Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, APRIL 7, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 858. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
HOW TO START IN LIFE.
RANCHING.
BY HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
There are in every community young men to whom life at the desk or
behind the counter is unutterably dreary and unattractive, and who long
for some out-of-door occupation which shall, if possible, contain a
spice of excitement. These young men can be divided into two
classes--first, those who, if they get a chance to try the life for
which they long, will speedily betray their utter inability to lead it;
and, secondly, those who possess the physical capacity and the peculiar
mental make-up necessary for success in an employment far out of the
usual paths of civilized occupations. A great many of these young men
think of ranching as a business which they might possibly take up, and
what I am about to say is meant as much for a warning to one class as
for advice to the other.
Ranching is a rather indefinite term. In a good many parts of the West a
ranch simply means a farm; but I shall not use it in this sense, since
the advantages and disadvantages of a farmer's life, whether it be led
in New Jersey or Iowa, have often been dwelt upon by men infinitely more
competent than I am to pass judgment. Accordingly, when I speak of
ranching I shall mean some form of stock-raising or sheep-farming as
practised now in the wilder parts of the United States, where there is
still plenty of land which, because of the lack of rainfall, is not very
productive for agricultural purposes.
The first thing to be remembered by any boy or young man who wishes to
go West and start life on a cattle ranch, horse ranch, or sheep ranch is
that he must know the business thoroughly before he can earn any salary
to speak of, still less start out on his own accord. A great many young
fellows apparently think that a cowboy is born and not made, and that in
order to become one all they have to do is to wish very hard to be one.
Now, as a matter of fact, a young fellow trained as a bookkeeper would
take quite as long to learn the trade of a cowboy as the average cowboy
would take to learn the trade of bookkeeper. The first thing that the
beginner anywhere in the wilder parts of the West has to learn is the
capacity to stand monotony, fatigue, and hardship; the next thing is to
learn the nature of the country.
A young fellow from the East who has been brought up on a farm, or who
has done hard manual labor as a machinist, need not go through a
novitiate of manual labor in order to get accustomed to the roughness
that such labor implies; but a boy just out of a high-school, or a young
clerk, will have to go through just such a novitiate before he will be
able to command a dollar's pay. Both alike will have to learn the nature
of the country, and this can only be learned by actual experience on the
ground. Again, the beginner must remember that though there are
occasional excitement and danger in a ranchman's life, it is only
occasional, while the monotony of hard and regular toil is not often
broken. Except in the matter of fresh air and freedom from crowding, a
small ranchman often leads a life of as grinding hardness as the average
dweller in a New York tenement-house. His shelter is a small log hut, or
possibly a dug-out in the side of a bank, or in summer a shabby tent.
For food he will have to depend mainly on the bread of his own baking,
on fried fat pork, and on coffee or tea with sugar and no milk. Of
course he will occasionally have some canned stuff or potatoes. The
furniture of the hut is of the roughest description--a roll of blankets
for bedding, a bucket, a tin wash-basin, and a tin mug, with perhaps a
cracked looking-glass four inches square.
He will not have much society of any kind, and the society he does have
is not apt to be over-refined. If he is a lad of a delicate, shrinking
nature and fastidious habits, he will find much that is uncomfortable,
and will need to show no small amount of pluck and fortitude if he is to
hold his own. The work, too, is often hard and often wearisome from mere
sameness. It is generally done on horseback even on a sheep ranch, and
always on a cow ranch. The beginner must learn to ride with indifference
all kinds of rough and dangerous horses before he will be worth his
keep.
With all this before him, the beginner will speedily find out that life
on a Western ranch is very far from being a mere holiday. A young man
who desires to start in the life ought, if possible, to have with him a
little money--just enough to keep body and soul together--until he can
gain a foothold somewhere. No specific directions can be given him as to
where to start. Wyoming, most of Montana, the western edge of the
Dakotas, western Texas, and some portions of the Rocky Mountain States
still offer chances for a man to go into the ranch business. In
different seasons in the different localities business may be good or
bad, and it would be impossible to tell where was the best place to
start. Wherever the beginner goes, he ought to make up his mind at the
outset to start by doing any kind of work he can. Let him chop wood,
hoe, do any chore that will bring him in twenty-five cents. If he is
once able to start by showing that he is willing to work hard and do
something, he can probably get employment of some kind, although this
employment will almost certainly be very ill paid and not attractive.
Perhaps it will be to dig in a garden, or to help one of the men drive
oxen, or to do the heavy work round camp for some party of cow-punchers
or lumberers. Whatever it is, let the boy go at it with all his might,
and at the same time take every opportunity to get acquainted with the
kind of life which he intends ultimately to lead. If he wishes to try to
ride a horse, he will be given every chance, if for no other reason than
that he will continually meet men whose ideas of fun are met by the
spectacle of a tenderfoot on a bucking bronco.
By degrees he will learn a good deal of the ways of the life and of the
country. Then he must snatch the first chance that offers itself to take
a position in connection with the regular work of a ranch. He may be
employed as a regular hand to help cook on the ranch wagon, or taken by
a shepherd to do the hard and dirty work which the shepherd would like
to put off on somebody else. When he has once got as far as this his
rise is certain, if he is not afraid of labor, and keeps a lookout for
the opportunities that offer. After a while he will be given a horse
himself, and employed as a second-rate man to do the ordinary ranch
work.
Work on a sheep ranch is less attractive but more profitable than on any
other. A good deal of skill must be shown by the shepherd in managing
his flock and in handling the sheep dogs; but ordinarily it is
appallingly dreary to sit all day long in the sun, or loll about in the
saddle, watching the flocks of fleecy idiots. In time of storm he must
work like a demon and know exactly what to do, or his whole flock will
die before his eyes, sheep being as tender as horses and cattle are
tough.
[Illustration: ON A CATTLE RANCH--AN UNRULY STEER.]
With the work of a cow ranch or horse ranch there comes more excitement.
Every man on such a ranch has a string of eight or ten horses for his
own riding, and there is a great deal of exciting galloping and hot
riding across the plains; and the work in a stampede at night, or in
line-riding during the winter, or in breaking the fierce little horses
to the saddle, is as exciting as it is hard and dangerous. The wilder
phases of the life, however, are steadily passing away. Almost
everywhere great wire fences are being put up, and no small part of the
cowboy's duty nowadays is to ride along the line of a fence and repair
it wherever broken. Moreover, at present the business of cattle or horse
raising on the plains does not pay well, and, except in peculiar cases,
can hardly be recommended to a boy ambitious for his future.
So much for the unattractive reality of ranch life. It would be unfair
not to point out that it has a very attractive side also. If the boy is
fond of open-air exercise, and willing to risk tumbles that may break an
occasional bone, and to endure at need heat and cold, hunger and thirst,
he will find much that is pleasant in the early mornings on the great
plains, and on the rare days when he is able to take a few hours'
holiday to go with his shot-gun after prairie-chickens or ducks, or,
perchance, to ride out with a Winchester rifle to a locality where on
one of his working days he has seen a small band of antelope standing in
the open, or caught a glimpse of a deer bounding through the brush.
There is little temptation to spend money, unless he is addicted to the
coarsest kind of dissipation, and after a few years the young fellow
ought to have some hundreds of dollars put up. By this time he should
know all about the business and the locality, and should be able to
gauge just what he can accomplish.
For a year or two perhaps he can try to run a little outfit of his own
in connection with his work on a big ranch. Then he will abandon the
latter and start out entirely on his own account. Disaster may overtake
him, as it may overtake any business man; but if he wins success, even
though of a moderate kind, he has a pleasant life before him, riding
about over the prairie among his own horses or cattle or sheep,
occasionally taking a day off to go after game, and, while working hard,
not having to face the mere drudgery which he had to face as a tyro. The
chances are very small that he will ever gain great wealth; and when he
marries and has children of his own there are many uncomfortable
problems to face, the chief being that of schools; but for a young man
in good health and of adventurous temper the life is certainly
pleasanter than that of one cooped up in the counting-room, and while it
is not one to be sought save by the very few who have a natural liking
for it and a natural capacity to enjoy it and profit by it, still for
these few people it remains one of the most attractive forms of
existence in America.
BIOGRAPHY OF A STARBOARD ANCHOR.
BY H. PERCY ASHLEY.
The big Anchor rested on the smooth green lawn in front of the house,
all glistening in the sunshine with its new coat of white paint, and
there was nothing about it to show how it had once taken a very
important part in the lives of the youngsters who were even then playing
around on the grass not far away. But the old Bo's'n came along one day,
and he knew the story, and as near as I can remember it, this is what he
said the Anchor told him:
I came out of the ground a great many years ago, and my appearance at
the time was somewhat crude. I was put on a train and taken to a place
where they gave me a bath, and afterwards I was melted, hammered, and
pounded until it seemed as if my last days had come. I had a chance to
cool off after this ordeal, however, and a new suit of galvanized
clothing was given to me. I felt very proud a few days later as I lay in
state at the door of a large ship-chandler's shop on South Street in New
York city. Frequently men who passed by in the crowd would stop to look
at me, and some of them would remark upon my beauty and my strength,
which made me expand with pride and give them one of my brightest looks.
Those were the days, you must remember, when I was new and foolish, for
up to that time I had never seen the ocean, except for the occasional
glimpses I caught over the corner of the dock and through the tangle of
shipping.
Spring came, and all was hurry and bustle in the shop behind me. One
particularly fine morning a truck backed up against the sidewalk, and
some men loaded me on to it, and took me away and transferred me to a
steam-freighter, which landed me the next day at Newport. Soon afterward
I was shipped to the bow of a large schooner yacht. As long as I live I
shall never forget how the Captain and the mate looked me over; and as
they patted my arms and flukes they remarked that I was very well made.
Mr. Summerville, the owner of the yacht, also came forward to admire me,
and after him ran two of the prettiest children I had ever seen. Laying
his hand upon my arm, he said:
"Children, this is the new Right Bower. We all place a great deal of
dependence upon him."
I was so much overcome at this that I could not speak, but I extended my
palm and gave them my very best bow.
I did not meet my associate Anchor until several days afterwards, since
he was on duty at the bottom of the bay; but the Chain, to which he was
very much attached, gave me his respects. A few days after my arrival,
my future chum, Patent Link Chain, came aboard, and we were introduced
by the mate. Patent Chain extended his shackles in a friendly way, and I
grasped them firmly in my ring. Little did we foresee the many trials
before us.
It is needless for me to relate how I nearly fainted when thrown
overboard for the first time, and how my dear friend Patent Chain never
lost his hold upon me. Nearly all my duty was at night, for I was very
much stronger than the Port Bow Anchor. There was another Anchor on
board, called Kedge, but my partner and I did not take very kindly to
him, as he seemed to be stuck up, and spent most of his time aft. We
therefore let him severely alone, and we learned that he remarked to the
Chains one day that the Kedge family were called upon to do duty only on
special occasions, and to be rowed about in small boats.
The Chains of this yacht for some reason never seemed to get along very
well together, and frequently when two of them were on duty at the same
time they would get in a tangle, and the mate would have to go out on
the bob-stay and chastise them with a marlinspike before they could be
separated. But, as my friend Patent Chain frequently remarked, the other
chain was very common and had a bad heart. Events proved his opinion was
well founded.
We were on a cruise toward Maine when the turning-point in my life
occurred. As we sailed along one day I heard the mate say that bad
weather was ahead. That evening we came to anchor early in a sheltered
bay, and night came on dark and stormy. The wind increased, and sighed
and moaned in the rigging. Port Anchor had gone overboard several hours
before, but they soon found it necessary to send me down with him. I
felt a kind of foreboding of evil as I plunged into the water, and when
I reached the bottom I sank one of my arms as deeply into the mud as
possible, and groped with my fluke for solid rock. Patent Chain told me
he had not reached for such a length before, and he added that the Kedge
had been brought forward in case he might be needed.
The storm increased to a hurricane, and soon Port Anchor cried out to me
that he felt his strength was giving way. Poor fellow! he seemed to
realize that he was too old to stand the terrific strain that he was now
being called upon to endure, and his Common Chain couldn't be counted on
to hold. Already some of the links were making preparations to part. I
called back words of cheer, but received no reply, and a moment later I
experienced a terrible shock, for Common Chain had broken, and poor old
Port Anchor had been left to his fate in the mud. I felt myself dragged
through the stones and the rocks along the bottom, and wondered what was
going to happen, for my good friend Patent Chain was telling me that
they were praying on deck that I might hold. Little Kedge sank down near
me, and tried hard to get a grip on the rocks, but he was so small that
he could do but little. Patent Chain shrieked in agony that he was being
torn apart, but entreated me at the same time to make final and
desperate efforts to save the yacht. Up above the Captain, the mate, and
the crew were working frantically to get the storm try-sail set, and
they had lashed two hempen cables to Patent Chain so that he could go
out further. In the mean time, however, I had found a ledge of rocks, to
which I seized with my flukes as well as with my stock, and Patent
Chain, spreading himself full length in the mud, clung to the bottom.
How long this dreadful tension lasted I shall never know, but it seemed
years to me. It was probably only a few hours. And when I was finally
assisted to the surface by old Windlass the next morning, I found the
yacht was under way in tow, and headed for the nearest shipyard. She had
sustained considerable damage from the hurricane, and as I reached the
deck I was surrounded by awed and sympathetic faces. Everyone said I had
saved the yacht; and that is why I am placed here and why I am so well
treated.
BOY TROOPERS.
BY RICHARD BARRY.
ILLUSTRATED BY INSTANTANEOUS FLASH-LIGHT PHOTOGRAPHS OF "TROOP A"
CADETS.
The cavalry has always been the most popular branch of army service in
song and story, and, beyond doubt, in the mind of the public. To a boy
who has a leaning towards military things it has an absolute
fascination, and if he likes a horse (and what boy does not?) it is his
choice beyond all others.
[Illustration: DRESS PARADE.]
In New York city there exists a troop of boy cavalry that has been
drilling and exercising faithfully, and under such able direction that
it may be taken as a model for what a boys' organization of this kind
should be. Soldiering means really serious work, whether it is in the
service of a State, a country, or merely entered into for the love of
it, and a boy who has not the proper spirit cannot long remain a member
of "Troop A" Cadets. It is astonishing to find how quickly and how well
the boy recruit learns to ride, how much he learns about a horse, and
how his muscles and his eye and his self-reliance develop under the
drill. The writer has seen riding that no cowboy need be ashamed of done
by a boy of fourteen who a year before had never thrown his leg over
anything but a Shetland-pony, and many of the young troopers never
mounted a horse at all until they first made their appearance in the
tan-bark ring of the troop riding-school. If a boy is a "muff," he does
not stay at it long; it takes a lad with the "proper stuff" in him, as
the riding-master tells you, to stand the thumping and sometimes the
falls of the first month's drill. A horse is a very complicated piece of
machinery to the novice, and he must be managed by the eye, the whole
body, and the mind. He knows when the rider on his back is timid or
determined, and he often acts accordingly. Horses have an individuality
that bicycles haven't, and the young trooper must learn to govern
besides learning merely to guide and "stay on."
But to take in order what a boy cavalryman must learn. In the first
place he must be strong and willing, and quick to listen; that is a
great thing--listening. He will find out a great deal about himself, and
if he has the right stamina and spirit he improves in every way most
wonderfully.
As soon as the recruit has been proposed for membership, which is done
in the same way it is done in the National Guard--that is, his name is
proposed by two members in good standing, then voted on by a committee,
and lastly by the whole troop--as soon as all this is done he takes his
first lesson. It is not on horseback--that comes later--but on foot; the
setting-up exercise has to be gone through with. This is quite a trial,
for it means standing erect, and going through various exercises with
the arms, the legs, the whole body; bending over with knees stiff, and
touching the ground until he wonders where so many aching muscles come
from.
Then he learns the facings and marchings, a good deal like an
infantryman. But at last a sabre is put in his hand, and he is taught to
use it, standing firm on his out-stretched legs, and making wonderful
cuts and points to right and left--"cut at head, cut at body, at
infantry, at cavalry," etc., over and over. At first some of his
wonderful strokes in strange directions would cleave his horse in two,
and others would relieve him of his head or mayhap his tail; but soon he
learns the proper positions of all these things, and acts as if he were
on horseback. When this has been accomplished he is taught the drill
with the carbine, loading and firing, and the manual on foot. The
lieutenant in charge of the cadets informed me that boys learn quicker
and improve much more rapidly than grown men in all this, and that they
seldom remain in the "awkward squad" for any length of time. But now
comes the riding, and a great deal more; for the cavalryman must look
after his own mount, and be able to saddle and bridle.
The first lesson means much. It is a good thing that grace does not
count, for it is hard to be graceful or at ease on a bumping, thumping
nag with nothing on his back but a blanket. In a little time one learns
to hang on with the knees and balance with the body, and then it looks
more like fun--the instructor lets go of the bridle-rein and ceases his
everlasting words of advice, and the recruit "goes it alone." When he
sits in a saddle after undergoing a long course of tan-bark drill, he
feels as comfortable as if he was in a chair, and wonders how he ever
thought it hard to do.
[Illustration: IN COLUMN OF FOURS.]
Now comes the drill on horseback at a walk, a trot, and a gallop. If the
horse is an old hand he helps the new trooper out amazingly; he seems to
understand the orders, and whisks into place and dresses into line
promptly as could be wished for.
[Illustration: WRESTLING.]
After the trooper gets out of the awkward squad for good and all, the
drills become exciting; every meeting is a series of games on horseback;
he learns to cut at the ball on the wooden post--"the Turk's head"; he
slashes at imaginary enemies afoot and mounted; he learns
"tent-pegging," which is riding full tilt down the arena at a wooden peg
driven into the ground, which he endeavors to pick up on the point of
his sabre, and soon he becomes part of his horse. It is exciting to see
three troopers playing the "ribbon chase." One of them has a knot on his
right arm, and the other two (they are all mounted without saddles) try
to get this ribbon off. It can only be taken off from the left side, and
they play tag and manoeuvre every which way to get a position. If the
one who is "it" is clever, he dodges and doubles, turns and backs, and
if he can keep his ribbon for three minutes he wins. But the others push
him hard, and here it is where good riding tells. I have seen a little
shaver who had to be helped up on to a fifteen-hand horse do some riding
that would be credit to a Comanche Indian. They wrestle--these boy
troopers--on horseback, and I have seen one leap from his own horse
astride that of his opponent, and then succeed in dismounting him. All
this brings out the best thing in a boy; it teaches him to be
self-reliant and quick in judgment, and it makes his big brother feel
proud of him--if he has a big brother.
When they grow old enough (most of them are between fifteen and
seventeen) they generally get into the troop itself, and their
preliminary work puts them on a par with the best of the older troopers.
Of course it costs something to organize and maintain a squadron of
mounted men, and the members pay yearly dues which cover the expense of
horse hire. Their uniforms they own themselves, and they cost about
twelve dollars.
In any good-sized town or city it is perfectly possible for a number of
boys, with the help of their fathers, to organize such a troop if they
go about it in earnest and work in a systematic way.
First of all a competent instructor must be obtained, and every one
should realize that money cannot be judiciously saved in his salary. He
should be the best man obtainable after a somewhat extended search.
Usually he is an old cavalry officer, or perhaps some cavalry officer
who has retired. Such men are to be had after some search, and apart
from their knowledge of cavalry movements they are valuable because they
take a personal interest in all that has to do with their work.
Having secured the instructor a hall is then necessary, and this is by
far the most difficult thing to find of the whole outfit. Few towns and
not many cities have any hall the ground-floor of which can be used for
horses. If the troop is to be a serious affair, and it is impossible to
organize one unless it is to be serious, the cheapest way in such cases
is to build a huge shed with the earth for a flooring. Here is a
proportionately large expense, and the result is that most cavalry cadet
troops will have to be formed under the auspices of National Guard
troops, which already have armories for cavalry practice.
Once you have an armory and an instructor, the rest is merely detail.
Much objection is made of late to military drill and the encouragement
of the love of war. Boy troopers have nothing to do with war. They
should not wish to fight, even to grow up to fight some day, except in
defense of their country. There is no more question of war in a cadet
troop than there is in a bicycle club. It is merely that the discipline,
the training, the exercise that are good for boys can be obtained in
this healthy, manly way, and cannot be obtained with equal efficiency in
any other way.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER III.
It was only half past eight when the search party left Greenfield, but
it would be no darker at midnight. The two negroes who led the way down
the avenue and out into the public road carried blazing lightwood
knots--that is, long thick pieces of "fat" pine cut from the heart of
the tree, and, when lighted, burning for hours with a fierce flame fed
by the turpentine and resin which were the sap of the tree.
Close behind the torch-men rode Mr. Grigsby, the dogs trotting beside
him, and almost upon his horse's heels was the "top gig" containing the
Major and Mr. Tayloe. The scene was striking and even solemn, and except
that the Major and his companion now and then exchanged a sentence in
subdued tones, not a word was uttered until they arrived at the open
space surrounding the school-house. There Mr. Grigsby dismounted and
Major Duncombe and Mr. Tayloe got out of the gig. The negroes were left
with the horses, Mr. Grigsby and the Major taking their torches.
They trod lightly, and the soaked ground made no noise under their feet.
Pushing the door further open, they entered, holding their torches high
to throw the light into the room. The glare reached the figure of the
sleeping girl in the far corner, and with a whispered congratulation to
the father, the Major led the way to her. She lay upon her side, facing
them, her head pillowed upon her book, her hand under her cheek. She
slumbered soundly and sweetly, not stirring when the full blaze of the
fat pine struck her closed eyelids.
At the second glance both men exclaimed in horror. Coiled right across
her naked ankles and feet was what looked like a striped gray and brown
rope. The spectators knew it instantly for a moccasin snake, next to the
rattlesnake and copperhead the most deadly of Virginia reptiles.
Attracted by the warmth of the child's body, he had curled himself up
for his nightly rest, and, raising an ugly head, hissed viciously as the
light was reflected from a pair of wicked eyes. Then, instead of
striking at the unconscious sleeper, he dropped to the floor and glided
swiftly under the benches to a darker corner. Mr. Grigsby sprang after
him and planted his heel upon his head. Had he missed him or put his
foot upon any other part of the snake, he must have been bitten. He
ground his heel into the creature's head with all his might until the
convulsed body, that had wrapped itself about his leg and writhed up and
down like a curling whip lash, ceased to twist and quiver.
"Bravely done!" said Mr. Tayloe, in honest admiration. "But you ran a
great risk."
"I did not think of that," answered the Scotchman, briefly.
He was deadly pale, and his jaw was rigid. The sweat dropped from his
chin as he stepped off the dead snake and turned back to the bench where
his child lay. It was strange that the exclamations and stamping had not
aroused her. Had she been bitten, and was this heavy sleep the stupor of
death? The same thought was in the minds of the others while they
watched him in breathless silence. He knelt down by the still figure and
laid his hand gently upon her head.
[Illustration: "DAUGHTER! FATHER'S LASSIE!" HE SAID, HIS LIPS CLOSE TO
HER EAR.]
"Daughter! Father's lassie!" he said, his lips close to her ear.
His voice was husky and unnatural, but she knew it in her sleep. Her
eyes unclosed slowly upon his face, and widened as she saw Major
Duncombe and Mr. Tayloe behind him. Still dreaming, she smiled slowly
and lifted her hand to wave it. It was all a part of the examination
day. She was still "playing ladies."
"You do me too much honor, I assure you, sir," she murmured.
She had not been bitten by the moccasin. But for the necessity of
ascertaining this, she would not have been told what danger she had
escaped. Short work was made with explanations, and no time was lost in
hurrying her from the place. Major Duncombe lifted her with his own
hands to her seat in front of her father upon his broad-backed horse,
and insisted upon sending one of the torch-bearers all the way home with
them. Flea was wrapped to her heels in a shawl that had been put into
the gig by Mrs. Duncombe's order. It was soft and fluffy and thick, and
the folds felt like a caress to her chilled limbs. Her father's arm held
her close to his breast; her head lay against his strong shoulder--how
strong and safe she had never guessed until now.
Flea never forgot that ride and her awed enjoyment of each feature of
it. Her father's silence did not surprise her. He was never talkative,
and assured by his gentleness at the moment of her awakening, and the
clasp of his arm about her now, that he was not displeased, she was glad
to lean back in his embrace and indulge the fancies born of the night's
event. She was almost sorry when the dogs ran before them as they neared
the house, and the clamor of the welcome they received from the dogs who
had staid at home drew out Chaney and Dick from the kitchen, and was the
signal for the opening of the front door. It was full of heads, seen
blackly against the lighted interior, and Mrs. Grigsby's high-pitched
voice rang out, shrilly: "Got her, 'ain't you, pa?"
"Ay, ay! all's right!" he answered.
Carrying the muffled form in his arms, he walked up the path leading
from the yard gate, into the house, and set her down before the chamber
fire as he might a roll of carpet.
"Don't you look too funny!" laughed Bea, as Flea began to disengage
herself. "Lor'! if you 'ain't got on Mrs. Duncombe's winter shawl!"
"An' trouble enough she has given, I'll be boun'!" scolded the mother,
heedless of her husband's gravity and silence. "I should 'a' thought yer
pa would 'a' left you at Greenfiel' 'tel mawnin'."
"Peace, wife," interposed Mr. Grigsby, sternly. "All of you come in here
and be still."
They trooped into the chamber, Chaney, Dick, and the Greenfield negro
bringing up the rear, all curiosity and expectation, subdued by his tone
and action. For he had taken a well-worn Prayer-book from the mantel
shelf, and was turning the leaves while he spoke. Finding what he sought
there, he put out his arm to draw Flea to his side, and knelt with her
in the middle of the room.
"Let us pray!"
Everybody knelt where he or she chanced to be standing--Mrs. Grigsby by
the cradle of her sleeping baby, Bea and Calley at the foot of the bed,
Dee before a chair, the negroes crouching upon the floor. The candles
flared and guttered, the blaze in the fireplace was beaten this way and
that by the damp wind pouring in through the open doors, the drip and
dash of the rain without were a low accompaniment to the father's voice,
weighted with emotion. While he prayed he kept his hand upon Flea's
head.
"Almighty God and Heavenly Father, we give Thee humble thanks that Thou
hast been graciously pleased to deliver from great danger the child in
whose behalf we bless and praise Thy name in the presence of Thy people.
Grant, we beseech Thee, O gracious Father, that she, through Thy help
may both faithfully live in this world according to Thy will and also
may be partaker of everlasting glory in the life to come, through Jesus
Christ our Lord. Amen."
When all had risen he told in few and strong words where and how he had
found the child, now sobbing with excitement in his arms.
"Now," he concluded, "we will talk no more of this matter to-night, and
I will have no questions asked this child. She is tired and nervous. In
nothing is she to blame. We have great cause for thankfulness for her
safety. Mother, have you had supper while we were away?"
He never called her "ma." Flea was the only one of the children who
imitated him in this respect. Mrs. Grigsby was fussy, and in many things
foolish, but she obeyed her husband's orders in not questioning the
runaway, and wiping her eyes more than was quite necessary, led the way
meekly to the dining-room. It was an unusually silent meal, the father
setting the example of saying little while he ate. When supper was over
he kissed Flea, which he seldom did to any of the children, and bade
her, "Go right up to bed," and not to forget to say her prayers.
"And you, Beatrice, when you go up, do not talk to her. She needs rest
and sleep."
He was a sensible man, and his behavior on this occasion was what seemed
wise and becoming according to his judgment. If he had intended to
establish poor Flea in her dignity as an important personage, and stuff
her head with absurd notions, he could not have done it more surely.
When her bare feet trod the short crooked staircase leading to her
bedroom, it was with the measured pace of one who has a position to fill
and means to fill it. She was almost surprised that the glass to-night
reflected the face she was used to seeing in it.
Bea followed her shortly, brimming over with curiosity and resolution to
hear all there was to tell.
"Say," she said, in a half-whisper, coming up to her sister, "how big
was the moccasin? It must have felt mighty heavy on your feet. What did
pa kill him with?"
Flea looked at her with owl-like seriousness, and laid her finger upon
her lip.
"Don't be a fool!" returned the other, contemptuously. "Pa can't hear
us."
Whereupon the newly made heroine lifted her hand and pointed upward,
rebukingly.
"God can hear you," was what she meant.
"Bah!" sneered Bea. "You needn't preach to your betters. Keep your old
story to yourself. I ain't a-going to put up with your airs. Mother
ain't, neither. Any runaway nigger can go to sleep in the woods and wake
up with a snake lyin' 'longside o' him. 'Tain't as if you had _done_
anything."
This was rough talk, but Flea was, in her own opinion, so high above her
sister's level that she could afford to despise it. Long after Bea had
fallen asleep the younger girl lay listening to the drip, _drop_, drip,
of the rain overhead, her cheeks on fire, her brain in a whirl, and her
eyelids feeling as if they were buttoned back and would not shut.
She was a heroine. The former life had slipped off and away from her as
her friend the moccasin had shed his skin last spring. She must recast
her thoughts and her manners, make them over through and through in
order to live up to her new character. She hoped the rain would hold up
by morning, so that she could go to church.
In imagination she saw how every head would turn toward her when she
should walk up the aisle. How people would stare and nudge one another
during the service, and crowd around her when it was over! Perhaps--and
she thrilled all over with merely thinking of it--Mr. Slaughter, the
rector, would return thanks publicly for her deliverance. It would be
just like Major Duncombe to ask him to do it. A church prayer, said in a
white surplice, with all the congregation saying "Amen" at the end, was
not too great an honor for a girl who had had an adventure.
That was what the Major had said--"an adventure." She went carefully
over every word of his speech, remembering each word.
"We are only too thankful to an overruling Providence that our little
heroine's adventure was not also a catastrophe, Mr. Grigsby."
He had rolled it out in a grand, solemn way, quite as he read prayers
every morning and night at Greenfield.
Everything had conspired to turn the little maid's brains topsy-turvy.
Her head felt actually light at her awakening from the sound sleep that
had finally overcome her. There was a queer strained aching all through
her, and she had never been crosser in her life.
It was still raining. The ground was sodden; the trees drooped miserably
under the weight of wet leaves; the sky was one sullen, obstinate cloud,
heaviest and most obstinate toward the west faced by her bedroom
windows.
No church or Sunday-school to-day. No show of her famous self to an
admiring congregation. Dreams and hopes came down with a cruel thump to
the realities of every-day home life. True, she put on, of her own
accord, stockings and shoes, and there were always clean clothes for
Sunday, but there were week-day clothes, and there were fried middling
and corn bread for breakfast, just as if nothing had happened. The
coarse food stuck in her throat; the common crockery--white, with fluted
green edges--the pewter spoons, the tin coffee-pot, the heavy
grayish-blue mug out of which she drank her "hot-water tea" (_i.e._ milk
and water sweetened), had not offended her taste yesterday, or ever
before. Now they were disgusting and humiliating.
"You ain't eatin' nothin'!" remarked the mother, as the girl sat back in
her chair after a vain attempt to behave as usual. "Do you feel sick?"
"No, ma'am. I'm just not hungry. I don't know why. I reckon I'll go up
stairs and lie down."
"Let her alone. She'll be all right after a while," said her father, as
her mother began to scold, and Flea got herself out of the room as
quickly as possible.
She could never be all right in this house, she was sure. Nobody
understood, or sympathized with her. She was stifled and cramped. So far
as the discouraged heroine could foresee, every day to come would be
like this and all those that had gone by--all rag carpet, and
green-edged crockery, and sugar-raggy babies, and Bea's old frocks made
over and let down, and fault-finding--
"Flea!" screamed her mother, from the bottom of the stairs, "ain't you
coming down to-day? Here's your sister with all the things to wash up
and put away."
Flea was lying face downward on the unmade feather bed, dry-eyed and
wretched, when the call came. In sinking and sickness of heart she
obeyed the summons, the very click of her shoes on the stairs expressive
of unwillingness. Nothing she had read or heard of _heroinic_ behavior
helped her to go through with the drudgery of scraping plates, rinsing,
washing, and wiping crockery and pewter.
"I don't see why mother don't use her silver spoons every day," she
grumbled to Bea, wiping and laying down a pewter spoon disdainfully.
"She's goin' to leave 'em to me when she dies," returned that prudent
young person. "I'm glad she doesn't wear 'em out, or maybe get one of
'em lost, before then."
There were only six teaspoons in all, and Mrs. Grigsby kept them in a
locked drawer. It was all of a piece with the mean, skimpy, tiresome
round of her daily life. There was no help for it--none.
The day dragged on more wearily and slowly than ever day had gone
before. Her father could have told her, if she had confessed her misery
to him, that much of it was the reaction after last night's excitement.
As she did not speak of it, he paid little or no attention to her sober
face and unwonted silence. She performed her share of dish-washing,
table-setting, and table-clearing listlessly, but without complaint, and
when not thus employed spent most of her time upstairs. Nobody asked
what she did there; still less was anybody concerned to know what she
felt there.
Dee--which is by interpretation David--had had a stupid day too. The
Grigsby Sunday rules bore hard upon story books and toys, and an active
boy of ten was soon at the end of his resources. His mother had scolded
him a dozen times for making a noise and getting in her way, and boxed
his ears twice.
After the last buffet Dee took refuge in the barn and the society of
Dick and the horses. His father would not have approved of it, but his
father was not at home. Coming in at dusk, the boy stole up stairs on
tip-toe and peeped into his sister's room. The sun was fighting bravely
with the bank of clouds on the horizon, and the world was bathed in
lurid mist. By this flushed fogginess Dee could see Flea lying in a sort
of crumpled heap on the floor by the window. She started up at the noise
he made in entering.
"What do you want?" she demanded, crossly.
"You needn't get mad about it," returned her brother. "I'm just sick of
Sunday, and I reckon you are too. Monday's worth fifty of it, if you do
have to go to school. Ma's cross as two sticks, and pa's gone to look
after things up at 'the house,' and Bea's on her high horse, and the
young ones are worse'n a pack of bees for noise 'n' swarmin'." He sat
down sociably upon the floor by his sister. "I say, Flea, what you
s'pose you _were_ sparred for?"
"Spared for? What are you talking about?"
"Dick says that Chaney says that ma says you were sparred for somethin'
real big. Hadn't 'a' been for that, the moccasin would 'a' bit you sure,
and you'd been dead before anybody could 'a' got to you for to draw the
p'ison out. What you s'pose they meant? What you goin' to do?"
Flea sat upright, looking straight out of the window. As Dick stopped
speaking she raised the sash and let in a wave of warm, sweet, damp air.
The pink light streamed in with it, flooding the girl's figure and face.
Her hair was tousled, and the dust of the bare boards had mixed with her
tears to streak her cheeks. Yet the boy stared at her, open-mouthed and
puzzled. Light that did not come through the window shone in her face;
her eyes were two stars; her fingers were knotted tightly upon one
another.
"You are sure that you are not fibbing, Dee? Did they really say that?"
"Certain sure. And Dick says it's true as gawspil. He know'd a baby
oncet they thought was clean dead, and all on a suddint it come to, and
sot up 'n' walked--like a maracle, you know. And his mother, she said
right straight off, 'He will be somethin' wonderful.' And so he was. He
fit in the las' war, an' killed, oh, thousands of the British, but girls
can't fight, you know. That's 'cause why I arsked you what you s'posed
you could 'a' been sparred for."
Flea put her arm about her brother's neck, and pulled the rough head to
her shoulder. She and apple-cheeked, slow-witted Dee always got on well
together.
"I love you, Dee," she said, in a gush of tenderness. "No matter how
great a lady I get to be--and I'm going to be something very great some
day--you and I will always be good friends. You won't tell anybody if I
tell you a secret?"
The much-impressed Dee gave the desired promise.
"Then--I'm a _heroine_, Dee!"--sinking her voice--"a sure-enough
heroine. And wonderful, beautiful things always happen to heroines. Like
Miranda, and Olivia, and Portia, and Cordelia, and Perdita, and Juliet,
and Hermione, and Rosalind, and ever and ever so many more ladies I've
read about. I'll tell you about some of them to-morrow. They are not
Sunday stories, you know."
Neither, for that matter, was that Sunday talk into which she now
launched, holding the boy spellbound while the sun went down clear, and
the bright clouds grew pale, then dark. Into Dee's greedy ears she
poured the tales of what she meant to do and to be in the wondrous
To-Come of her dreams.
The talk with her brother, the hopes rekindled by it, and his faith in
her and her future made the out-goings of the unhappy day to rejoice.
She laid her head upon her pillow that night in tolerable content with
home and kindred. They had sung hymns together, as was the Sunday-night
custom, and recited each a psalm and three questions in the Church
Catechism to their father, who had then granted them the treat of a long
story of his early life in Glasgow.
No misgivings as to to-morrow held her eyes waking as she nestled down
under the patch-work coverlet she and Bea had put together and helped
their mother quilt last winter. The school-room would be her own
territory. As the only girl in the school who knew Mr. Tayloe, and had
been particularly recommended to him by his patron (she had borrowed
that word from an English story-book), she would be foremost in his
esteem. In "playing ladies" before sleep got fast hold of her she saw
herself introducing less-favored scholars to his favorable notice.
"My sister Beatrice, Mr. Tayloe," she would say. Perhaps he would
answer, "I hope she is as intelligent and industrious as her sister."
Flea's was a generous nature, but she did feel that that would pay off
Bea well for certain things she had said to her in days past. As for
Dee, who was dull at his lessons, her heart warmed and yearned over him
in the thought of the good she could do him through her influence with
the teacher. Mr. Tayloe looked as if he might be severe with a dull
pupil. She would stand between Dee and trouble. He was such a loving
little fellow, and her best crony, even if he did not care for books.
Bea was going to wear a white frock to school if the weather were warm
enough. Flea's frock, a brown calico with round white spots on it, with
an apron of the same, was new and strong and clean. As the prize scholar
she could afford to be indifferent to dress. One of these days she would
make people who now laughed at her plain clothes open their eyes with
her satins--and--laces--and--India cotton stockings--and--oh yes! the pink
sash should be just the color of a peach blossom--and--have--fringed--
Flea was clean off to Slumberland, where nobody expects to dream of
sensible and probable happenings.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE.