while three more men joined hands to form a human chain, which swayed
and nearly gave way before the pressure of the water, as the manager
reached out more and more to try and catch at the rapidly descending
boat.
"I shall never do it," he groaned. "Oh, my poor children!" and in
imagination he saw them swept out to sea.
But as he thought, he made a snatch at the boat's side, the effect
of which was to throw both children into the bottom, where the water
washed to and fro, while the men lost their footing, but not the
desperate grip of their hands.
There was a terrible struggle in the broken water, but the party, boat
and all, were borne close in, and more help coming from the stamp-mill,
in another minute all were safe, though drenched and breathless, while
the torrent for the next hour literally raged between the little
river's stony banks, which it was washing clear of flower and fern and
bearing all out to sea.
"Our poor boat, Syd!" said Lin, a couple of hours later, when the water
was sinking back.
"Yes," said the boy, with a sigh. "She's swept right away."
He was quite right, but the next morning a fisherman brought her back,
while the little river was once more flowing soft and clear.
[Illustration]
"Jean-Pierre"
THE STORY OF THE ST. BERNARD
IT was their first winter in England, and the Buckland children were
staring out of the window at the snowflakes that tumbled over each
other in their hurry to reach the ground.
"They're like tiny white sails," cried Oswald.
"Or dream-fairies' wings," suggested Molly, who had been reading Grimm.
"Or feathers from the sofa cushion we tored this mornin'," said Bobs
practically, hugging his arms in a queer little way he had when
anything delighted him. Jim did not say anything, but his wistful grey
eyes looked sadly at this strange snow that had already covered the
lawn, and he shivered a little as if he felt the cold.
"The proper thing to do now is to make snowballs," remarked Oswald,
remembering a thrilling snow-fight he had read of when he was in India.
"Hooray!" the others shouted, and the rafters of the old house rang
with their footsteps as they clattered off downstairs.
All but Jim. Jim stayed behind because he knew that if he went he
might spoil their fun, for though he was nearly three years older than
Bobs, he couldn't run half as fast, and grew tired quickly. He was
thin and pale and very small—"two sizes too small for his age," his
aunt had told him when he arrived. Since then he had done his best to
oblige them and grow big, but even Aunt Margaret, who had the prettiest
dimples and talked more gently than her sisters, could not say he had
succeeded.
[Illustration]
"Never mind, old fellow," she would whisper. "You'll make a start when
the spring comes, and catch up Bobs. You'll see."
"Spring was a long time coming," thought Jim, as he turned from the
window towards the fire. The Viking, a big St. Bernard who belonged to
Aunt Margaret, and was far too dignified to romp with even the nicest
children, made room for him on the hearthrug, and actually allowed him
to lean against his fine broad back. Jim stroked him admiringly as he
stretched his magnificent limbs in front of the fire, and wished that
he too could be "splendid and big and brave."
"All in good time," said the Viking soberly. "But you needn't wait to
be 'big' before you are 'brave and splendid' you know—Jean-Pierre was
that, though he was as small as you, and had a crooked back besides."
"Jean-Pierre?" Jim questioned eagerly. The Viking shook himself,
and turned his head so that his broad muzzle rested against Jim's
shoulders, close to his ear.
"I was born in Switzerland," he said, "high amongst the mountains,
where the snow falls for weeks at a time, and sometimes buries whole
families beneath it. The monks of St. Bernard had trained my father,
with many other dogs of the same kind, to rescue travellers who lost
their way in trying to cross the mountains, and, but for an accident,
that would have been my work too. My father loved the life, and I
should have been as proud as he to share its dangers."
"Won't you tell me about it?" Jim asked coaxingly. "I want to hear
about Jean-Pierre, and why you say he was so 'splendid.' Did he wear a
beautiful shining sword, like Uncle Mark does? And could he fight?"
"Jean-Pierre had never seen a sword," the Viking said, "and though he
could fight well, it wasn't with enemies that you could see, but with
Hunger, and Fear, and Cold. But if I am to tell you what I know about
him, I must begin at the beginning."
"Twelve years ago I was one of a littler of sprawling puppies. My
mother declared that we were the handsomest she had ever had, but my
father said that size had nothing do with pluck, and that it was only
pluck that counted."
[Illustration]
"How we puppies longed to be grown up, so that we too might show that
we were brave, and how we loved to see our father and his companions
start off in search of some lost traveller. The monks would fasten
flasks of brandy round their necks, and rugs and blankets on their
backs, and wish them 'Godspeed' solemnly. 'Mon Brave' they used to
call our father, and we often heard them speaking to visitors of his
wonderful sense of smell, and how he would dig out lost people from the
deepest snowdrift."
"One afternoon we learnt that two children were missing. They had
no mother, and their father, who had gone to a neighbouring village
to lay in food for the winter, had been cut off from them by the
snow. The storm had come before it was expected, and for days he had
not been able to reach his cottage. When he did, he found it empty.
Pinned to the table was a letter from the boy, who had been left in
charge of Rose Marie, his little sister. 'The Fairy of the Mountains'
people called her, because she was so very fair, and the boy—it was
Jean-Pierre—loved her more even than his father."
"The letter had been written the night before, and said that he and
Marie had been without food for three days then, and when morning came
were going to try 'the lower pass' in hopes of reaching the Monastery.
'I shall take care of Rose Marie,' he added, 'and keep the cold from
her.'"
"That day the snow had fallen more heavily than ever and the monks
shook their heads as they looked at the sky. 'Do your best, Mon Brave,'
they said to our father, and sent him off in advance of the other dogs."
"It was almost the coldest night we had ever known, even in the
Monastery; we puppies snuggled ourselves together beneath the straw,
and shuddered as we listened to the stories our mother told us of dogs
and travellers who had been buried under masses of fallen snow."
"But in less than an hour we heard the deep baying of the dogs, which
meant, we knew, that the children had been found. Some of the monks
seized their lanterns—for it was very dark, and set out for the
perilous track, that was so narrow in places that they could only move
sideways, and but few inches at a time."
[Illustration]
"After a while the deep baying we had heard came nearer, and presently
'Mon Brave' bounded over the snow and into the courtyard. Strapped to
his back was a tiny girl, 'The Fairy of the Mountains,' and when the
monks who had stayed behind unrolled the blankets from her, we saw that
over her woollen jacket she was wearing a boy's coat, and that boys'
socks covered her sodden shoes, while the flannel shirt wrapped round
her must have been Jean-Pierre's too. He had 'taken great care of her'
as he said he would, and kept her from the cold."
The Viking's voice died dreamily away. Jim wanted to ask him what had
happened to Jean-Pierre, and why the Viking had come to England. But
while he was deciding which question to ask first, Oswald and Molly and
Bobs came rushing in.
"It was splendid," they cried together, and Jim said "splendid" too.
But he was thinking of Jean-Pierre, and how he had taken care of Rose
Marie.
Lilian Gask.
[Illustration]
The Jailer's Little Son
[Illustration]
THE little child was quivering all over. Hidden behind the arras of the
stately room where her sad-faced mother sat talking with sympathising
friends, little Patricia was listening with eager ears to the earnest
talk of the elders. The child knew that her father was in prison—in the
big prison which they could almost see from the windows of the house
they had come to live in to be near him. A knight faithful to his King
in the dreadful war only just ended, he was lying in prison, and every
day they feared to hear that his life had been made forfeit. Every
night little Patricia's pillow was wetted by her tears; every night
and morning she added to her customary childish prayers a petition
for her dear father's liberation. But she knew he was in the hands of
stern political and Puritan foes, and that her mother's heart was very
sore and heavy, and that the friends who came and went, and sought to
comfort them, feared the worst themselves.
But now her eyes were shining with excitement. Her little heart was
beating high with a new hope and purpose. When the door had closed upon
the last of the visitors, the little one came out from her place of
concealment, and, approaching her mother, she said:
"Mother, sweet, give me the letter. I will get it to father."
The lady looked down with her sad eyes full of wonder.
"My child—what do you mean?"
"Mother, I heard them talking. They said so much had been done. They
said all arrangements had been made; and that if only father could
get a letter—could read it and know—he might escape easily out of his
prison. That is the letter I want."
"But, my sweetling, they will not let you go to your father. We have
asked too oft—and have failed."
"I know, mother; I shall not be able to give it him myself. But little
Giles will give it for me!"
"My child—what mean you—are you dreaming? Who is Giles?"
"Why, mother—you must see him often on the green. He is the jailer's
little boy. He walks after us often. I give him my hand to kiss
sometimes. But only when there is nobody to see. He took a kiss from
me to father once; and gave me that from father too. I did not show it
you before. I thought it would but make you weep afresh," and the child
held up a little bit of wood, fashioned somewhat into the likeness of a
horse; the sort of thing that prisoners while away the time in seeking
to whittle with any little bit of metal which they may find about their
dress or in their cell.
The lady's tears fell fast as she pressed the little image to her lips,
and closely questioned the child about the boy, of whom she spoke with
such confidence.
Little Giles lived within the precincts of a prison, but he was a
bright-faced, brave-hearted little lad, whose merry voice had not
learned the nasal drawl of his father's friends, and who could not
make shift to subdue his natural gaiety of disposition in the way it
was desired of him. Perhaps his mother secretly encouraged him to
be blithe; perhaps he watched the cavalier gentlemen with too much
satisfaction and admiration to be a very staunch Puritan himself. And
of late, since that little cavalier maiden with the big brown eyes, the
rosy lips and the golden cloud of hair had come into the place, he had
thought and dreamed of little else than of being her faithful follower
and esquire all the days of his life.
He knew that her father was one of his father's prisoners; and he
sought every opportunity of making an errand into that part of the
prison where the cavalier knight lay, and of trying to see him whenever
it was possible. Giles was a handy little lad, and very willing and
obliging; so that he was sometimes sent on errands by his father or
his underlings, and not infrequently took the prisoners their food;
but some other and older person invariably accompanied him to lock and
unlock the doors, though he assisted by taking in the rations.
Just now and again the turnkey would pass on to another room for a
minute or so, leaving Giles in the one before; and thus he was able
very occasionally to comfort the heart of some captive by a whispered
hint as to what was going on without, or by a message from some loved
one hungering after news. No one suspected how the little fellow longed
to help and comfort the prisoners, or how his kind heart was moved by
any sight of suffering and sorrow.
But his little lady filled his thought now almost to the exclusion of
all else. He knew that she came daily to the green which lay betwixt
the fortress and the town, and he was ever on the watch for her,
counting it a red-letter day in his calendar when she should bestow a
smile upon him—still more when she should pause to speak a word to him.
She was never alone. Some servant was always in attendance. But upon
this bright June morning she came out with only a lad following her,
and in her hand she held a small bow and some arrows.
She did not seem to notice Giles, and shot her shafts here and there,
the boy running to pick them up. Giles would have loved to fill this
office himself; but the little lady gave him no encouragement, and he
stood shy and silent a little behind her.
Suddenly she shot an arrow more strongly than its fellows, and it
fell behind a low wall which guarded a small garden belonging to the
chaplain of the prison.
"Go, boy," she said, "you can climb the wall and find the arrow."
[Illustration]
He ran to do her bidding, and was quickly lost to sight behind the
wall. There was nobody on all the green but the two children. The
little maid turned upon Giles and beckoned him to her side. With an
eagerly flushed face he came, quivering all over.
"Giles," she said very solemnly, "do you love me?"
"With all my heart and soul!" he answered with breathless fervour.
"Would you like to do something for me?"
"I would love it, little lady."
"But suppose they killed you dead for it?"
"Let them!" cried Giles, "I would not care one whit!"
"Giles," she said, slipping a letter into his hand which he instantly
hid in his doublet, "if you can give this letter to my dear father in
the prison, they say he will be able to get out, and his head won't be
cut off. But if anybody else finds it, they will kill him, and you too.
Boy, do you dare do it?"
"Of course I dare. I would die for you, little lady, or for anybody you
loved. I will give him the letter. If they kill me for it afterwards, I
shall not mind."
Patricia's little face suddenly quivered all over.
"Boy," she said, "O dear, dear good Giles, I don't want you to be
killed—I don't indeed. I love you next best to my father and mother—and
the King!"
And she suddenly threw down her bow and clasped her little arms about
Giles's neck, and pressed a kiss upon his lips.
Giles walked on air as he went homeward that day. Whatever else betided
him his little lady had kissed him: she had given him a share of the
love of her little childish heart.
* * * * *
Long years afterwards, when King Charles the Second had been brought
triumphantly back to his kingdom, and exiled cavaliers were flocking
joyfully to these shores, a beautiful lady, traveling with her husband
and parents, stopped their coach at a certain town where a grim
fortress dominated the dwellings of the inhabitants, and asked if one
Giles Dorman lived within its walls.
[Illustration]
Before long a fine and stalwart man appeared, at sight of whom the
young and lovely lady leaped lightly from the coach, and with a little
cry of recognition stepped forward with outstretched hands.
"Giles!" she exclaimed, "do you remember me?"
The man's bronzed face flushed from brow to chin. He slightly bent the
knee as those soft white hands met his own, and he bowed over them and
touched them with his lips.
A fine-looking gray-haired man now stepped up, and laid a hand on
Giles's shoulder.
"I must speak the words of thanks my daughter is scarce able to do,
and tell you that our errand to-day is to ask whether you will accept
the post of steward upon her estate; as she says she knows she will
never find anyone to serve her so faithfully and so well as Giles,
the jailer's son, of whom she has never ceased to talk in terms of
gratitude and praise."
She looked at him with eager eyes. Times had not been very kind to
Giles. He had grown up under a cloud of suspicion since the escape of a
certain prisoner. His face lighted as though a sunbeam had touched it.
The clouds were all rolling away.
"You will come then, Giles?" spoke the lady with kindling eyes.
"I will come with you to the world's end—and be your faithful servant
ever. I ask nothing better," said he.
E. Everett-Green.
A Ride for Life
"YOU'RE not afraid?" said father, turning at the door of the hut to
give me an anxious backward glance.
"Now, Dad, what should I be afraid of?" I answered, "there's no one
near to hurt me, except Deerfoot, and you don't suppose he would harm
me?" and I laughed right merrily, for I had known Deerfoot ever since I
had been a tiny little girl, and father and mother and George and I had
come to live out in the forest.
Now father and I were the only two left, for mother was dead and George
had left home the previous day on his way to New York City, where he
was to be given a place in our uncle's office.
Father was a little disappointed in George I think, and no one knew
how dreadfully I missed my quiet, studious brother. He was slight and
delicate and looked little like a farmer's son; but I knew that he had
a heart of gold, although he could not bear a farmer's life, and father
sometimes laughed at him for a molly-coddle.
On this particular day father had to go a long way off into the forest
to superintend the felling of a number of trees, which would afterwards
be floated down the river to the city.
"I shall hurry back," he said; "so have the kettle boiling about five
o'clock, and take care of yourself, little one."
I had a great deal to do and the morning passed quickly enough, so that
I never even guessed it was past dinner time until my healthy appetite
warned me. Then I sat down and made a hearty meal, and was just about
to clear away the dishes when something happened which startled me very
much.
There was a sudden "whir" and a blood-stained arrow came flying through
the open door and quivered in the wall behind me.
At first I tried to persuade myself that Dad had come home early and
had done it by way of a joke; but the sight of the arrow tipped with
a white feather dyed with an unmistakable red, made me turn pale and
shudder. Father would never play me a joke like that. I went out to
call Deerfoot; but he was nowhere to be seen, and then it occurred to
me that I had not seen him all the morning.
What could it mean? I walked about the outbuildings, calling to
him, but I was afraid of the sound of my own voice. I opened the
stable door, and Hector whinnied with pleasure, and shook his bridle
invitingly. But why was Hector bridled, and saddled? Suddenly it
occurred to me that some danger really menaced, and this was Deerfoot's
warning. In a flash I remembered the tales I had heard as a child of
Indian risings, and I remembered father's troubled face that morning.
I had laughed at fear then; but now it held me in its grip. I dare not
stay in the quiet house, and I led Hector out into the open, sprang
upon his back and was off like lightning for the clearing, where I
hoped to find father.
[Illustration: ON AND ON WE RACED]
I was only just in time, for I had scarcely got right away when I
heard a yell, and, turning in the saddle, I saw a party of howling and
maddened Indians riding towards our home.
I waited to see no more, but rode on and on for dear life towards the
clearing. I had not gone far when I met father.
"Why, dearie, what's wrong?" he cried. "I was cowing home early, for
those red rascals never turned up to-day, and so I only marked the
trees I wanted felled."
"Oh, Dad," I gasped, "there's a rising—I know there is—and they're
going to murder us!"
I told him briefly all that had happened, and without waiting for
comment, father mounted Hector, whilst I clung on behind him, and the
good beast was urged to its utmost speed.
A smell of burning and a glare in the sky told us that our home was
in flames, and by and by a distant yell of triumph warned us that the
Redskins were on our track.
Father said not a word, but by the beating of his heart I knew he
had heard. On and on we raced, but the horrid yells, came nearer and
nearer—the Indians were gaining on us. Now they were close behind; an
arrow whizzed past us, and I closed my eyes, hoping death would come
swiftly.
But now an answering yell arose, this time a shout of wild
encouragement, and it came from a white man's throat I knew. I still
kept my eyes tightly closed and clung to father's belt; but suddenly
I felt Hector being wheeled round, I was swung to the ground, and
opening my eyes, I saw I was in my brother's arms. He placed me behind
a mound, and from there I watched the fierce and terrible fight which
took place, and saw our foes completely routed and put to flight by the
little band of white men whom George had brought to our rescue.
When it was all over, George told us that at one of his resting places
news had been brought of the murder of a family of white people by
the Indians, and, fearing for our safety in our lonely home, he had
persuaded a party of men to return with him to bring us away until the
rising, if rising it proved to be, had subsided.
Well, they had only been just in time, and indeed, if it had not been
for Deerfoot's friendly warning to me, both father and I must have
perished.
The poor old fellow had been loyal enough towards us, and had tried
hard to persuade the chief to spare both us and our home but when he
saw that if he persisted in his entreaties he would be suspected of
being a traitor to his own people and would probably lose his life at
their hands, without benefiting us, he determined to warn us of the
danger which threatened us.
As his friends suspected him of some such intention he was watched, and
could not, therefore, approach the house closely, though he had managed
to let fly the blood-stained arrow, hoping we should read its message
aright.
I am glad to say he came to no harm during those troublous times; but
lived to serve us faithfully for many a long year.
As for father and George, they were brought very near together in that
terrible fight; for father learnt what a brave fellow he had for a son,
even though he would not be a farmer.
L. L. Weedon.
A Debt Paid
CAPTAIN AYRES sat in his hot little tent, writing. Outside there was
the breathless stillness of a June night in Burmah, and the heavy,
soaking, ceaseless rain had given him a touch of fever. For weeks he
had been leading his little force from point to point on the track of
the dacoits, or robber bands, and he was thoroughly disheartened, for
they had never yet had the least chance of a fight.
He was a police officer, and a very brave one, and was particularly
anxious to capture one of the head-men of the dacoits, just to make
certain that it could be done.
He wrote a little bit, and then stopped, and then wrote again. Outside,
the bright camp-fire crackled and sputtered, as the natives squatted
round it, and threw on the logs and damp leaves. Nearer still, quite
close to the entrance of his tent, he could see, between him and the
fire, a curly black head, laid upon a pair of folded arms. Really,
there seemed nothing to say—nothing, at least, that would interest his
mother, who knew very little indeed about dacoits, and would probably
hardly understand what he meant if he wrote about them.
He stretched out his legs, and yawned, and his sword, which was leaning
against the table, fell to the ground with a clatter. As it did so, the
little brown imp in the doorway rose hastily and almost fell into the
tent.
"Master."
Captain Ayres looked round impatiently.
"Boots! you here? You ought to have been asleep hours ago; go away at
once."
The little brown face grinned delightedly.
"Me stay by master," he said. "All chaps go to bed. Mangwee keep watch
with master."
"No, you don't," said Captain Ayres decidedly. "Mangwee go to bed with
all chaps, or he get bamboo stick in the morning."
The little brown face clouded over.
"Master, the dacoits all round. Master keep me, I keep master."
He spoke very earnestly, and pointed vaguely beyond the tent, but
Captain Ayres laughed.
"I wish the dacoits would come, old chap," he said; "but there's no
fear. Off with you!"
The boy tumbled out of the tent again; and pulled down the curtain as
he went, but Captain Ayres had plenty to tell his mother now. His pen
flew over the paper.