eyes, not behind, but above him, in a tree. Then he knew that it was an
"Indian devil," as they called a species of fierce animal that lurked in
the thickets and sprang on its prey like a small tiger.
"If I could only kill it alone, how proud Onawandah would be of me,"
thought Reuben, burning for the good opinion of his friend.
It would have been wiser to hurry on and give the beast no time to
spring; but the boy was over bold, and, fitting an arrow to the string,
aimed at the bright eye-ball and let fly. A sharp snarl showed that some
harm was done, and, rather daunted by the savage sound, Reuben raced
away, meaning to come back next day for the prize he hoped he had
secured.
But soon he heard the creature bounding after him, and he uttered one
ringing shout for help, feeling too late that he had been foolhardy.
Fortunately, he was nearer camp than he thought. Onawandah heard him,
and was there in time to receive the beast, as, mad with the pain of the
wound, it sprung at Reuben. There was no time for words, and the boy
could only watch in breathless interest and anxiety the fight which went
on between the brute and the Indian.
It was sharp but short; for Onawandah had his knife, and as soon as he
could get the snarling, struggling creature down, he killed it with a
skilful stroke. But not before it had torn and bitten him more
dangerously than he knew; for the dusk hid the wounds, and excitement
kept him from feeling them at first. Reuben thanked him heartily, and
accepted his few words of warning with grateful docility; then both
hurried back to Eunice, who till next day knew nothing of her brother's
danger.
Onawandah made light of his scratches, as he called them, got their
supper, and sent Reuben early to bed, for to-morrow they were to start
again.
Excited by his adventure, the boy slept lightly, and waking in the
night, saw by the flicker of the fire Onawandah binding up a deep wound
in his breast with wet moss and his own belt. A stifled groan betrayed
how much he suffered; but when Reuben went to him, he would accept no
help, said it was nothing, and sent him back to bed, preferring to
endure the pain in stern silence, with true Indian pride and courage.
Next morning, they set out and pushed on as fast as Eunice's strength
allowed. But it was evident that Onawandah suffered much, though he
would not rest, forbade the children to speak of his wounds, and pressed
on with feverish haste, as if he feared that his strength might not hold
out. Reuben watched him anxiously, for there was a look in his face that
troubled the boy and filled him with alarm, as well as with remorse and
love. Eunice would not let him carry her as before, but trudged bravely
behind him, though her feet ached and her breath often failed as she
tried to keep up; and both children did all they could to comfort and
sustain their friend, who seemed glad to give his life for them.
In three days they reached the river, and, as if Heaven helped them in
their greatest need, found a canoe, left by some hunter, near the shore.
In they sprang, and let the swift current bear them along, Eunice
kneeling in the bow like a little figure-head of Hope, Reuben steering
with his paddle, and Onawandah sitting with arms tightly folded over his
breast, as if to control the sharp anguish of the neglected wound. He
knew that it was past help now, and only cared to see the children safe;
then, worn out but happy, he was proud to die, having paid his debt to
the good parson, and proved that he was not a liar nor a traitor.
Hour after hour they floated down the great river, looking eagerly for
signs of home, and when at last they entered the familiar valley, while
the little girl cried for joy, and the boy paddled as he had never done
before, Onawandah sat erect, with his haggard eyes fixed on the dim
distance, and sang his death-song in a clear, strong voice,--though
every breath was pain,--bent on dying like a brave, without complaint or
fear.
At last they saw the smoke from the cabins on the hillside, and, hastily
mooring the canoe, all sprang out, eager to be at home after their long
and perilous wandering. But as his foot touched the land, Onawandah felt
that he could do no more, and stretching his arms toward the parsonage,
the windows of which glimmered as hospitably as they had done when he
first saw them, he said, with a pathetic sort of triumph in his broken
voice: "Go. I cannot. Tell the good father, Onawandah not lie, not
forget. He keep his promise."
Then he dropped upon the grass and lay as if dead, while Reuben, bidding
Eunice keep watch, ran as fast as his tired legs could carry him to tell
the tale and bring help.
The little girl did her part tenderly, carrying water in her hands to
wet the white lips, tearing up her ragged skirt to lay fresh bandages
on the wound that had been bleeding the brave boy's life away, and,
sitting by him, gathered his head into her arms, begging him to wait
till father came.
But poor Onawandah had waited too long; now he could only look up into
the dear, loving, little face bent over him, and whisper wistfully:
"Wild Rose will remember Onawandah?" as the light went out of his eyes,
and his last breath was a smile for her.
When the parson and his people came hurrying up full of wonder, joy, and
good-will, they found Eunice weeping bitterly, and the Indian boy lying
like a young warrior smiling at death.
"Ah, my neighbors, the savage has taught us a lesson we never can
forget. Let us imitate his virtues, and do honor to his memory," said
the pastor, as he held his little daughter close and looked down at the
pathetic figure at his feet, whose silence was more eloquent than any
words.
All felt it, and even old Becky had a remorseful sigh for the boy who
had kept his word so well and given back her darlings safe.
They buried him where he lay; and for years the lonely mound under the
great oak was kept green by loving hands. Wild roses bloomed there, and
the murmur of the Long River of Pines was a fit lullaby for faithful
Onawandah.
[Illustration]
Little Things
"That's the sort I like," said Geoff, as the story ended; "Onawandah was
a trump, and I'd give a good deal to know such a fellow, and go hunting
with him. Got any more like it, aunty?"
"Perhaps; but it is the girls' turn now, and here is a quiet little
story that teaches the same lesson in a different way. It contains a
hint which some of you would better take;" and Aunt Elinor glanced
around the circle with a smile that set her hearers on the alert to see
who was to be hit.
"Hope it isn't _very_ moral," said Geoff, with a boyish dislike of being
preached at.
"It won't harm you to listen, and take the moral to heart, my lad. Wild
horses, gold mines, and sea scrapes, are not the only things worth
reading about. If you ever do half so much good in the world as the
people in this story did, I shall be proud of you," answered Aunt
Elinor, so soberly that Geoff folded his hands, and tried to look meekly
impressed.
"Is it true?" asked Min.
"Yes. I heard 'Abby' tell it herself, and saw the silk stocking, and the
scar."
"That sounds _very_ interesting. I do like to hear about good clothes
and awful accidents," cried the girl, forgetting to spin, in her
eagerness to listen.
They all laughed at her odd mixture of tastes, and then heard the story
of
LITTLE THINGS.
Abigail sat reading "Rasselas" aloud to her father while he shaved,
pausing now and then to explain a word or correct the girl's
pronunciation; for this was a lesson, as well as a pleasure. The
handsome man, in his nankin dressing-gown, ruffled shirt, black
small-clothes, and silk stockings, stood before the tall, old-fashioned
bureau, looking often from the reflection of his own ruddy face to the
pale one beside him, with an expression of tender pride, which plainly
showed how dear his young daughter was to him.
Abby was a slender girl of fifteen, in a short-waisted gingham gown,
with a muslin tucker, dimity apron, and morocco shoes on a pair of small
feet demurely crossed before her. A blue-eyed, brown-haired little
creature, with a broad brow, and a sweet mouth, evidently both
intelligent and affectionate; for she heartily enjoyed the story, and
answered her father's approving glances with a face full of the loving
reverence so beautiful to see.
Schools were not abundant in 1815; and, after learning to read, spell,
sew, and cipher a little at some dame school, girls were left to pick
up knowledge as they could; while the brothers went to college, or were
apprenticed to some trade. But the few things they did study were well
learned; so that Abby's reading was a pleasure to hear. She wrote a
fine, clear hand, seldom misspelled a word, kept her own little
account-book in good order, and already made her father's shirts,
hemstitching the linen cambric ruffles with the daintiest skill, and
turning out button-holes any one might be proud of. These
accomplishments did not satisfy her, however, and she longed to know
much more,--to do and be something great and good,--with the sincere
longing of an earnest, thoughtful girl.
These morning talks with her father were precious half-hours to her; for
they not only read and discussed well-chosen books, but Abby opened her
heart freely, and received his wise counsels with a grateful docility
which helped to make her after-life as benevolent and blessed as his.
"I don't wonder that Rasselas wanted to get out of the Happy Valley and
see the world for himself. I often feel so, and long to go and have
adventures, like the people I read about; to do something very splendid,
and be brave and great and loved and honored," said Abby, as she closed
the book, and looked out of the open window with wistful eyes; for the
chestnut trees were rustling in the May sunshine, and spring was
stirring in the girl's heart, as well as in the budding boughs and early
flowers on the green bank below.
"Do not be in a hurry to leave your Happy Valley, my dear; but help to
keep it so by doing your part well. The happiness of life depends very
much on little things; and one can be brave and great and good while
making small sacrifices and doing small duties faithfully and
cheerfully," answered Mr. Lyon, with the look of one who practised what
he preached.
"But _my_ little things are so stupid and easy. Sewing, and learning to
pickle and preserve, and going out to tea when I don't want to, and
helping mother, are none of them romantic or exciting duties and
sacrifices. If I could take care of poor people, or be a colonel in a
splendid uniform, and march with drums and trumpets,--or even a
fire-warden, and run to save lives and property, and be loved and
thanked and trusted, as you are, I should be contented," continued Abby,
kindling at the thought; for she considered her father the noblest of
men, and glowed with pride when she saw him in his regimentals on great
occasions, or when she helped him into the leathern cap and coat, and
gave him the lantern, staff, and canvas bags he used, as fire-warden,
long before steam-engines, hook and ladder companies, and electric
alarms were dreamed of.
Mr. Lyon laughed as he washed his face at the queer, three-cornered
stand, and then sat down to have his hair tied in a queue by his
daughter, who prided herself on doing this as well as a barber.
"Ah, my girl, it's not the things that make the most noise and show that
are the bravest and the best; but the everlasting patience, charity, and
courage needed to bear our daily trials like good Christians." And the
smile changed to a sigh, for the excellent man knew the value of these
virtues, and their rarity.
"Yes, I know, sir; but it is so splendid to be a hero, and have the
world ring with one's glory, like Washington and Lafayette, or Perry,
Hull, and Lawrence," said Abby, winding the black ribbon so
energetically that it nearly broke; for her head was full of the brave
deeds performed in the wars of 1775 and 1812, the latter of which she
well remembered.
"Easy, my dear, easy!--remember that it was the faithful doing of small
things which fitted these men to do the grand deeds well, when the time
came. Heroes are not made in a minute, and we never know what we may be
called upon to live through. Train yourself now to be skilful, prompt,
courageous, and kind; then when the duty or the danger comes, you will
be prepared for it. 'Keep your spindle ready, and the Lord will send the
flax,' as the old proverb says."
"I will, father, and remember the other saying that you like and live up
to, 'Do right and leave the consequences to God,'" answered Abby, with
her arm about his neck, and a soft cheek against his, feeling that with
such an example before her she ought not to fail.
"That's my good girl! Come, now, begin at once. Here's a little thing to
do, a very homely one, but useful, and some honor may be gained by doing
it nicely; for, if you'll darn this bad rent in my new stocking, I'll
give you five dollars."
As he spoke, Mr. Lyon handed her a heavy silk stocking with a great
"barn-door" tear in the calf. He was rather proud of his handsome legs,
and dressed them with care, importing hose of unusual fineness for state
occasions; being one of the old-time gentlemen whose stately elegance
added dignity to any scene.
Abby groaned as she examined the hole torn by a nail, for it was a very
bad one, and she knew that if not well done, the costly stocking would
be ruined. She hated to darn, infinitely preferring to read, or study
Latin with her brother, instead of repairing old damask, muslin gowns,
and the family hose. But she did it well, excelling her elder sister in
this branch of needle-work; so she could not refuse, though the
sacrifice of time and taste would have been almost impossible for any
one but father.
"I'll try, sir, and you shall pay me with a kiss; five dollars is too
much for such a little thing," she said, smiling at him as she put the
stocking into the capacious pocket where girls kept housewife, scissors,
thimble, pin-ball, and a bit of lovage or flag-root in those days.
"I'm not so sure that you'll find it an easy job; but remember Bruce and
his spider, and don't be conquered by the 'little thing.' Now I must be
off. Good-by, my darling," and Mr. Lyon's dark eyes twinkled as he
thought of the task he had set her; for it seemed as if nothing short of
a miracle could restore his damaged stocking.
Abby forgot her heroics and ran to get his hat and cane, to receive his
morning kiss, and answer the salute he always paused at the street
corner to give her before he went away to the many cares and labors of
his own busy day. But while she put her little room in order, dusted the
parlor, and clapped laces for her mother, who, like most ladies long
ago, did up her own caps and turbans, Abby was thinking over the late
conversation, and wondering if strict attention to small affairs would
really lead to something good or glorious in the end.
When her other duties were done, she resolutely sat down to the detested
darn, although it would have been much pleasanter to help her sister cut
out green satin leaves and quill up pink ribbon into roses for a garland
to festoon the skirt of a new white dress.
Hour after hour she worked, slowly and carefully weaving the torn edges
together, stitch by stitch, till her eyes ached and the delicate needle
grew rusty in her warm hand. Her mother begged her to stop and rest,
sister Catharine called her to come and see how well the garland looked,
and a friend came to take her to drive. But she refused to stir, and
kept at her weaving, as patiently as King Robert's spider, picking out a
bit that puckered, turning the corner with breathless care, and rapping
it with her thimble on the wooden egg till it lay flat. Then she waited
till an iron was heated, and pressed it nicely, finishing in time to put
it on her father's bureau, where he would see it when he dressed for
dinner.
"Nearly four hours over that dreadful darn! But it's done now, and
hardly shows, so I do think I've earned my money. I shall buy that
work-box I have wanted so long. The inlaid one, with nice velvet beds
for the thimble, scissors, and bodkin, and a glass in the cover, and a
little drawer for my silk-reels. Father will like that, and I shall be
proud to show it."
These agreeable thoughts were passing through Abby's mind as she went
into the front yard for a breath of air, after her long task was over.
Tulips and hyacinths were blooming there, and, peeping through the bars
of the gate, stood a little girl wistfully watching the gay blossoms and
enjoying their perfume. Now, Abby was fond of her garden, and had been
hurrying the early flowers, that they might be ready for her father's
birthday nosegay; so her first impulse was to feign that she did not see
the child, for she did not want to give away a single tulip. But the
morning talk was fresh in her memory, and presently she thought:--
"Here is a little thing I can do;" and ashamed of the selfish impulse,
she gathered several of her finest flowers and offered them, saying
cordially:--
"I think you would like these. Please take them, and by and by when
there are more, you shall have prettier ones."
"Oh, thank you! I did want some for mamma. She is ill, and will be so
pleased," was the grateful answer, given with a little courtesy, and a
smile that made the wistful face a very happy one.
"Do you live near by?" asked Abby, seeing at once from the child's
speech and manner that she was both well-bred and grateful.
"Just around the corner. We are English, and papa is dead. Mamma kept
school in another place till she was too ill, and now I take care of her
and the children as well as I can."
The little girl of twelve, in her black frock, with a face far too old
and anxious for her years, was so innocently pathetic as she told the
sad story, that Abby's tender heart was touched, and an impetuous desire
to do something at once made her exclaim:--
"Wait a minute, and I'll send something better than flowers. Wouldn't
your mother like some wine jelly? I helped make it, and have a glassful
all my own."
"Indeed she would!" began the child, blushing with pleasure; for the
poor lady needed just such delicacies, but thought only of the
children's wants.
Waiting to hear no more, Abby ran in to get her offering, and came back
beaming with benevolent good-will.
"As it is not far and you have that big basket, I'll go with you and
help carry the things, if I may? My mother will let me, and my father
will come and see you, I'm sure, if you'd like to have him. He takes
care of everybody, and is the best and wisest man in all the world."
Lucy Mayhew accepted these kind offers with childish confidence,
thinking the young lady a sort of angel in a coal-scuttle bonnet, and
the two went chatting along, good friends at once; for Abby had most
engaging manners, and her cheerful face won its way everywhere.
She found the English family a very interesting one, for the mother was
a gentlewoman, and in sore straits now,--being unable to use her
accomplishments any longer, and failing fast, with no friends to protect
the four little children she must soon leave alone in a strange land.
"If _they_ were only cared for, I could go in peace; but it breaks my
heart to think of them in an asylum, when they need a home," said the
poor lady, telling her greatest anxiety to this sympathetic young
visitor; while Lucy regaled the noses of the eager little ones with
delicious sniffs of the pink and blue hyacinths.
"Tell father all about it, and he'll know just what to do. He always
does, and every one goes to him. May he come and see you, ma'am?" said
Abby, longing to take them all home at once.
"He will be as welcome as an angel from Heaven, my child. I am failing
very fast, and help and comfort are sorely needed," answered the
grateful woman, with wet eyes and a heart too full for many thanks.
Abby's eyes were full also, and promising to "send father soon," she
went away, little dreaming that the handful of flowers and a few kind
words were the first links in a chain of events that brought a blessing
into her own home.
She waited anxiously for her father's return, and blushed with pleasure
as he said, after examining her morning's work:--
"Wonderfully well done, my dear! Your mother says she couldn't have done
it better herself."
"I'm sorry that it shows at all; but it was impossible to hide that
corner, and if you wear it on the inside of the leg, it won't be seen
much," explained Abby, anxiously.
"It shows just enough for me to know where to point when I boast of my
girl's patience and skill. People say I'm making a blue-stocking of you,
because we read Johnson; but my black stocking will prove that I haven't
spoiled you yet," said Mr. Lyon, pinching her cheek, as they went down
to dinner arm in arm.
Literary ladies were looked upon with awe, and by many with disapproval,
in those days; so Abby's studious tastes were criticised by the good
cousins and aunts, who feared she might do something peculiar; though,
years later, they were very proud of the fine letters she wrote, and the
intellectual society which she had unconsciously fitted herself to enjoy
and adorn.
Abby laughed at her father's joke, but said no more just then; for young
people sat silent at table while their elders talked. She longed to tell
about Lucy; and when dessert came, she drew her chair near to her
father's, that she might pick the kernels from his walnuts and drop them
into his wine, waiting till he said, as usual: "Now, little girl, let's
take comfort." For both enjoyed the hour of rest he allowed himself in
the middle of the day.
On this occasion he varied the remark by adding, as he took a bill from
his pocket-book and gave it to her with a kiss: "Well-earned money, my
dear, and most cheerfully paid."
"Thank you, sir! It seems a great deal for such a small job. But I _do_
want it very much. May I tell you how I'd like to spend it, father?"
cried Abby, beaming with the sweet delight of helping others.
"Yes, child; come and tell me. Something for sister, I suspect; or a new
book, perhaps." And, drawing her to his knee, Mr. Lyon waited with a
face full of benignant interest in her little confidences.
She told her story eagerly and well, exclaiming as she ended: "And now,
I'm so glad, so very glad, I have this money, all my own, to spend for
those dear little things! I know you'll help them; but it's so nice to
be able to do my part, and giving away is such a pleasure."
"You are your father's own daughter in that, child. I must go and get my
contribution ready, or I shall be left out," said Mrs. Lyon, hastening
away to add one more charity to the many which made her quiet life so
beautiful.
"I will go and see our neighbor this evening, and you shall come with
me. You see, my girl, that the homely 'little job' is likely to be a
large and pleasant one, and you have earned your part in it. Do the duty
that comes first, and one never knows what beautiful experience it may
blossom into. Use your earnings as you like, and God bless you, my
dear."
So Abby had her part in the happy days that came to the Mayhews, and
enjoyed it more than a dozen work-boxes; while her father was never
tired of showing the handsome darn and telling the story of it.
Help and comfort were much needed around the corner; for very soon the
poor lady died. But her confidence in the new friends raised up to her
was not misplaced; and when all was over, and people asked, "What will
become of the children?" Mr. Lyon answered the sad question by leading
the four little orphans to his own house, and keeping them till good
homes were found for the three youngest.
Lucy was heart-broken, and clung to Abby in her sorrow, as if nothing
else could console her for all she had lost. No one had the heart to
speak of sending her away at present; and, before long, the grateful
little creature had won a place for herself which she never forfeited.
It was good for Abby to have a care of this sort, and her generous
nature enjoyed it thoroughly, as she played elder sister in the sweetest
way. It was her first real lesson in the charity that made her
after-life so rich and beautiful; but then she little dreamed how well
she was to be repaid for her small share in the good work which proved
to be a blessing to them all.