly, dashing
swiftly in the direction of the sky-parlour. But after a few minutes she
ran back, with a serious face. ‘He’s not there; Pancho has not seen him
since lunch.’
‘Well, I’ve just happened to think,’ said pale Aunt Truth, ‘that papa
came into the tent for some cartridges, after you left, and of course he
took Dick with him. I don’t suppose it is any use to worry. He always
does come out right; and I have told him so many times never on any
account to go away from the camp alone that he surely would not do it.
Papa and the boys will be home soon, now. It is nearly six o’clock, and
I told them that I would blow the horn at six, as usual. If they are too
far away to hear it, they will know the time by the sun.’
‘Well,’ said Bell, anxiously, ‘I hope it is all right. Papa is so strict
that he won’t be late himself. Did all the boys go with him, mamma?’
‘Yes, all but Philip.’
‘Oh, then Dicky must be with them,’ said Margery, consolingly. ‘Geoffrey
always takes him wherever he can.’
So the girls went into the tent to begin their dinner toilet, which
consisted in carefully brushing burrs and dust from their pretty dresses,
and donning fresh collars and stockings, with low ties of russet leather,
which Polly declared belonged only to the stage conception of a camping
costume; then, with smoothly brushed hair and bright flower-knots at
collar and belt, they looked charming enough to grace any drawing-room in
the land.
The horn was blown again at six o’clock, Aunt Truth standing at the
entrance of the path which led up the cañon, shading her anxious eyes
from the light of the setting sun.—
‘Here they come!’ she cried, joyously, as the welcome party appeared in
sight, guns over shoulder, full game-bags, and Jack and Geoff with a few
rabbits and quail hanging over their arms.
The girls rushed out of the tent. Bell took in the whole group with one
swift glance, and then turned to her mother, who, like most mothers,
believed the worst at once, and grew paler as she asked:
‘Papa, where is little Dick?’
‘Dick! Why, my dear, he has not been out with us. What do you mean?’
‘Are you sure you didn’t take him?’ faltered Aunt Truth.
‘Of course I am. Good heavens! Doesn’t any one know where the child
is?’ looking at the frightened group.
‘You know, uncle,’ said Geoffrey, ‘we started out at three o’clock. I
noticed Dicky playing with his blocks in our tent, and said good-bye to
him. Did you see him when you came back for the cartridges?’
‘Certainly I did; he called me to look at his dog making believe go to
sleep in the hammock.’
‘We girls went down to the pool soon after that,’ said Bell, tearfully.
‘He asked to go with us, and I told him it was too far, and that he’d
better stay with mamma, who would be all alone. He said “Yes” so sweetly
I couldn’t mistrust him. Oh, was it my fault, papa? Please don’t say it
was!’ and she burst into a passion of sobs.
‘No, no, my child, of course it was not. Don’t cry; we shall find him.
Go and look about the camp, Geoff, while we consider for a minute what to
do.’
‘If there is any fault, it is mine, for going to sleep,’ said poor Aunt
Truth; ‘but I never dreamed he would dare to wander off alone, my poor
little disobedient darling! What shall we do?’
‘Have you spoken to Pancho and Hop Yet?’ asked Phil.
‘Yes; they have seen nothing.’
Hop Yet just at this moment issued from his kitchen with an immense
platter of mutton-stew and dumplings, which he deposited on the table.
On being questioned again, he answered as before, with the greatest
serenity, intimating that Dicky would come home ‘heap bime-by’ when he
got ‘plenty hungly.’ He seemed to think a lost boy or two in a family
rather a trifle than otherwise, and wound up his unfeeling remarks with
the practical one, ‘Dinner all leady; you no eat mutton, he get cold!
Misser Wins’, I no find pickle; you catchum!’
‘I don’t believe he would care if we all died right before his eyes,’
muttered Polly, angrily. ‘I should just like to see a Chinaman’s heart
once, and find out whether it was made of resin, or cuttle-fish, or
what.’
‘Well,’ said Phil, as Dr. Winship came through the trees from the
card-room, ‘we must start out this instant, and of course we can find him
somehow, somewhere; he hasn’t been gone over two hours, and he couldn’t
walk far, that’s certain. Now, Uncle Doc, shall we all go different
ways, and leave the girls here to see if he doesn’t turn up?’
‘Oh, papa,’ cried Bell, ‘do not leave us at home! We can hunt as well
as any one; we know every foot of the cañon. Let me go with Geoff, and
we’ll follow the brook trail.’
‘Very well. Now, mamma, Pancho and I will go down to the main road, and
you wait patiently here. Make all the noise you can, children; and the
one who finds him must come back to the camp and blow the horn. Hop Yet,
we go now; if Dicky comes back, you blow the horn yourself, will you?’
‘All light, boss. You eat um dinner now; then go bime-by; mutton heap
cold; you—’
‘Dinner!’ shouted Jack. ‘Confound your impudence! If you say dinner
again, I’ll cut the queue off your stupid head.’
‘Good!’ murmured Polly, giving a savage punch to her blue Tam o’ Shanter
cap.
‘Jack, Jack!’ remonstrated Aunt Truth.
‘I know, dear auntie; but the callous old heathen makes me so mad I can’t
contain myself. Come, Margery, let’s be off. Get your shawl; and hurrah
for the one who comes back to blow the horn first! I’ll wager you ten to
one I’ll have Dick in auntie’s lap inside the hour!’—at which Aunt
Truth’s eyes brightened, and she began to take heart again. But as he
tore past the brush kitchen and out into the woods, dragging Madge after
him at a breathless pace, he shut his lips together rather grimly,
saying, ‘I’d give five hundred dollars (s’posin’ I had a cent) to see
that youngster safe again.’
‘Tell me one thing, Jack,’ said Margery, her teeth chattering with
nervousness; ‘are there any animals in this cañon that would attack him?’
‘Oh, of course it is possible that a California lion or a wild-cat might
come down to the brook to drink—they have been killed hereabouts—but I
hardly believe it is likely; and neither do I believe they would be apt
to hurt him, any way, for he would never attack them, you know. What I
am afraid of is that he has tumbled over the rocks somewhere in climbing,
or tangled himself up in the chaparral. He couldn’t have made off with a
pistol, could he? He is up to all such tricks.’
Presently the cañon began to echo with strange sounds, which I have no
doubt sent the owls, birds, and rabbits into fits of terror; for the boys
had whistles and pistols, while Polly had taken a tin pan and a hammer.
She had gone with Phil out behind the thicket of manzanita bushes, and
they both stood motionless, undecided where to go.
‘Oh, Phil, I can’t help it; I must cry, I am so frightened. Let me sit
down a second. Yes, I know it’s an ant-hill, and I shouldn’t care if it
were a hornets’ nest—I deserve to be stung. What do you think I said to
Margery this morning? That Dicky was a perfect little marplot, and
spoiled all our fun, and I wished he were in the bottom of the Red Sea;
and then I called him a k-k-k-ill-joy!’ and Polly buried her head in her
blue Tam, and cried a good, honest, old-fashioned cry.
‘There, chirk up, poor little soul, and don’t you fret over a careless
speech, that meant nothing at all. I’ve wished him in the Red Sea more
than once, but I’m blessed if I ever do it again. Come, let’s go over
yonder, where we caught the young owl; Dicky may have wanted to try that
little game again.’
So they went on, calling, listening, then struggling on again, more
anxious every moment, but not so thoroughly dazed as Bell, who had rocked
her baby-brother in his cradle, and to whom he was the embodiment of
every earthly grace, if not of every heavenly virtue.
‘I might have known this would happen,’ she said, miserably. ‘He is so
careless that, if we ever find him again, we must keep him tied to
something.’
‘Take care of your steps, dear,’ said Geoff, ‘and munch this cracker, or
you won’t have strength enough to go on with me. I wish it were not
getting so dark; the moment the sun gets behind these mountain-tops the
light seems to vanish in an instant.—Dick-y!’
‘Think of the poor darling out in this darkness—hungry, frightened, and
alone,’ sighed Bell. ‘It’s past his bed-time now. Oh, why did we ever
come to stay in this horrible place!’
‘You must not blame the place, dear; we thought it the happiest in the
world this morning. Here we are by the upper pool, and the path stops.
Which way had we better go?’
‘I’ve been here before to-day,’ said Bell; ‘we might follow the trail I
made. But where is my string? Light a match, Geoff, please.’
‘What string? What do you mean?’
‘Why, I found a beautiful spot this morning, and, fearing I shouldn’t
remember the way again, I took out my ball of twine and dropped a white
line all the way back, like Ariadne; but I don’t see it. Where can it
have disappeared—unless Jack or Phil took it to tease me?’
‘Oh no; I’ve been with them all day. Perhaps a snake has swallowed it.
Come.’
But a bright idea had popped into Bell’s head. ‘I want to go that way,
Geoff, dear; it’s as good as any other, and there are flowers just the
other side, in an open, sunny place; perhaps he found them.’
‘All right; let’s go ahead.’
‘The trouble is, I don’t know which way to go. Here is the rock; I
remember it was a spotted one, with tall ferns growing beside it. Now I
went—let me see—this way,’ and they both plunged into the thick brush.
‘Bell, Bell, this is utter nonsense!’ cried Geoff. ‘No child could crawl
through this tangle.’
‘Dicky could crawl through anything in this universe, if it was the wrong
thing; he isn’t afraid of beast, bird, or fish, and he positively enjoys
getting scratched,’ said Bell.
Meanwhile, what had become of this small hero, and what was he doing? He
was last seen in the hammock, playing with the long-suffering terrier,
Lubin, who was making believe go to sleep. It proved to be entirely a
make-believe; for, at the first loosening of Dicky’s strangling hold upon
his throat, he tumbled out of the hammock and darted into the woods.
Dicky followed, but Lubin was fleet of foot, and it was a desperate and
exciting race for full ten minutes.
At length, as Lubin heard his little master’s gleeful laugh, he realised
that his anger was a thing of the past; consequently, he wheeled about
and ran into Dicky’s outstretched arms, licking his face and hands
exuberantly in the joy of complete forgiveness.
By this time the voice of conscience in Dicky’s soul—and it was a very,
very still, small one on all occasions—was entirely silenced. He strayed
into a sunny spot, and picked flowers enough to trim his little sailor
hat, probably divining that this was what lost children in Sunday-school
books always did, and it would be dishonourable not to keep up the
superstition. Then he built a fine, strong dam of stones across the
brook, wading to and fro without the bother of taking off his shoes and
stockings, and filled his hat with rocks and sunk it to the bottom for a
wharf, keeping his hat-band to tie an unhappy frog to a bit of bark, and
setting him afloat as the captain of a slave-ship. When, at length, the
struggling creature freed himself from his bonds and leaped into the
pool, Dicky played that he was a drowning child, and threw Lubin into the
water to rescue him.
In these merry antics the hours flew by unnoticed; he had never been
happier in his life, and it flashed through his mind that if he were left
entirely to himself he should always be good.
‘Here I’ve been a whole day offul good by my lone self; haven’t said one
notty word or did one notty fing, nor gotted scolded a singul wunst, did
I, Lubin? I guess we better live here; bettent we, Lubin? And ven we
wunt git stuck inter bed fur wettin’ our feets little teenty mites of wet
ev’ry singul night all the livelong days, will we, Lubin?’
But this was a long period of reflection for Master Dicky, and he capered
on, farther and farther, the water sozzling frightfully in his little
copper-toed boots. At length he sat down on a stone to rest himself,
and, glancing aimlessly about, his eyes fell on a white string, which he
grasped with alacrity, pulling its end from beneath the stone on which he
sat.
‘Luby Winship, the anjulls gaved me this string fur ter make an offul
splendid tight harness for you, little Luby; and you can drag big heavy
stones. Won’t that be nice?’
Lubin looked doubtful, and wagged his tail dissentingly, as much as to
say that his ideas of angel ministrations were a trifle different.
But there was no end to the string! How very, very curious! Dicky wound
and wound and crept and crept along, until he was thoroughly tired but
thoroughly determined to see it through; and Lubin, meanwhile, had seized
the first convenient moment, after the mention of the harness, to retire
to the camp.
At length, oh joy! the tired and torn little man, following carefully the
leading-string, issued from the scratching bushes into a clean,
beautiful, round place, with a great restful-looking stump in the centre,
and round its base a small forest of snowy toadstools. What could be a
lovelier surprise! Dicky clapped his hands in glee as he looked at them,
and thought of a little verse of poetry which Bell had taught him:
‘Some fairy umbrellas came up to-day
Under the elm-tree, just over the way,
And as we have had a shower of rain,
The reason they came is made very plain:
To-night is the woodland fairies’ ball,
And drops from the elm-tree might on them fall,
So little umbrellas wait for them here,
And under their shelter they’ll dance without fear.
Take care where you step, nor crush them, I pray,
For fear you will frighten the fairies away.’
‘Oh!’ thought Dicky, in a trance of delight, ‘now I shall go to the
fairies’ ball, and see ’em dance under the cunning little teenty
umberells; and wunt they be mad at home when nobuddy can’t see ’em but
just only me! And then if that potry is a big whopper, like that there
uvver one—’laddin-lamp story of Bell’s—I’ll just pick evry white
toadstool for my papa’s Sunday dinner, and she sha’n’t never see a singul
fairy dance.’
But he waited very patiently for a long, long time that seemed like
years, for Lubin had disappeared; and all at once it grew so dark in this
thickly-wooded place that Dicky’s courage oozed out in a single moment,
without any previous warnings as to its intention. The toadstools looked
like the ghosts of little past-and-gone fairy umbrellas in the darkness,
and not a single fairy couple came to waltz under their snowy canopies,
or exchange a furtive kiss beneath their friendly shadows.
Dicky thought the situation exceedingly gloomy, and, without knowing it,
followed the example of many older people, who, on being deserted by man,
experienced their first desire to find favour with God. He was not in
the least degree a saintly child, but he felt instinctively that this was
the proper time for prayer; and not knowing anything appropriate to the
occasion, he repeated over and over again the time-worn plaint of
childhood:—
‘Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.’
Like older mortals of feeble faith, he looked for an immediate and
practical answer, in the shape, perhaps, of his mother, with his little
night-gown and bowl of bread and milk.
‘My sakes alive!’ he grumbled between his sobs, ‘they’re the meanest
fings I ever saw. How long do they s’pose I’m goin’ to wait for ’em in
this dark? When the bears have et me up in teenty snips, then they’ll be
saterfied, I guess, and wisht they’d tookened gooder care of me—a little
speck of a boy, lefted out in this dark, bear-y place, all by his lone
self. O—oo—oo—oh!’ and he wound up with a murderous yell, which had
never failed before to bring the whole family to his side.
His former prayer seeming to be in vain, he found a soft place, brushed
it as clean as possible, and with difficulty bending his little stiff,
scratched body into a kneeling position, he prayed his nightly postscript
to ‘Now I lay me’: ‘God bless papa, ’n’ mamma, ’n’ Bell, ’n’ Jack, ’n’
Madge, ’n’ Polly, ’n’ Phil, ’n’ Geoff, ’n’ Elsie.’ Then, realizing that
he was in a perilous position, and it behooved him to be as pious as
possible, he added: ‘And please bless Pancho, ’n’ Hop Yet, ’n’ Lubin, ’n’
the goat—not the wild goat up on the hill, but my goat, what got sick to
his stummick when I painted him with black letters.’
What a dreadful calamity, to be sure, if the wrong goat had been blessed
by mistake! His whole duty performed, he picked the toadstools for his
papa’s Sunday dinner, and, leaning his head against the lone stump, cried
himself to sleep.
[Picture: And cried himself to sleep]
But relief was near, though he little suspected it as he lay in the
sound, dreamless sleep which comes only to the truly good. There was a
crashing sound in the still darkness, and Bell plunged through the thick
underbrush with a cry of delight.
‘He is here! Dear, dear Geoff, he is all here! I knew it, I knew it!
Hurrah!—no, I mean—thank God!’ she said softly as she stooped down to
kiss her mischievous little brother.
‘But what a looking creature!’ exclaimed Geoff, as he stooped over the
recovered treasure. ‘See, Bell, his curls are glistening with pitch, his
dress is torn into ribbons, and his hands—ugh, how dirty!’
‘Poor little darling, he is thoroughly used up,’ whispered Bell, wiping
tears of joy from her brown eyes. ‘Now, I’ll run home like lightning to
blow the horn; and you carry Dicky, for he is too sleepy and stiff to
walk; and, Geoff’—(here she laid an embarrassed hand on his
shoulder)—‘I’m afraid he’ll be awfully cross, but you’ll not mind it,
will you? He’s so worn-out.’
‘Not I,’ laughed Geoff, as he dropped a brotherly kiss on Bell’s pale
cheek. ‘But I’ve no idea of letting you go alone; you’re tired to death,
and you’ll miss the path. I wish I could carry you both.’
‘Tired—afraid!’ cried Bell, with a ringing laugh, while Dicky woke with a
stare, and nestled on Geoffrey’s shoulder as if nothing had happened.
‘Why, now that this weight is lifted off my heart, I could see a path in
an untravelled forest! Good-bye, you dear, darling, cruel boy! I must
run, for every moment is precious to mamma.’ And with one strangling
hug, which made Dicky’s ribs crack, she dashed off.
Oh how joyously, how sweetly and tunefully, the furious blast of the old
cracked dinner-horn fell on the anxious ears in that cañon. It seemed
clearer and more musical than a chime of silver bells.
In a trice the wandering couples had gathered jubilantly round the
camp-fire, all embracing Bell, who was the heroine of the hour—entirely
by chance, and not though superior vision or courage, as she confessed.
It was hardly fifteen minutes when Geoff strode into the ring with his
sorry-looking burden, which he laid immediately in Aunt Truth’s lap.
‘Oh my darling!’ she cried, embracing him fondly. ‘To think you are
really not dead, after all!’
‘No, he is about as alive as any chap I ever saw.’ And while the happy
parents caressed their restored darling, Geoff gathered the girls and
boys around the dinner-table, and repeated some of Dicky’s remarks on the
homeward trip.
It seems that he considered himself the injured party, and with great
ingenuity laid all the blame of the mishap on his elders.
‘Nobuddy takes care of me, anyhow,’ he grumbled. ‘If my papa wasn’t a
mean fing I’d orter to have a black nurse with a white cap and apurn,
like Billy Thomas, ’n’ then I couldn’t git losted so offul easy. An’ you
all never cared a cent about it either, or you’d a founded me quicker ’n
this—’n’ I’ve been hungry fur nineteen hours, ’n’ I guess I’ve been gone
till December, by the feelin’, but you was too lazy to found me ’f I
freezed to def—’n’ there ain’t but one singul boy of me round the whole
camp, ’n’ ’t would serveded you right if I had got losted for ever; then
I bet you wouldn’t had much fun Fourth of July ’thout my two bits ’n’ my
fire-crackers!’
It was an hour or two before peace and quiet were restored to the camp.
The long-delayed dinner had to be eaten; and to Hop Yet’s calm delight,
it was a very bad one. Dicky’s small wounds were dressed with sweet oil,
and after being fed and bathed he was tucked lovingly into bed, with a
hundred kisses or more from the whole party.
A little rest and attention had entirely restored his good-humour; and
when Dr. Paul went into the tent to see that all was safe for the night,
he found him sitting up in bed with a gleeful countenance, prattling like
a little angel.
‘We had an offul funny time ’bout my gittin’ losted, didn’t we, mamma?’
chuckled he, with his gurgling little laugh. ‘Next time I’m goin’ to get
losted in annover bran’-new place where no-bud-dy can find me! I fink it
was the nicest time ’cept Fourth of July, don’t you, mamma?’ And he
patted his mother’s cheek and imprinted an oily kiss thereon.
‘Truth,’ said the Doctor, with mild severity, ‘I know you don’t believe
in applying the slipper, but I do think we should arrange some plan for
giving that child an idea of the solemnity of life. So far as I can
judge, he looks at it as one prolonged picnic.’
‘My sentiments exactly!’ cried Bell, energetically. ‘I can’t stand many
more of these trying scenes; I am worn to a “shadder.”’
Dicky tucked his head under his mother’s arm, with a sigh of relief that
there was one person, at least, whose sentiments were always favourable
and always to be relied upon.
‘I love you the best of anybuddy, mamma,’ whispered he, and fell asleep.