never could clearly see. She cherished a secret notion that, if she
could find a little grave all dug out somewhere in a clover-field,
she would creep in and hide there. Madame Joilet could not find her
then. People who lived in graves were not supposed to be hungry;
and, if it were ever so cold, they never shivered. That they could
not be beaten was a natural consequence, because there was so much
earth between, that you wouldn't feel the stick. The only objection
would be leaving Hungry. Hungry was the kitten. June had named it
so because it was black. She had an idea that everything black was
hungry.
That there had been a war, June gathered from old Creline, who told
her the ghost stories. What it was all about, she did not know.
Madame Joilet said some terrible giants, called Yankees, were coming
down to eat up all the little black girls in Richmond. Creline said
that the Yankees were the Messiah's people, and were coming to set
the negroes free. Who the Messiah was, June did not know; but she
had heard vague stories from Creline, of old-time African princes,
who lived in great free forests, and sailed on sparkling rivers in
boats of painted bark, and she thought that he must be one of them.
Now, this morning, Creline had whispered mysteriously to June, as
she went up the street to sell some eggs for Madame Joilet, that
Massa Linkum was coming that very day. June knew nothing about
Massa Linkum, and nothing about those grand, immortal words of his
which had made every slave in Richmond free; it had never entered
Madame Joilet's plan that she should know. No one can tell, reasoned
Madame, what notions the little nigger will get if she finds it out.
She might even ask for wages, or take a notion to learn to read,
or run away, or something. June saw no one; she kept her prudently
in the house. Tell her? _No, no, impossible_!
But June had heard the beautiful news this morning, like all the
rest; and June was glad, though she had not the slightest idea why.
So, while her mistress was safely asleep upstairs, she had stolen
out to watch for the wonderful sight,--the mysterious sight that
every one was waiting to see. She was standing there on tiptoe on
the fence, in her little ragged dress, with the black kitten in
her arms, when a great crowd turned a corner, and tossed up a cloud
of dust, and swept up the street. There were armed soldiers with
glittering uniforms, and there were flags flying, and merry voices
shouting, and huzzas and blessings distinct upon the air. There
were long lines of dusky faces upturned, and wet with happy tears.
There were angry faces, too, scowling from windows, and lurking in
dark corners.
It swept on, and it swept up, and June stood still, and held her
breath to look, and saw, in the midst of it all, a tall man dressed
in black. He had a thin, white face, sad-eyed and kindly and quiet,
and he was bowing and smiling to the people on either side.
"God bress yer, Massa Linkum, God bress yer!" shouted the happy
voices; and then there was a chorus of wild hurrahs, and June laughed
outright for glee, and lifted up her little thin voice and cried,
"Bress yer, Massa Linkum!" with the rest, and knew no more than
the kitty what she did it for.
The great man turned, and saw June standing alone in the sunlight,
the fresh wind blowing her ragged dress, her little black shoulders
just reaching to the top of the fence, her wide-open, mournful
eyes, and the kitten squeezed in her arms. And he looked right at
her, oh, so kindly! and gave her a smile all to herself--one of
his rare smiles, with a bit of a quiver in it,--and bowed, and was
gone.
"Take me 'long wid yer, Massa Linkum, Massa Linkum!" called poor
June faintly. But no one heard her; and the crowd swept on, and
June's voice broke into a cry, and the hot tears came, and she laid
her face down on Hungry to hide them. You see, in all her life,
no one had ever looked so at June before.
"June, June, come here!" called a sharp voice from the house. But
June was sobbing so hard she did not hear.
"Venez ici,--vite, vite! June! Voila! The little nigger will be
the death of me. She tears my heart. June, vite, I say!"
June started, and jumped down from the fence, and ran into the
house with great frightened eyes.
"I just didn't mean to, noways, missus. I want to see Massa Linkum,
an' he look at me, an' I done forget eberyting. O missus, don't
beat me dis yere time, an' I'll neber--"
But Madame Joilet interrupted her with a box on the ear, and
dragged her upstairs. There was a terrible look on Madame's face.
Just what happened upstairs, I have not the heart to tell you.
That night, June was crouched, sobbing and bruised, behind the
kitchen stove, when Creline came in on an errand for her mistress.
Madame Joilet was obliged to leave the room for a few minutes,
and the two were alone together. June crawled out from behind the
stove. "I see him,--I see Massa Linkum, Creline."
"De Lord bress him foreber'n eber. Amen!" exclaimed Creline fervently,
throwing up her old thin hands.
June crept a little nearer, and looked all around the room to see
if the doors were shut.
"Creline, what's he done gone come down here fur? Am he de Messiah?"
"Bress yer soul, chile! don' ye know better'n dat ar?"
"Don' know nuffin," said June sullenly. "Neber knows nuffin; 'spects
I neber's gwine to. Can' go out in de road to fine out,--she beat
me. Can' ask nuffin,--she jest gib me a push down cellar. O Creline,
der's sech rats down dar now,--dar is!"
"Yer poor critter!" said Creline, with great contempt for her
ignorance. "Why, Massa Linkum, eberybody knows 'bout he. He's done
gone made we free,--whole heap on we."
"Free!" echoed June, with puzzled eyes.
"Laws, yes, chile; 'pears like yer's drefful stupid. Yer don'
b'long--" Creline lowered her voice to a mysterious whisper, and
looked carefully at the closed door,--"yer don' b'long to Missus
Jolly no more dan she b'long to you, an' dat's de trufe now, 'case
Massa Linkum say so,--God bress him!"
Just then Madame Joilet came back.
"What's that you're talking about?" she said sharply.
"June was jes' sayin' what a heap she tink ob you, missus," said
Creline with a grave face.
June lay awake a long time that night, thinking about Massa Linkum,
and the wonderful news Creline had brought, and wondering when
Madame Joilet would tell her that she was free.
But many days passed, and Madame said nothing about it. Creline's
son had left his master and gone North. Creline herself had asked
and obtained scanty wages for her work. A little black boy across
the street had been sentenced to receive twenty-five lashes for
some trifling fault, and they had just begun to whip him in the
yard, when a Union officer stepped up and stopped them. A little
girl, not a quarter of a mile away, whose name June had often
heard, had just found her father, who had been sold away from her
years ago, and had come into Richmond with the Yankee soldiers.
But nothing had happened to June. Everything went on as in the old
days before Master Linkum came. She washed dishes, and scrubbed
knives, and carried baskets of wood, so heavy that she tottered
under their weight, and was scolded if she dropped so much as a
shaving on the floor. She swept the rooms with a broom three times
as tall as she was, and had her ears boxed because she sould not
get the dust up with such tiny hands. She worked and scrubbed and
ran on errands from morning to night, till her feet ached so she
cried out with the pain. She was whipped and scolded and threatened
and frightened and shaken, just as she had been ever since she could
remember. She was kept shut up like a prisoner in the house, with
Madame Joilet's cold gray eyes forever on her, and her sharp voice
forever in her ear. And still not a word was said about Massa Linkum
and the beautiful freedom he had given to all such as little June,
and not a word did June dare to say.
But June _thought_. Madame Joilet could not help that. If Madame
had known just what June was thinking, she would have tried hard
to help it.
Well, so the days passed, and the weeks, and still Madame said
not a word; and still she whipped and scolded and shook, and June
worked and cried, and nothing happened. But June had not done all
her thinking for nothing.
One night Creline was going by the house, when June called to her
softly through the fence.
"Creline!"
"What's de matter?" said Creline, who was in a great hurry. "I's
gwine to fine Massa Linkum,--don' yer tell nobody. Law's a massy,
what a young un dat ar chile is!" said Creline, thinking that June
had just waked up from a dream, and forthwith forgetting all about
her.
Madame Joilet always locked June in her room, which was nothing
but a closet with a window in it, and a heap of rags for a bed. On
this particular night she turned the key as usual, and then went
to her own room at the other end of the house, where she was soon
soundly asleep.
About eleven o'clock, when all the house was still, the window
of June's closet softly opened. There was a roofed door-way just
underneath it, with an old grapevine trellis running up one side of
it. A little dark figure stepped out timidly on the narrow, steep
roof, clinging with its hands to keep its balance, and then down
upon the trellis, which it began to crawl slowly down. The old wood
creaked and groaned and trembled, and the little figure trembled
and stood still. If it should give way, and fall crashing to the
ground!
She stood a minute looking down; then she took a slow, careful
step; then another and another, hand under hand upon the bars. The
trellis creaked and shook and cracked, but it held on, and June
held on, and dropped softly down, gasping and terrified at what
she had done, all in a little heap on the grass below.
She lay there a moment perfectly still. She could not catch her
breath at first, and she trembled so that she could not move.
Then she crept along on tiptoe to the wood-shed. She ran a great
risk in opening the wood-shed door, for the hinges were rusty,
and it creaked with a terrible noise. But Hungry was in there. She
could not go without Hungry. She went in, and called in a faint
whisper. The kitten knew her, dark as it was, and ran out from the
wood-pile with a joyful mew, to rub itself against her dress.
"We's gwine to fine Massa Linkum, you an' me, bof two togeder,"
said June.
"Pur! pur-r-r!" said Hungry, as if she were quite content; and June
took her up in her arms, and laughed softly. How happy they would
be, she and Hungry! and how Massa Linkum would smile and wonder
when he saw them coming in! and how Madame Joilet would hunt and
scold!
She went out of the wood-shed and out of the yard, hushing the soft
laugh on her lips, and holding her breath as she passed under her
mistress's window. She had heard Creline say that Massa Linkum had
gone back to the North; so she walked up the street a little way,
and then she turned aside into the vacant squares and unpaved roads,
and so out into the fields where no one could see her.
It was very still and very dark. The great trees stood up like
giants against the sky, and the wind howled hoarsely through them.
It made June think of the bloodhounds that she had seen rushing
with horrible yells to the swamps, where hunted slaves were hiding.
"I reckon 'tain't on'y little ways, Hungry," she said with a shiver;
"we'll git dar 'fore long. Don' be 'fraid."
"Pur! pur-r-r!" said Hungry, nestling her head in warmly under
June's arm.
"'Spect you lub me, Hungry,--'spect you does!"
And then June laughed softly once more. What would Massa Linkum
say to the kitty? Had he ever seen such a kitty in all his life?
So she folded her arms tightly over Hungry's soft fur, and trudged
away into the woods. She began to sing a little as she walked, in
that sorrowful, smothered way, that made Madame Joilet angry. Ah,
that was all over now! There would be no more scolding and beating,
no more tired days, no more terrible nights spent in the dark and
lonely cellar, no more going to bed without her supper, and crying
herself to sleep. Massa Linkum would never treat her so. She never
once doubted, in that foolish little trusting heart of hers, that
he would be glad to see her, and Hungry too. Why should she? Was
there anyone in all the world who had looked so at poor June?
So on and away, deep into the woods and swamps, she trudged cheerily;
and she sang low to Hungry, and Hungry purred to her. The night
passed on and the stars grew pale, the woods deepened and thickened,
the swamps were cold and wet, the brambles scratched her hands and
feet.
"It's jes' ober here little ways, Hungry," trying to laugh. "We'll
fine him purty soon. I's terrible tired an'--sleepy, Hungry."
She sat down there on a heap of leaves to rest, and laid her head
down upon her arm, and Hungry mewed a little, and curled up in
her neck. The next she knew, the sun was shining. She jumped up
frightened and puzzled, and then she remembered where she was, and
began to think of breakfast. But there were no berries but the
poisonous dog-wood, and nothing else to be seen but leaves and
grass and bushes. Hungry snapped up a few grasshoppers, and looked
longingly at an unattainable squirrel, who was flying from tree-top
to tree-top; then they went slowly on.
About noon they came to a bit of a brook. June scooped up the water
in her hands, and Hungry lapped it with her pink tongue. But there
was no dinner to be found, and no sign of Massa Linkum; the sun was
like a great ball of fire above the tree-tops, and the child grew
faint and weak.
"I didn't'spect it was so fur," groaned poor June. "But don't yer
be 'feard now, Hungry. 'Pears like we'll fine him berry soon."
The sun went down, and the twilight came. No supper, and no sign
of Massa Linkum yet. Nothing but the great forest and the swamps
and the darkening shadows and the long, hungry night. June lay
down once more on the damp ground where the poisonous snakes hid
in the bushes, and hugged Hungry with her weak little arms, and
tried to speak out bravely: "We'll fine him, Hungry, sure, to-morrer.
He'll jes' open de door an' let us right in, he will; an' he'll
hab breakfas' all ready an' waitin'; 'pears like he'll hab a dish
ob milk up in de corner for you now,--tink o' dat ar, Hungry!" and
then the poor little voice that tried to be so brave broke down
into a great sob. "Ef I on'y jes' had one little mouthful now,
Hungry!--on'y one!"
So another night passed, and another morning came. A faint noise
woke June from her uneasy sleep, when the sun was hardly up.
It was Hungry, purring loudly at her ear. A plump young robin lay
quivering between her paws. She was tossing it to and fro with
curves and springs of delight. She laid the poor creature down
by June's face, looking proudly from June to it, saying as plainly
as words could say, "Here's a fine breakfast. I got it on purpose
for you. Why don't you eat, for pity's sake? There are plenty more
where this came from!"
But June turned away her eyes and moaned; and Hungry, in great
perplexity, made away with the robin herself.
Presently June crawled feebly to her feet, and pushed on through
the brambles. The kitten, purring in her arms, looked so happy and
contented with her breakfast that the child cried out at the sight
of it in sudden pain.
"O, I tought we'd git dar 'fore now, an' I tought he'd jes' be
so glad to see us!"--and then presently, "He jes' look so kinder
smilin' right out ob his eyes, Hungry!"
A bitter wind blew from the east that day, and before noon the rain
was falling, dreary and chilly and sharp. It soaked June's feet and
ragged dress, and pelted in her face. The wind blew against her,
and whirled about her, and tossed her to and fro,--she was such a
little thing, and so weak now and faint.
Just as the early twilight fell from the leaden sky, and the shadows
began to skulk behind the bushes, and the birds gathered to their
nests with sleepy twitter, she tripped over a little stone, fell
weakly to the ground, and lay still. She had not the strength to
get to her feet again.
But somehow June felt neither troubled nor afraid. She lay there
with her face upturned to the pelting rain, watching it patter from
leaf to leaf, listening to the chirp of the birds in the nests,
listening to the crying of the wind. She liked the sound. She had
a dim notion that it was like an old camp-meeting hymn that she
had heard Creline sing sometimes. She never understood the words,
but the music came back like a dream. She wondered if Massa Linkum
ever heard it. She thought he _looked like it_. She should like to
lie there all night and listen to it; and then in the morning they
would go on and find him,--in the morning; it would come very soon.
The twilight deepened, and the night came on. The rain fell faster,
and the sharp wind cried aloud.
"It's bery cold," said June sleepily, and turned her face over to
hide it on the kitten's warm, soft fur. "Goo' night, Hungry. We'll
git dar to-mor-rer. We's mos' dar, Hungry."
Hungry curled up close to her cold, wet cheek--Hungry did not care
how black it was--with a happy answering mew; but June said nothing
more.
The rain fell faster, and the sharp wind cried aloud. The kitten
woke from a nap, and purred for her to stir and speak; but June
said nothing more.
Still the rain fell, and the wind cried; and the long night and
the storm and the darkness passed, and the morning came.
Hungry stirred under June's arm, and licked her face, and mewed
piteously at her ear. But June's arm lay still, and June said no
word.
Somewhere, in a land where there was never slave and never mistress,
where there were no more hungry days and frightened nights, little
June was laughing softly, and had found some one to love her
at last. And so she did not find Massa Linkum after all? Ah!--who
would have guessed it? To that place where June had gone, where
there are no masters and no slaves, he had gone before her.
And don't I suppose his was the first face she saw, as she passed
through the storm and the night to that waiting, beautiful place?
And don't I suppose he smiled as he had smiled before, and led
her gently to that other Face, of which poor little June had known
nothing in all her life? Of course I do.
THE STORY OF A FOREST FIRE
By Raymond S. Spears
For more than six weeks no rain had fallen along the southwest side
of the Adirondacks. The ground was parched. In every direction
from Seabury Settlement fires had been burning through the forest,
but as yet the valley of the West Canada had escaped.
But one night a careless man threw a burning match into a
brush-heap. When morning came the west wind, blowing up the valley,
was ash-laden and warm with the fire that was coming eastward toward
the settlement in a line a mile wide.
Soon after daybreak Lem Lawson met the fire on his way to
Noblesborough, and warned the settlement of its danger. One man
hastened to Noblesborough for the fire-warden, two went up the
West Canada to the lumber-camps. The rest of the male population,
including boys, hastened down the main road to an old log trail.
It was hoped the fire might be stopped at the open the road afforded.
With hoes and shovels the men dug a trench through the loam to the
sand, scattering the dirt over the leaves toward the fire. When
the first flames came along, they redoubled their efforts amid the
flying sparks and suffocating smoke, but without avail. The sparks
and great pieces of flaming birch curls carried the flames over the
road into the woods beyond the men, fairly surrounding them with
fire.
The men could only go before it, pausing now and then to throw dirt
on a spark. Those who lived in the settlement glanced from side to
side, wondering if the fire would cross the brook, where they now
determined to make another and the last possible stand.
The settlement was built along the brink of a steep side-hill. The
bed of the stream was only a few feet wide,--chiefly sand-bar and
dry boulders at this time,--and beyond it, toward the fire, was a
flat, or bottom, sixty rods wide, averaging not two feet above the
bed of the brook.
Should the fire cross the brook, it would climb the hill and burn
the buildings. Then it would sweep across the narrow fields of
grass, or go round the ends of the settlement clearing, into the
"big woods."
One of the fire-fighters was Will Borson, son of the man who had
thrown the match, and as he fought with his hoe along the road he
heard the men on each side of him cursing his father by name for
his carelessness. More than once these men turned on Will, and told
him he ought to put that fire out, since his father was to blame
for it.
Will did his best. Sparks burned holes in his shirt; a flare of
sheet fire from a brush-heap singed his eyelashes and the hair over
his forehead. When old Ike Frazier cried out, "It's no use here
any more, boys!" Will was the last one to duck his head and run
for the road up the creek to the settlement.
Half a dozen men were detailed to go to the houses and help the
women carry the furniture and other household goods out in the
fields to the watering-troughs; the rest hastened to the brook
and scattered along it, and threw water on the brush at the edge,
hoping the flames would be deadened when they came.
Among them worked Will Borson, thinking with all his might and
looking up and down the creek as if the dry gray boulders, with the
scant thread of water oozing down among them, would give him some
inspiration. The width of the stream was only a few feet on an
average, and twenty feet at the widest pools, over which the flame
and sparks would quickly jump.
The fire reached the flat at the foot of the ridge and came toward
the brook in jumps. The men worked faster than ever with their
ten-quart pails. Old Ike Frazier glanced up the stream, and saw
Will leaning on his hoe-handle, doing nothing.
"Hi there!" yelled the man. "Get to work!"
"You tell the men they want to be looking out!" Will called back.
"Something'll happen pretty quick!" With that he dropped his hoe
and went climbing up the side-hill toward his home at the top.
Mrs. Borson was just piling the last of her bedding on the wagon
when she saw Will coming toward her. He unhitched the horse from
the wagon, and had the harness scattered on the ground before his
mother could control herself enough to cry:
"Those things'll be burned here! What are you taking the horse
for--we--we--"
Then she sank to the ground and cried, while Will's younger brothers
and sisters joined in.
Will did not stop to say anything, but leaped to the back of the
horse, and away he went up the road, to the amazement of those who
were taking their goods from the houses. But he was soon in the
woods above the settlement and out of sight of every one.
He was headed for the dam. He had thought to open the little sluice
at the bottom of it, which would add to the volume of the water in
the stream--raise it a foot, perhaps.
He reached the dam, and prying at the gate, opened the way. A stream
of water two feet square shot from the bottom of the dam and went
sloshing down among the rocks.
"That water'll help a lot," he thought. Then he heard the roar of
the fire down the brook, and saw a huge dull, brick-colored flash
as a big hemlock went up in flame. The amount of water gushing from
the gate of the dam seemed suddenly small and useless. It would not
fill the brook-bed. In a little shanty a hundred yards away were
the quarrying tools used in getting out the stone for the Cardin
house. To this Will ran with all his speed.
With an old ax that was behind the shanty he broke down the door.
Inside he picked up a full twelve-pound box of dynamite, and bored
a hole the size of his finger into one side. Then with a fuse and
cap in one hand and the box under his arm, he hurried back to the
dam.
He climbed down the ladder to the bottom of the dam, and fixing
the fuse to the cap, ran it into the hole he had bored till it was
well among the sawdust and sticks of dynamite. He cut the fuse to
two minutes' length, and carried the box back among the big key
logs that held the dam. He was soon ready. He jammed the box under
water among beams where it would stick. A match started the fuse
going, and then Will climbed the ladder and ran for safety.
In a few moments the explosion came. Will heard the beams in the
gorge tumbling as the dam gave way, and the water behind was freed.
Away it went, washing and pounding down the narrow ravine, toward
the low bottom.