It was two o’clock in the morning when the tired, draggled pair
stumbled ashore at the place where they embarked, hauled up their birch
skiff, leaving it to repose, bottom uppermost, under a screen of
bushes, and then stood for some minutes in deliberation.
“I’m sure I hope we can find the trail all right,” said Cyrus. “Yes, I
see the blazes on the trees. Here’s luck!”
He had been turning the jack-lamp on either side of him, trying to
discover the “blazes,” or notches cut in some of the trunks, which
marked the “blazed trail”—in other words, the spotted line through the
otherwise trackless forest, which would lead him whither he wanted to
go.
It required considerable experience and unending watchfulness to follow
these “blazes”; but young Garst seemed to have the instinct of a true
woodsman, and went ahead unfalteringly, if vigilantly, while Neal
followed closely in his tracks.
After rather a lengthy trudge, they reached a point where the ground
sloped gently upward into a low bluff. Still keeping to the trail, they
ascended this eminence, finding the forest not so dense, and the
walking easier than it had been hitherto. Gaining the top, they emerged
upon an open patch, which had been cleared of its erect, massive pines,
and the long-hidden earth laid bare to the sky by the lumberman’s axe.
Here the eagerly desired sight—that sight of all others to the tired
camper; namely, the camp itself, with its cheery, blazing
camp-fire—burst upon their view, sheltered by a group of sapling pines,
which had grown up since their giant brothers went to make timber.
Now, a Maine camp, as every one knows, may consist of any temporary
shelter you choose to name, according to the tastes and
opportunities of its occupants, from a fair white canvas home to a log
cabin or a hastily erected canopy of spruce boughs. In the present
instance it was a “wangen,” or hut of strong bark, such as is sometimes
used by lumbermen to rest and sleep in when they are driving their
floats of timber down one of the rivers of this region to a distant
town, which is a centre of the lumber trade.
Cyrus and Neal were making across the clearing in the direction of the
camp-fire with revived spirits, when the American suddenly grabbed his
friend by the arm, and drew him behind a clump of low bushes.
“Hold on a minute!” he whispered. “By all that’s glorious, there’s
Uncle Eb singing his favorite song! It’s worth hearing. You never
listened to such music in England.”
“I don’t suppose I ever did,” answered Neal, suppressed laughter making
him shake.
Upon a gray pine stump, beside the blaze, which he was feeding with a
hemlock bough, sat a battered-looking yet lively personage. Had he been
standing upright upon the remnant of trunk, he would certainly, in the
bright but changeful firelight, have deceived an onlooker into
believing him to be a continuation
of it; for the baggy tweed trousers which he wore on his immense legs,
and which partially hid his loose-fitting brogans, or woodsman’s boots,
his thick, knitted jersey, his mop of woolly hair, with the cap of
coon’s fur that adorned it, were a striking mixture of grays, all
bordering upon the color of the stump. His skin, however, was a fine
contrast, shining as he bent towards the flame like the outside of a
copper kettle. In daylight it would be three shades darker, because the
thick coral lips, gleaming teeth, and prominent, friendly eyes of the
individual, betrayed him to be in his own words, “a colored gen’leman;”
that is, a full-blooded negro, and a free American citizen.
Beside him, squatting upon his haunches and wagging his shaggy tail,
was a good-sized dog, not of pure breed, but undoubtedly possessed of
fire and fidelity, as was shown by the eye he raised to his master. His
red coat and general formation showed that his father had been an Irish
setter, though he seemed to have other and fiercer blood in his veins,
mingling with that of this gentle parent.
To him the negro was chanting a war-song,—some lines by a popular
writer which he
had found in an old newspaper, and had set to a curious tune of his own
composition, rendering the performance more inspiriting by sundry wild
whoops, and an occasional whacking of his teeth together.
Here are two verses, under the influence of which the dog worked
himself up to such excitement that he seemed to feel the ghosts of
rabbits slain—for he could smell no live ones—hovering near him:—
“I raise my gun whar de rabbit run—
Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!
En de rabbit say:
‘Gimme time ter pray,
Fer I ain’t got long fer to stay, to stay!’
Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!
“Ketch him, oh, ketch him!
Run ter de place en fetch him!
De bell done chime
Fer de breakfast time—
Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!”
“If there are any more verses, Uncle Eb, keep them until we’ve had
supper, or breakfast, or whatever you like to call a meal at this
unearthly hour. I’m so hungry that I could chew nails!” cried Cyrus,
springing from behind the bushes, and reaching the, camp-fire with a
few strides, Neal following him.
“Sakes alive! yonkers; is dat you?” cried the darkey, uprearing his
gray figure. “I’se mighty glad to see you back. Whar’s yer meat? Left
it in de canoe mebbe? De buck too big to drag ’long to camp—eh?”
There was a wicked rolling of Uncle Eb’s eyes while he spoke. Evidently
from the looks of the sportsmen he guessed immediately what had been
the result of their excursion.
“No luck and no buck to-night!” answered Garst. “But don’t roast us,
Uncle Eb. Get us something to eat quicker than lightning or we’ll go
for you—at least we would if we weren’t entirely played out. It isn’t
everybody who can manage a hard shot as cleverly as you do, when he can
only see the eyes of an animal. And that was the one chance we got.”
No man living ever heard a further word from Cyrus as to how his
English friend bore the scares of a first night’s jacking.
“Ya-as, dat’s a ticklish shot. Most folks is skeered o’ trying it,”
drawled out Ebenezer Grout, a professional guide as well as “colored
gen’leman,” familiarly called by visitors to this region who hired the
use of his hut and his services, “Uncle Eb.”
“There’s some comfort for you,” whispered Cyrus slyly into Neal’s ear.
Aloud he said, addressing the guide, “We had a spill-out, too, as a
crown-all. I’m mighty glad that this is the second of October, not
November, and that the weather is as warm as summer; otherwise we’d be
in a pretty bad way from chill. I feel shivery. Hurry up, and get us
some steaming hot coffee and flapjacks, Uncle Eb, while we fling off
these wet clothes. The trouble is we haven’t got any dry ones.”
“Hain’t got no oder suits?” queried the woodsman. “Den go ’long, boys,
and rig yerselves up in yer blankets. Ye can pertend to be Injuns fer
to-night. Like enough dis ain’t de worst shift ye’ll have to make ’fore
ye get out o’ dese parts.”
As the draggled pair were making towards the hut, which stood about six
feet from the fire, to follow his advice, its bark door was suddenly
pushed wide open. Forth stepped, or rather staggered, another boy,
younger and shorter than Neal. His tumbled fair hair was here and there
adorned with a green pine-needle, which was not remarkable, considering
that he had just arisen from a bed of pine boughs. Sundry others were
clinging to the surface of the warm, fleecy blankets in which he was
wrapped, and his feet were thrust into a pair of moccasins. He had the
appearance and voice of a person awaking from sound sleep.
“I say, you fellows, it’s about time you got back!” he said, rubbing
his heavy eyes, and addressing the hunters. “I hope you’ve had some
luck. I dreamt that I was smacking my lips over a venison steak.”
“Smack ’em w’en you git it, honey!” remarked Uncle Eb, while he mixed a
plain batter of flour, baking-powder, and cold water, which he dropped
in big spoonfuls on a frying-pan, previously greased, proceeding to fry
the mixture over his camp-fire.
The thin, round cakes which presently appeared were the “flapjacks”
despised by Cyrus as insufficient diet.
Without waiting to answer the new boy’s greeting, the hunters had
disappeared into the bark shanty. When next they issued forth they were
rigged up Indian fashion in moccasins and blankets, the latter being
doubled and draped over their underclothing,—of which luckily they had
a dry supply,—and gathered round their waists with leather straps.
Knitted caps, usually worn when sleeping, adorned their heads.
“You see, we followed Dol’s example and your advice, Uncle Eb,” said
Cyrus, as they seated themselves by the camp-fire. “And I tell you
these make tip-top dressing-gowns when you’re feeling a little bit
chilly after a drenching. We didn’t bring along a second suit of tweeds
for the simple reason that we mean to do some pretty rough tramping
with our packs on our backs, and then a fellow is likely to grumble at
any unnecessary pound of weight he carries.”
“Shuah—shuah!” assented Uncle Eb.
“And that is why we left our fishing-rods behind,” continued Garst.
“You see, our main object this trip is neither hunting nor fishing. But
a creel of gamey trout from Squaw Pond would come in handy now to
replenish our larder.”
“Wal, I b’lieve I’ll fix up a rod to-mo-oh an’ hook a few, fer de
pork’s givin’ out. Hain’t got mich use fer trout meself. Dey’s kind o’
tasteless eatin’ if a man can git a bit o’ fat coon or a fatty [hare],
let ’lone ven’zon. Pork’s a sight better’n ’em to my mind.”
While Uncle Eb was giving his views on food, he was hurriedly “bilin’”
coffee, frying unlimited flapjacks, and breaking up some
crystal cakes of maple sugar, which he melted into a sirup, and poured
over them.
“De bell done chime
Fer de breakfast time!”
he shouted gleefully when all was accomplished. “Heah, yonkers! I guess
we may call dis meal breakfast jest as well as not, fer it’s neah to
dawn now.”
And the trio fell to voraciously, as he handed them each a steaming tin
mug and an equally steaming plate. The newly awakened youngster, who
had been cuddling his head sleepily against Neal’s shoulder (a glance
showed that they were brothers), had clamored for his share of the
banquet.
“You haven’t been lonely, Dol, I hope, have you?” said Cyrus, as a
whole flapjack, doubled over and drenched in sirup, disappeared down
his capacious throat.
“Not I,” answered Dol (Adolphus Farrar, ladies and gentlemen), shutting
and opening a pair of steel-gray eyes with a sort of quick snap. “Uncle
Eb and I sat by the fire until twelve o’clock. He sang songs, and told
tip-top stories about coon hunts. I tell you it was fun! I’d rather see
a coon hunt than go out at night jacking, especially if I
got a ducking instead of a deer, like some bungling fellows I know.”
“Don’t be saucy, Young England, or I’ll go for you when I’ve finished
eating,” laughed Cyrus good-humoredly. “Who told you what we got?”
Dol winked at Uncle Eb, who had, indeed, entertained him with giggling
jokes about the unsuccessful hunters while they were stripping off
their wet garments.
Adolphus, being the youngest of the camping-party, was favored with the
softest pine-bough bed and the best of the limited luxuries which the
camp possessed, with unlimited nicknames,—from “Young England” to
“Shaver” or “Chick,” according to the whims of his comrades.
“Say, Uncle Eb, we’re having a fine old time to-night—all sorts of
experiences! I guess you may as well finish that song we interrupted
while we’re finishing our meal.”
“All rightee, gen’lemen!” answered the jolly guide and cook.
The dog Tiger had retreated to the back of the camp-fire, where he lay
blissfully snoozing; but at a booming “Whoop-ee!” from his master,
which formed a prelude to the following verses, he shot up like a
rocket, and
manifested all his former signs of excitement.
“Dey’s a big fat goose whar de turkey roos’—
Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!
En de goose—he say,
‘Hit’ll soon be day,
En I got no feders fer ter give away!’
Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!
“Ketch him, oh, ketch him,
Run ter de roos’ en fetch him!
He ain’t gwine tell
On de dinner bell—
Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!”
“Scoot ’long to bed now, you yonkers, or ye’ll look like spooks
to-mo-oh! Hit’s day a’ready,” cried the singer directly he had whooped
out his last note.
And the “yonkers,” nothing loath, for they had finished their repast,
sprang up to obey him.
“Isn’t it a comfort that we haven’t any trouble of undressing and
getting into our bedclothes, fellows?” Cyrus said, as they reached the
wangen, and prepared to throw themselves upon the fragrant camp-bed of
fresh green pine-boughs, which made the bark hut smell more healthily
than a palace.
The natural mattress was wide enough to accommodate three. The boughs
were laid
down in rows with the under side up, and overlapped each other. To be
sure, an occasional twig might poke a sleeper’s ribs, but what mattered
that? To the English boys especially—having the charm of entire
novelty—it was a matchless bed, wholesome, restful, and rich with
balsamic odors hitherto unknown.
The trio were stupidly tired; but on the American continent no happier
or healthier youths could have been found.
It had, indeed, been a night big with experiences; and there was one
still to come, which, to Neal Farrar at any rate, was as novel as the
rest. He had thrown himself upon his bough couch, too weary to offer
anything but the gladness of his heart for worship, when Cyrus touched
his arm.
“Look there!” he said. “If a fellow could see that without feeling some
sensations go through him which he never felt before, he wouldn’t be
worth much!”
He pointed through the open door of the hut at the sky above the
clearing, over which was stealing a pearly hue of dawn, shot with a
tinge of rosy light, like the fire in the heart of an opal.
This made a royal canopy over the towering
head of Old Squaw Mountain,—near by now and plainly visible,—which had
not yet lost its starry diadem, though the gems were paling one by one.
The shoulders of the peak wore a mantle of purple, and the forest which
clothed its bulk was changing from the blackness of a mourning robe to
the emerald green of a sea-nymph’s drapery.
The shutters of Night were rolling back, and young Day was stepping out
to cast her first smile on a waiting earth.
As the watchers in the hut caught that smile, every thought which rose
in them was a daybreak song to the God who is light, and the secret of
every dawning.
With the day-smile kissing their faces they fell asleep, feeling that
they were wrapped in the embrace of the invisible King.
[Illustration]