BROTHER AND SISTER.
As Owen was fatigued after so many hours of excitement and exertion, he
remained in the house the greater part of the following day. This
afforded Bertha an excellent occasion of hearing a full account of the
shooting match. Owen had scarcely seated himself before the fire-place
in the family-room, when his sister brought in her spinning-wheel, and
began alternately to work the spindle and ask questions.
"Now, Brother Owen," said she, "do tell me all about yesterday--what
happened, how you won--oh, just everything!"
"Buzz-z-z," went the spinning-wheel as if to say, "hurry on, Owen, hurry
on, for your sister has many, many questions to ask."
"Did the people like the new cap and coat I made for you?"
Buzz-z-z.
"Did you hit the center of the target every time?"
Buzz-z-z-z.
"How many robins did you kill out of the twenty?"
Buzzz-z-z-z-z.
Buzz-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.
And Bertha talked so fast, and the wheel buzzed so loud, that Owen did
not reply.
"Oh, it's just too mean to keep me waiting so long before telling me all
about it!" said Bertha.
"I thought that wheel was answering your questions; you both talk at
about the same rate," said Owen, playfully, for he saw that his sister
was much excited, and wished to tease her by delaying to answer at once.
"Well, I saddled Log after breakfast, and----"
"I know you did," interrupted his sister; "do tell me something new."
"How can I if you stop me as soon as I begin to speak! Well, I saddled
my horse, and took my rifle, and--wait, I forgot something! First, I put
my powder-horn over my right shoulder"--a pause--"and then I put my
bullet-pouch over my left shoulder"--another pause--"and then I took my
rifle, and went down and saddled old Log, and started off, and--Oh,
you've killed me! Oh! oh! oh!" For Bertha had taken a ball of yarn from
a basket near the spinning-wheel, and playfully struck Owen in the head
with the harmless missile. After this bold attack, a treaty of peace was
signed, and Owen agreed to answer every question seriously and without
delays. He was interrupted in his narrative by some one calling in a
loud voice from without:
"Halloo! Halloo!"
It was Louis Bowen. Has he heard of Charlie's going to the
shooting-match? was the thought which rushed to Owen's mind as he walked
to the yard-gate, where the unexpected visitor was waiting astraddle his
horse.
"Good-morning, Mr. Bowen," said he, with all the composure he could
summon up.
"I hear you were at Grundy's farm yesterday," said the man gruffly,
without seeming to notice Owen's morning greetings, "and I would like to
know if you saw my son Charlie there. He hasn't returned yet."
"Yes, sir, he was there."
"The scoundrel!" muttered Bowen. "I'll flay him alive! He is getting
worse every day. Spends money as fast as I can make it. I'll--I'll kill
the wretch!"
"Many men camped on the grounds all night. He may have stayed with
them," said Owen.
"I'll drive him from the house when he comes back! If he won't work, let
him starve!" continued the father. "My corn-crib burned, my money stolen
and squandered! Misfortune and losses on every side! I'll--I'll--but
say, boy, you were along the river the night my crib was burned. Did you
meet no one?"
"We met Jerry and Stayford the next morning, sir."
"Did you meet no one that night? Where did you stay that night?"
"We slept under the trees until it began to rain, and then--we went up
the hill under the bluffs."
The conversation was here interrupted in a most singular manner. Charlie
Bowen passed along the road, close to the two speakers. The father and
son recognized each other at almost the same instant. Charlie spurred
his horse and dashed down the road, while Mr. Bowen uttered a curse and
started in pursuit. The scene was ludicrous in the extreme. Owen felt
very serious and nervous while listening to the old farmer's threats,
but now he forgot his troubles, and, mounting the gate-post to get a
better view, watched father and son as they galloped along the dusty
road. Still, when he reflected seriously, he could not but commiserate
them both.
Returning to the house, Owen continued his lengthy description of the
shooting-match, until Bertha's curiosity was entirely satisfied. During
the following week, Bertha visited many of the neighbors, and repeated
for them the history of her brother's victory. She also wrote an account
of the contest for the Lexington paper and sent it by the stage which
passed the house every second week.
Mr. Howard was not so enthusiastic over Owen's success. He was not a
rigorist; he could not be called a severe man; still, he did not believe
in spoiling children by humoring and flattering them. He feared lest the
honors which Owen had received would exercise an evil influence upon him
for the future, and felt it his duty to check any such influence at the
start by keeping him at steady work.
"Owen," said he on the following morning, "you've had a whole day to
rest, so get your axe and come with us to the woods. We must get that
strip of land along the river cleared before winter."
After breakfast Owen shouldered his axe, whistled for Bounce and Frisk,
and followed the workmen to the woods. The smaller trees were left for
him to cut, while the men felled the large oaks, hickories and poplars.
Day after day the work progressed. The steady stroke of the axe rang out
clearly in the crisp, morning air, and the burning brush-piles dispelled
the gloom of the autumn evenings. Occasionally some massive poplar of
more than a century's growth would crash to the ground with a force that
shook the earth for many yards around, tearing huge branches from the
surrounding trees, crushing the smaller ones beneath its ponderous
weight, and causing the hills on the other side of the river to ring
with prolonged reverberations.
Owen enjoyed the work. He wielded his axe with a true and telling
stroke. His hands and muscles were gradually hardened, until he could
labor the entire day without the least fatigue.
At night when he returned from the woods he improved his mind by
constant study and reading. Learning one day that a certain Mr. Rolling,
who had come to the Howard's to buy some stock, was the happy owner of a
wonderful book called "Robinson Crusoe," Owen was very anxious to make
the acquaintance of Robinson, as he had often heard of his adventures on
that far-off island. Mr. Rolling readily consented to lend him the book,
promising to bring it to him at the first opportunity. The delay,
however, was too long for the boy's impetuous nature; after waiting a
few days, Owen decided to ride over to the farmer's house to secure the
much-coveted volume.
"You have come after poor old 'Robinson Crusoe,' have you?" said Mr.
Rolling, when he met the boy at the door.
"Yes, sir. It's a long ride, but I wanted to read that book, and
determined to come after it at once."
"You are a funny, funny boy," replied Mr. Rolling. "And now I am sorry
to tell you that you will have to ride five miles farther, for friend
Foxway hasn't returned it. You see, old 'Robinson Crusoe' is quite a
favorite in the neighborhood, and is continually traveling from one
place to another."
"The ride isn't long," said Owen; "but perhaps Mr. Foxway has not read
the book."
"Only him and his wife there. I reckon they know the whole story by
heart. Tell Mr. Foxway that I sent you for the book. Why, it is worth a
five-mile ride to get a look at the farmer and his wife."
Mrs. Foxway was certainly a curious little creature, with a withered
face and weasel eyes. She received Owen very kindly, invited him into
the house, and, when informed of the object of his visit, went at once
to get the book. "Robinson Crusoe," however, seemed by no means desirous
of making Owen's acquaintance, for Mrs. Foxway, after searching every
room in the house, upsetting a table and breaking several pieces of
china-ware, finally concluded that old Robinson had run away. She
insisted, however, that he could not have gone a great distance, for her
husband had him in his hands that very morning, while she was preparing
breakfast. She informed Owen that Mr. Foxway would soon be home for
dinner, and assured him that her husband was never known to misplace
anything, and that if the book had not left the house of its own accord,
he would find it the moment he came. She then returned to the kitchen to
continue her work, and Owen was left alone.
"Here he is! Here he is!" screeched little weasel-eyes, soon after she
had gone into the kitchen.
"Mr. Foxway has returned rather early," mused Owen. "But why should his
coming create such excitement?"
"Hiding in the flour barrel! Hiding in the flour barrel!" called out
weasel-eyes in the most alarming way.
"Hiding in the flour barrel!" repeated Owen to himself. "Perhaps he did
not want to give me that book."
"Ha! ha! All covered with flour!" came the screechy voice from the
kitchen.
"If he didn't want to give me the book, why didn't he say so," thought
Owen.
"O mister! mister! Come and look at him before I dust him off with the
turkey-wing," cried the little woman.
Owen started toward the kitchen expecting to find a wee little man
sprinkled with flour, but Mrs. Foxway was the only one there, standing
near a barrel, with the turkey-wing duster in her right hand.
"Trying to hide! Nearly covered with flour!" she said, pointing down
into the barrel.
Owen looked in the direction indicated and was surprised to find, not
the dwarfish farmer, but the book which he had come to get. It had
fallen from the kitchen table into the flour barrel, and presented quite
a snowy appearance. In one of the pictures where Robinson was sitting in
his rude house, with his parrot on his knee, both were entirely embedded
in the late mimic snowfall. Friday seemed to have forsaken his tribe,
and become a Caucasian, for he was as white as his master. A few strokes
of the dusting brush, and everything was restored to its original color
and true form--the parrot became a bright green, while Friday, like the
jack-daw, shorn of its stolen feathers, resumed his sable hue.
At last Owen had obtained the long-desired book. In its dilapidated
condition, it appeared to have passed through as many catastrophies as
old Robinson himself, not excepting the shipwreck, for some careless
reader had let it fall into a bucket of water, on which account it had
lost one of its covers and expanded to wonderful proportions. A whole
category of Robinson's admirers had made use of that old-time way of
marking the place, (often condemned, but more often practiced,) until
almost every page was dog's-eared. Although these marks detracted from
the appearance of the book, they by no means lowered it in Owen's
estimation. On the contrary, he regarded it in the same light that he
would a veteran soldier who had served in many campaigns, and whose
reputation was enhanced by the number of wounds he had received.
Mr. Foxway now appeared upon the scene. He was even smaller than his
wife--a big, round head, large, oval eyes, and thick duck-legs. He
reminded Owen of the little screech-owls which often peered out at him
from the dark eaves of the barn. The farmer was more than willing to
part with the book, as he intended to return it to Mr. Rolling that
afternoon.
Many a pleasant evening did Owen and Bertha spend in "Robinson Crusoe's"
company. Moreover, the little screech-owls in the barn were ever
afterwards called Mr. and Mrs. Foxway.
One night while Owen sat before the bright fire-place with the
interesting volume in his hand he chanced to turn the pages, and there
upon a fly-leaf saw some writing and a rough drawing which excited his
curiosity. The writing was crude and scarcely legible; the drawing
evidently represented a place or scene along the Beech Fork.
"What have you found?" asked Bertha, who noticed Owen's intense interest
as he leaned closer to the fire to get a better light.
"Oh, nothing!" he replied with forced indifference.
"Let me see."
"You would not understand it."
"So there is something on that page?"
"Yes, but you could not make it out, for you never saw the----." Here
Owen paused.
"The what?" asked Bertha.
Just then the book dropped from Owen's hands. The fly-leaf, which was
loose, fell out, was caught by the strong draft of the fire-place, and
was carried up the chimney.
"Oh, Bertha!" cried Owen. "There it goes, and it's on fire. It was all
about a great secret, a----oh, if I could only tell you! But some day
you shall know all about it."