OUR FRIENDS, THE GORDONS.
Reader, are you tired of Godfrey Evans and his dismal surroundings? If
you are, let us go up to General Gordon’s, where we shall be sure of a
hearty welcome and more agreeable companionship.
The house in which the general and his family now live does not look
much like the noble mansion they called home a few years ago; but it
is very neat and comfortable, and there is always room enough under
its hospitable roof to accommodate visitors, who are greeted and
entertained in good old southern style. It stands on the spot where
the old house stood, and in the midst of extensive grounds, which a
few years ago looked like a tropical garden. They still retain some of
their old-time beauty, but yet wear an air of neglect; and many of the
rare and valuable plants, which Mrs. Gordon and her daughters took so
much pride in cultivating and protecting from the fury of the winter
rains and sleets, have perished for want of care, and have not been
replaced. On one side the grounds slope down to the shores of Diamond
lake--a little sheet of water about four miles long and half a mile
wide, surrounded on three sides by a dense forest of tall trees, so
heavily draped with climbing plants, mosses and grape-vines, that to a
person seated in a boat in the middle of the lake, it would seem to be
almost impenetrable.
This lake is not like our northern lakes. The gravelly beach is
wanting, and so are the black bass, the pickerel and other fine game
fish that we find in our waters. The shores are low and muddy, the
banks are thickly lined with snags, stumps and trees, and a northern
boy would look twice at the dark, slimy water before he would think of
going in bathing there. If he made up his mind to venture, he might
think better of it if, while he was looking around for a log to put his
clothes on, he should discover a large moccasin curled up in the edge
of the water, and closely watching all his movements. Are these snakes
poisonous? Ask Don and Bert what they think about it. They will tell
you that one day last August, while they were sitting on the little
wooden wharf, which juts out into the lake below the summer house,
bobbing for sun-fish, they happened to look into the water a little way
from the shore, and saw what appeared to be the head and neck of a
goose moving rapidly along. But they knew it was not that, for summer
is not the time for waterfowl down here, and besides a goose does not
swim with his body submerged. It was a moccasin, and he was directing
his course toward a log which lay in the water about twenty yards from
the wharf. The boys knew he was a big one, or he could not have held
his head so high above the water; but they were amazed at the sight of
the bulk he presented to view when, reaching the log, he drew himself
upon it, and stretched out flat preparatory to taking his afternoon
nap. The longer the boys looked at him, the more their astonishment
increased; and at last Don quietly laid down his fish-pole, and
requesting his brother to keep an eye on the reptile, arose and stole
off to the house. When he returned he carried a light breech-loading
shot gun in his hands--one of those weapons that “break in two in the
middle.” Both barrels were loaded, and Don had two more cartridges in
his pocket for use in case the first should not prove effectual.
The moccasin lay in such a position that Don could not see his head; so
he took a hasty aim at the thickest part of his body, and fired both
barrels in quick succession. He was so surprised at the effect of his
shot that he did not think of the cartridges he had in his pocket. The
moccasin was not killed, but he was so badly wounded that he could not
get off the log.
“The end his head was on was lively enough,” Don afterward told his
father, “and whirled around at a great rate; but the end his tail was
on seemed to be completely paralyzed, for it did not move at all.”
He made the most desperate efforts to crawl off into the water, and
failing in that, turned and bit himself twice, and a moment afterward
was dead.
Don leaned on his breech-loader and looked at his brother. “That
settles two things, Bert,” said he. “One is that we have all been
mistaken in supposing that moccasins are not poisonous; and the
second is, that one must not put implicit faith in everything he sees
in books. Only yesterday I was reading in my natural history that a
scorpion, ‘if surrounded by a circle of fire so that it cannot escape,
will turn and sting itself through the head, this being the only
companion of man in suicide.’ This little incident proves that man has
other companions in suicide, doesn’t it?”
Besides these disagreeable and dangerous inhabitants of the lake,
there are others in the shape of alligator-gars and turtles. The latter
have bills like parrots, and grow so large and heavy that it takes two
men to lift one of them. A gar is a long, slender fish, and but for its
color, might be taken for a gigantic pickerel. It is sometimes found
eight feet in length. People say they are harmless, but a timid person
would not care to trust one too far after looking at its mouthful of
teeth.
The boys have two canoes and one sail-boat in the lake. The boat was
built in St. Louis, and a steamer brought it to the landing, where Don
and Bert took charge of it and navigated it to the wharf by way of
the Pass, which connects the lake with the river. This Pass was for a
long time blocked up by a levee to keep the waters of the river from
overflowing the low lands about the lake. During the war it was cut
by the Union forces, and the gunboats came down through the lake and
entered Coldwater and Tallahatchee rivers, in the effort to get behind
the strong fortifications at Haines’s Bluff.
Although the lake is but a poor fishing ground, it is a splendid place
for ducks and geese. About a mile from the house, on the river side
of the lake, is a long, narrow point, which stretches almost across
to the opposite bank, and it is there that the best shooting is to be
found. As it belongs to their father the boys have taken possession of
it, and on the highest and dryest part, erected a rough board cabin
which goes by the name of “Our Shooting-box.” It looks dreary enough in
summer, with only a rusty stove and a few empty cupboards in it by way
of furniture; but when the “melancholy days” are come, and the leaves
begin to fall, and the autumnal winds to whistle dismally through
the branches of the forest--when the trumpet-like notes of the first
returning flock of brant are heard, then the shooting-box opens wide
its hospitable door, and receives beneath the shelter of its roof a
company of merry youngsters, who yearly congregate here to enjoy the
splendid shooting the lake affords. Then the bare floor is covered
with comfortable rugs, and there are camp chairs and lounges enough
to accommodate all the young sportsmen who can crawl into the cabin.
Then the cupboards are abundantly supplied with dishes, knives, forks
and other table furniture, and everything in the way of provisions
that hungry boys can ask for; and in the loft, which extends over half
the room, are always to be found a barrel or two of hickory nuts,
butternuts and pecans. And what sport the boys enjoy here in these
days! A person who has once taken part in it, will willingly go a
hundred miles to have more of it. The shooting is all done over decoys.
These decoys are pieces of light wood shaped like ducks and geese,
and painted to resemble them. And that they do resemble the natural
bird very closely, is proved by the fact that more than one hunter has
emptied his double-barrel into a flock of decoys and never discovered
his mistake, until the disgusted owner of the wooden birds jumped up
from behind his blind and demanded to know what he was about.
These decoys are anchored off the point of which we have spoken, and
Don and Bert, and the rest of the young hunters, hide behind their
blinds--little breastworks of bushes erected on shore--and with their
guns in their hands, hold themselves in readiness to shoot at the first
flock that comes within range. And they are never obliged to wait
long. The wild fowl, in passing from one end of the lake to the other,
discover what they suppose to be a company of their friends swimming
in perfect security near the shore, and stop to pay them a visit; but
just as they swing to the decoys, their ranks are decimated by the
double-barrels, and it is a lucky flock that gets off without leaving
a dozen or more of its number behind. The birds being gone, Don’s
pointers, which are crouching behind the blind by their master’s side,
retrieve the dead and wounded in the most approved style; and when they
are all brought in the boys are ready for another flock. When night
comes they are sure to be very tired and hungry, and to have as many
birds as they care to carry home. They are equally certain to find a
smoking supper waiting for them on their arrival at the shooting-box,
and old Cuff ready to receive them with open arms.
During the evening they fight their battles over again--telling of
that fine shot made at such a distance that a miss seemed certain, or
that clear miss made when the bird ought to have been easily brought
to bag--and at last go to bed to pass through the same exciting scenes
again in their dreams. We do not blame Don and his friends for thinking
a good deal of that little shooting-box, for we passed one of the
pleasantest months of our life there.
Having seen the grounds and glanced at all the interesting things
outside the house, let us go in for a few minutes. The wide front door
stands invitingly open--there is no danger to be apprehended from
tramps and sneak-thieves in this out-of-the-way place--and being well
acquainted with all the inmates, and feeling quite at home here, we
enter without ceremony. Passing along the hall and turning to the left
we find a second door, also standing open, and this leads us into the
apartment occupied by Don and his brother as a sitting and school room.
They study and recite their lessons here, and when their school duties
are over, they have the room to themselves. It is neatly furnished,
and in it are many of those things which Dan Evans seems to regard as
indispensable aids to happiness. Of course he does not include books
and papers in the list, but we think they are very necessary, and so
do Don and Bert. Their library is small but well chosen, and made up
almost entirely of books from which they can learn something.
We enter the room on the afternoon of the same day on which Dan Evans
came over to ask for five of the ten dollars that Don had promised
David for field-breaking his young pointer. We have seen that he got
the money, and that he went away leaving Bert reading a book. We
find him engaged in the same pleasing occupation. He reads for a few
minutes, and then placing the book on his knee, gazes thoughtfully out
at the trees in the yard.
“I don’t see why it can’t be done,” he says, to himself. “Father has a
light spring wagon that I know he would let us take, and we have two
good ponies to draw it. We couldn’t put up at a hotel while we are
gone, but who cares for that? We own a good tent, and if we should take
old Cuff along to act as cook and camp-keeper, we could live as well as
we do at home or at the shooting-box.”
The book Bert has been reading, and which suggests this train of
thought, is Frank Forester’s “Deer Stalkers.” It tells how Harry Archer
and two companions went on a deer hunt somewhere in the state of New
York, and how they enjoyed themselves. It is one of Don’s favorite
books; and the reason Bert reads it to-day is because it happened to
be the first one he picked up when he came into the room. While he
read the thought occurred to him that if he and his brother should
follow in the lead of the heroes of the book, they could spend a few
days very pleasantly. They had everything needful for a week’s sojourn
in the woods, or a month’s, and a trip like that would just suit Don.
Their school term would be over in a week--their tutor was going north
to spend the holidays with his friends--and Don, who had grown very
fond of him and of his books, wondered how he was going to pass the
time during his absence. Of course there was the shooting-box, but one
does not care to spend two whole months in duck hunting, and Don had
often been heard to declare that he wished he could go somewhere and
spend a week as he had never spent one before. Bert thought he had hit
upon something that would please him. He had heard wonderful reports
of late of the abundance of game to be found in an adjoining county,
forty miles away. Deer were so plenty that they had been seen in the
corn-fields; a bear had been known to approach a lonely farm house in
broad daylight and walk off with a pig; and one day a hunter, who was
roaming the woods with his pack of hounds, encountered some animal in a
dense cane-brake which almost annihilated his dogs, and made off before
the hunter could shoot him. The man did not know what sort of an animal
it was, for the cane was so thick that he could not see him; but there
was only one thing in that part of the country that could whip out a
pack of hounds so easily and completely, and that was a panther. Bert
did not like the idea of encountering such game as this, but Don would
not have hesitated a minute. Besides being famous as a wing shot, and
being very fond of the breech-loader which created such havoc among
the ducks, snipe and quails, he took care to have it known that he had
bagged nobler game; and when he exhibited the old-fashioned muzzle
loading rifle which his father had given him, and with which he had
brought down his first deer, he never forgot to mention that four very
fine bucks and one two year old bear had fallen to that same gun.
“Don would make a capital Harry Archer,” said Bert, continuing the
soliloquy we have interrupted, “he is so fearless and enthusiastic.
Old Cuff would make a very good Jim Matlock--he’s black, but still
he’ll do--and instead of Smoke, the Scotch greyhound that could perform
such wonders in the way of running and pulling down deer, we shall
have, if we have a mind to take them with us, six of the best hounds
that ever came from Kentucky. There’ll be nothing wanting, unless it be
a Harry Barhyte or a Ned Wheeler to get us into some sort of a scrape.
If they should turn up, it would make it all the more interesting for
Don. The thought of meeting one of the panthers, which they say are
plenty in the cane-brakes, is not a very pleasant one, and almost makes
me say that I will stay at home; but, now that I come to think of it,
we need not camp out an hour unless we please. Bob Harrington lives
over there, in the very midst of the wilderness, and we’d be welcome
at his house as long as we chose to stop with him. Halloa!” he added
aloud, as a step was heard in the hall, and his brother came rapidly
into the room. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You’re always thinking of somebody besides yourself,” replied Don,
drawing a chair to his brother’s side and flourishing a letter which he
held in his hand. “Your face tells me that you have something pleasant
on your mind: what is it? Let us have all the sunshine we can, for the
clouds are coming--one cloud at least.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Bert, who thought by the scowl on his
brother’s face that the clouds had come already, “and whom is that
letter from?”
“Let us have the good news first,” replied Don, putting the letter
behind his chair, as his brother reached out his hand to take it. “This
will keep.”
“So will the other; but since you are so determined, I suppose I shall
have to tell you. When our tutor goes away next week we shall have two
whole months to ourselves, and instead of spending all the time at the
shooting-box, I propose that some fine morning we put the ponies to the
spring wagon, take our tent, one of our canoes and everything else we
need for camping out, and spend a week or so on Coldwater.”
“Among the deer and bears!” exclaimed Don. “That would be just the
idea, if we could only carry it out.”
“And why can’t we carry it out?”
“Because we are not going to have those two months all to ourselves;
and besides, one of the two fellows who is about to intrude his most
unwelcome presence upon us, is not such a boy as we should like to have
in our camp.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bert.
“I can best answer that question by reading a portion of this letter,”
replied Don. “It came more than a week ago. Father and mother have
consulted about it, and have finally consented, most reluctantly,
to accept the proposition it contains. I am afraid it was a bad day
for us when they did so. Our fun is all knocked in the head. In the
first place the letter is from Uncle Bob, and relates to our cousins,
Clarence and Marshall Gordon.”
“Are they coming here?” asked Bert, his face brightening with joyous
anticipation.
Don looked sharply at his brother for a minute or two before he spoke.
“Yes, they’re coming,” said he. “I don’t know what you may think about
it, but I am sorry; and so are father and mother.”
“Then why do they let them come?”
“Because they can’t help it. Father is under heavy obligations to Uncle
Bob, who has done him numberless good turns, and he says he can’t well
refuse to grant this, the only favor that Uncle Bob has ever asked of
him.”
“But why don’t they want Clarence and Marshall here?” asked Bert, who
could not see why his parents should object to the visit of relatives
whom he and his brother had not seen for many years--so many, in fact,
that he could not remember of ever having met them at all. They (that
is, Clarence and Marshall) had always lived with their parents in
Europe; and it was only about a year ago that they had taken up their
abode in a northern city where their father was engaged in business.
“This will explain everything,” said Don; and as he spoke, he settled
back in his chair and opened the letter.