KASHAQUA
Esther did not find the blue beads; and when her father came for her
she had not said a word to Faith about them.
Mr. Eldridge found his little daughter fully recovered from her
illness, and in better health than when she came to the Wilderness.
When she said good-bye Faith was really sorry to have her go, but she
wondered a little that Esther made no mention of the beads, for Esther
had been a model visitor since her illness. She had told Mrs. Carew
the full story of the attempt to make maple candy, which the bear had
interrupted, and she had claimed the pumpkin-shell work-box with
evident delight. All these things had made Faith confident that Esther
would return the beads before starting for home, and she was sadly
disappointed to have Esther depart without a word about them.
Esther had asked Mrs. Carew if Faith might not go to Brandon, and so
Mrs. Carew had told the little girls of the plan for Faith to go to
her Aunt Priscilla in Ticonderoga for the winter and attend school
there.
"Oh! But that's New York. Why, the 'Yorkers' want to take all the
Wilderness. I shouldn't want to go to school with 'Yorkers,'" Esther
had responded, a little scornfully.
For she had often heard her father and his friends talk of the
attempts made by the English officials of New York to drive the
settlers on the New Hampshire Grants from their homes.
"'Tis not the people of New York who would do us harm," Mrs. Carew had
answered. "And Faith will make friends, I hope, with many of her
schoolmates."
It was a beautiful October morning when Esther, seated in front of her
father on the big gray horse, with the pumpkin-shell work-box wrapped
in a safe bundle swinging from the front of the saddle, started for
Brandon. Their way for most of the journey led over a rough trail.
They would pass near the homes of many settlers, then over the lower
slopes of Mooselamoo Mountain, and skirt Lake Dunmore, and would then
find themselves on a smoother road for the remainder of their journey.
Faith walked beside the travelers to the edge of the wood and then the
two little girls said good-bye.
"I'll come again in the spring," Esther called back.
Faith stood watching them until the branches of the trees hid them
from sight. The maples seemed to be waving banners of scarlet leaves,
and the slopes of the Green Mountains were beautiful in the glory of
autumn foliage. The sun shone brightly, the sky was as blue as summer,
and as Faith turned to run swiftly along the path to the mill she
almost wished that she too was starting for a day's journey through
the woods. The path ran along beside the mill-stream.
It seemed to Faith that the brook was traveling beside her like a gay
companion, singing as it went. The little girl had had so few
companions, none except an occasional visitor, that she had made
friends with the birds and small woodland animals, and found
companionship in the rippling music of the stream. There was a fine
family of yellow-hammers just below the mill that Faith often visited,
and she was sure that they knew her quite well. She had watched them
build their nest in the early spring; had seen them bring food to the
young birds, and had sat close by the nest while the young birds made
their first efforts to fly. She knew where a fine silver-coated fox
made its home on the rocky hillside beyond the garden-slope, and had
told her father that "Silver-nose," as she had named the fox, knew
that she was his friend, and would lie quite still at the entrance to
its hole, while she would sit on a big rock not far distant.
But Faith was not thinking of these woodland friends as she ran along
toward the mill; she was thinking of what she had heard her father say
to Mr. Eldridge that morning. "Tell Colonel Allen the men of the
Wilderness will be ready whenever he gives the word," Mr. Carew had
said; and Mr. Eldridge had answered that it would not be long. Faith
wondered what her father had meant, and if Colonel Allen would again
visit the mill. She hoped he would, for he had seemed to know all
about the woodland creatures, and had told Faith a wonderful story
about the different months of the year. She thought of it now as she
felt the warmth of the October sunshine.
"October is stirring the fire now," she called to her father, who was
watching her from the door of the mill.
"What do you mean by that, child?" asked her father, smiling down at
Faith's tanned face and bright eyes.
"'Tis what Colonel Allen told me about the months. All twelve, every
one of the year, sit about the fire. And now and then one of them
stirs the fire, and that makes all the world warmer. July and August,
when it is their turn, make it blaze; but the other months do not care
so much about it. But once in a while each month takes its turn,"
answered Faith. "That's what Colonel Allen told me."
"'Tis a good story," said Mr. Carew. "Did your mother tell you that I
have sent word to your Aunt Priscilla about your going to her house as
soon as some trustworthy traveler going to Ticonderoga passes this
way?"
"Yes, father. But I am learning a good deal at home. Mother says I
read as well as she did when she was my age. And I can figure in
fractions, and write neatly. I do not care much about school,"
answered Faith; for to be away from her mother and father all winter
began to seem too great an undertaking.
"Yes, indeed; your mother tells me you learn quickly. But 'tis best
for you to become acquainted with children of your own age. And you
have never seen your cousins. Three boy cousins. Think of that. Why,
your Aunt Prissy says that Donald is nearly as tall as you are; and he
is but eight years old. And Hugh is six, and Philip four. Then there
are neighbor children close at hand. You will play games, and have
parties, and enjoy every day; besides going to school," responded her
father encouragingly.
Then he told her of his own pleasant school days in the far-off
Connecticut village where Grandmother Carew lived; and when Mrs. Carew
called them to dinner Faith had begun to think that it would really be
a fine thing to live with Aunt Priscilla and become acquainted with
her little cousins, and all the pleasant, well-behaved children that
her father described, with whom she would go to school and play games.
"It is nearly time for Kashaqua's yearly visit," said Mrs. Carew. "I
have knit a scarf for her of crimson yarn. She generally comes before
cold weather. Don't let her see your blue beads, Faith."
Faith did not make any answer. Kashaqua was an Indian woman who had
appeared at the cabin every fall and spring ever since the Carews had
settled there. When Faith was a tiny baby she had come, bringing a
fine beaver skin as a gift for the little girl. She always came alone,
and the family looked upon her as a friend, and always made a little
feast for her, and sent her on her way laden with gifts. Not all the
Indians of the Wilderness were friendly to settlers; and the Carews
were glad to feel that Kashaqua was well disposed toward them. She
often brought gifts of baskets, or of bright feathers or fine
moccasins for Faith.
"I hope she will come before I go to Aunt Prissy's," said Faith. "I
like Kashaqua."
"Kashaqua likes little girl."
Even Mr. Carew jumped at these words and the sudden appearance of the
Indian woman standing just inside the kitchen door. She seemed pleased
by their warm welcome, and sat down before the fire, while Faith
hastened to bring her a good share of their simple dinner. Faith sat
down on the floor beside her, greatly to Kashaqua's satisfaction, and
told her about Esther Eldridge's visit, about the bear coming into the
kitchen, and of how she had jumped from the window and run to the mill
to tell her father. Kashaqua grunted her approval now and then.
"And what do you think, Kashaqua! I am to go to my Aunt Priscilla
Scott, to Ticonderoga, and stay all winter," she concluded.
"Ticonderoga? When?" questioned Kashaqua, dipping a piece of corn
bread in the dish of maple syrup.
"I am to go just as soon as some one goes over the trail who will take
me," answered Faith.
"I take you. I go to Ticonderoga to-morrow. I take you," said
Kashaqua.