GENERAL WASHINGTON.

From the inn Rip turned to the crowd that stood about it, and even here

the strange alteration that pervaded everything and everybody was

visible. There was none of the former air of calm and leisure

characteristic of the friends who had sat with him round the tree

yesterday--or was it a hundred years ago? This crowd was noisy and

bustling and inclined to quarrel: full of plans and inventions to judge

by the talk, and eager to discuss and find fault with the contents of a

handbill, which one of their number was handing about. Rip did not

understand much of what they were saying, but he caught such phrases as

'Members of Congress,' 'Bunker's Hill,' 'liberty,' and other expressions

as meaningless to him as if they were uttered in a foreign tongue.

* * * * *

It was some time before he noticed that to the villagers on their side

he himself was an object of great interest and curiosity. They pressed

round him and made remarks to each other about his strange dress and the

rust on his gun, while the little man with the handbills pushed his way

up to him and inquired 'how he had voted?' which Rip, who had not the

least idea what he meant, answered merely with a stare. Another who

desired to know 'whether he was Federal or Democrat' fared no better;

but a third questioner, who asked why he had come to the election with a

gun on his shoulder and a mob at his heels, and if he intended to head a

riot, at last gave Rip back his power of speech.

'Alas! gentlemen,' he cried; 'I am a poor, quiet man, a native of this

village and a loyal subject of King George.'

The tumult that broke forth at this reply nearly deafened him. 'A spy! a

spy!' shouted the people, 'away with him! to the gallows with him!' and

it might have gone hardly with Rip had not a man in a cocked hat

interfered and called them to order. The man next demanded of Rip what

he wanted and why he was there, to which Rip humbly made answer that he

had come in search of some of his neighbours who had been used to meet

him at the tavern.

'Well, give us their names?' said the man in the cocked hat.

'Nicholas Vedder, the innkeeper,' answered Rip.

There was a moment's silence; then an old man, in a thin piping voice,

spoke.

'Nicholas Vedder? Why, he's dead and gone these eighteen years; and even

his wooden tombstone in the churchyard has got rotten.'

'And Brom Dutcher?'

'Oh, he enlisted as a soldier in the beginning of the war. Some say he

was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others, that he was drowned

in a squall off Antony's Nose. Anyway, he never came back here.'

'And van Bummel, the schoolmaster?'

'He went off to the wars too, and became a general, and is now a member

of Congress.'

Rip asked no further questions: his home and his friends were gone, and

he seemed to be alone in the world. At length a cry of despair broke

from him.

'Does nobody know Rip van Winkle?'

'Rip van Winkle?' answered two or three. 'Oh, to be sure! There's Rip

van Winkle leaning against that tree.'

Rip looked where they pointed, and grew more bewildered and despairing

than ever. For what he saw was himself; himself as he had been yesterday

when he went up the mountain; himself in the rags that he had worn with

such a light heart.

'And what is _your_ name?' asked the man in the cocked hat, watching his

face.

'God knows,' cried Rip; 'I don't know who I am. I'm not myself. I'm

somebody else--that's me yonder--at least I can't tell; he seems to have

got into my shoes. I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the

mountain and they changed my gun, and now everything is changed and I'm

changed, and I don't know what is my name or who I am.'

When he had ceased, the bystanders looked at each other and tapping

their foreheads, whispered something about taking away the gun so that

he might not do himself a mischief. They were still talking when a

pleasant-faced woman pushed through the crowd to get a peep of the

stranger with the long beard. His looks frightened the child she was

carrying, and it began to cry. 'Hush, Rip! hush!' she said; 'the old man

won't hurt you.'

As he heard her words Rip started and turned towards her eagerly.

'What is your name?' he asked.

'Judith Gardener.'

'And who was your father?'

'Ah, poor man, he was Rip van Winkle; but he went away from home more

than twenty years agone. He took his dog and his gun with him, and the

dog was found lying in front of the door early next morning. But as for

father, whether he shot himself by accident or was carried away by the

Indians, we never knew. I was only a little girl then.'

'And your mother?'

'Oh, she died only a short time since. She flew into such a passion with

a pedlar who she thought had cheated her, that she broke a blood

vessel.'

But though Rip had inquired after his wife, all affection for her had

long died away, and he did not take this news much to heart. He flung

his arms round his daughter and cried.

'I am your father. Don't you know me? Young Rip van Winkle once, now old

Rip van Winkle. Does _nobody_ know poor Rip van Winkle?'

The crowd heard, amazed, and in silence. Then suddenly an old woman went

up to him, and peered closely into his face.

'Why, 'tis Rip van Winkle, for sure!' said she. 'Welcome home,

neighbour! Where have you been these twenty long years?'

Rip's story was soon told, but the people who listened to it had as much

difficulty in believing that you could sleep for twenty years and think

it was one night, as Rip himself. 'Mad!' was the only interpretation

they put upon the tale, though they did not say so openly.

In the midst of the general perplexity an old man was seen coming along

the road, and someone called out:

'Here is Peter Vanderdonk! Let us ask him if he ever knew of such

doings?'

'Ay, let us! He is the oldest dweller in the village, and we will abide

by his words,' the rest answered in chorus, and they watched intently

till Peter came up.

'Why! 'tis Rip van Winkle back again!' he exclaimed, just as the old

woman had done. 'Right glad I am to see him, too.'

Who can tell the joy of poor Rip at this hearty greeting? So he was no

ghost after all, as he had almost begun to think, but a flesh and blood

man, with friends like other people. He could hardly speak for

happiness, but he grasped Peter's hand tightly, and then the man with

the cocked hat asked Peter if he had ever heard any strange stories of

the Catskill Mountains.

'Ay, that have I, many a time,' replied Peter. 'My grandfather--he was

mighty taken up with all such things--told me that the great Hendrik

Hudson who first came over from Europe and gave his name to the river,

held a feast up there once in every twenty years, with the crew of his

ship the "Half Moon"; and my old father had actually beheld them playing

at ninepins in the hollow of the mountains. And though I never saw

anything myself,' finished Peter, 'I heard the sound of their balls one

summer afternoon, and anybody who did not know, would have thought it

was thunder.'

* * * * *

After this the crowd broke up and went about its own concerns, and Rip

returned with his daughter to her own house. Her husband was one of the

children he had played with long ago, and he was now a thriving farmer.

Rip's son, whom he had seen leaning against the tree, was supposed to be

employed on the farm, but he was no more fond of attending to his own

work than his father before him.

Little by little Rip slipped back into his former life, and gathered

about him those of his old friends that were still left. But now, as in

the days of long ago, it was the children whom he loved best, and when

they grew tired of romping together, he would sit down on some green

knoll while they climbed about him, and tell them the tale, of which

they never grew weary, of his night on the Catskills.

* * * * *

None of you who read this story are old enough to remember the wonderful

American actor Jefferson, who played Rip van Winkle till he grew at last

to feel he was more Rip van Winkle than Jefferson. But those who _did_

see him act it will never forget it, nor his burst of despair when he

came home, to be repudiated and denied by everyone.

_THE WONDERFUL BASKET_

There was once a time when young women of the Tlingit tribe were not

allowed to eat between their meals, but in spite of this rule which they

knew very well, two girls belonging to one of the noblest families one

day being very hungry took some food. Of course, they did not tell

anybody, but their mother, who looked after the food-box found it out

and was very angry.

'What do you mean by behaving like that?' she asked her eldest daughter,

shaking her violently while she spoke. 'It is not right that a big girl

like you should do such things. I am ashamed of you! As you are so fond

of eating, you had better go and marry Mountain Dweller. You will get

plenty of food from him.' But though the mother did not scold her other

daughter who was still quite little, the child did not like her sister

to be slapped and scratched. The sister did not like it either; so that

night the two girls crept softly out of the house and ran away to the

forest.

The mother was surprised next morning when she found no signs of her

daughters, but she thought they were cross or lazy, and had stayed in

bed in order that they might not have to do any work. She waited a

little, expecting to see them every moment, and as they did not come she

called out, 'Why don't you get up? it is very late.' There was no

answer, so she went to their room to discover what was the matter. Then

she perceived that they had never been to bed at all, and felt sorry

that her cross words the day before had driven them away.

The first thing she did was to go to the houses of some neighbours, and

ask if they knew anything of her daughters, and if they had been

playing any games with the children. But no one had seen them; and for

seven days the mother wandered from one place to another, but she could

never find any trace of them.

* * * * *

All this time the two girls were walking about the woods not knowing

where they went, and looking vainly for fruit or berries, as they were

very hungry. At last the path they were following led upwards, and they

found themselves among the mountains. A faint sound as of somebody

chopping wood a long distance off reached their ears, and the elder

sister said to herself, 'I wonder if that is the man that mother was

talking of.' By and bye the sound grew clearer and clearer, and on

turning a corner they came upon the woodcutter, with his face painted

red, standing over a fallen tree. As the girls approached he looked up

and said:

'What are you two doing here?'

'Mother was unkind to us,' answered the elder, 'so we came away.'

'What had you done to vex her?' asked the man.

'We had eaten some food between our meals, and she said, "If you are so

fond of eating, you had better go and marry Mountain Dweller."'

'Well, come into my house,' said Mountain Dweller, for it was he who was

chopping the wood, and they went with him and he took them all over it,

and very fine it was. Last of all he led them into a store-house full of

dried meat, salmon, and deer, and halibut. They gazed at it hungrily,

though they did not say anything, but Mountain Dweller saw their eyes

and gave them food which they gladly ate; and they slept there all that

night, as they did not know where else to go.

Next morning they got up very early and found Mountain Dweller making

ready to hunt, drawing on his leggings and choosing his weapons.

'We will be married to-morrow,' said he, 'but to-day I have a long way

to walk, and I shall not be back till nightfall. And before I go, I want

to warn you not to peep behind the large curtain of skins hanging

over that door. A very bad woman lives on the other side, and she does

not like anyone to see her.'

[Illustration: HOW THE GIRLS FOUND MOUNTAIN-DWELLER]

'No; of course we won't,' answered they, and Mountain Dweller set out.

* * * * *

So the girls stayed in the house all day, and wondered what their

friends were doing in the village, and if they were still seeking them.

'I expect,' said the elder, 'they think we have been eaten by wolves,

and are mourning for us. And mother will have cut off her hair, and

painted her face black.'

'Yes; she is sure to have done that,' answered the little girl; and so

she had.

The days went by in much the same way, except that the big girl was now

married to Mountain Dweller. Every morning he went out to hunt, so the

two sisters had plenty to eat, and if they wanted any food between

meals, they took it. They were quite happy until one unlucky morning

when it was snowing so fast they could not leave the house, and at last

they grew weary, and longed for something new.

'Who can the woman be that lives behind the curtain?' said the elder

sister at last. 'I daresay she is not so very bad after all, and perhaps

she can teach us some fresh games. I have noticed that there is a little

hole in the curtain; I will peep through that, and if she looks kind and

good-natured, I will go in.'

'Yes; that is a good plan,' answered the child, and they both went on

tiptoe to the curtain.

The hole was very small, and it was hardly possible that anyone on the

other side of the curtain should have seen them looking through. Yet the

moment that the wife had fixed her eye on it, the woman threw up her

hands and screamed, and both sisters fell down dead; and that is how

Mountain Dweller found them when he returned from the hunt.

He guessed at once what had happened, and his anger was so great that

the first thing he did was to run behind the curtain and kill the bad

woman who lived there. Then he took some eagle-down and spread it over

the girls' bodies, and walked round them many times, shaking his rattle

all the while. At length slight shivers passed through their limbs; the

colour came back into their faces, and there they stood on their feet,

as well as ever they were.

* * * * *

When they had been in the mountain for many, many months, Mountain

Dweller said one day to his wife:

'Would you not like to see your father and mother once more?'

'Oh, yes, yes!' cried both the girls at once.

'Well, you shall,' said he; 'but first I must go to hunt and prepare a

gift for them. So make me a little basket, just big enough to put your

finger in.'

'That won't take long,' laughed she, and on his return in the evening

the basket was ready. But this basket was not like other baskets, for

when the husband shook it, it grew large enough to hold all kinds of

meat and bags of tallow, and when he shook it again, it shrunk--and the

meat also.

At dawn the next day the girls started and carried the basket to their

father's house. It was evening before they arrived, and the first person

who saw them approaching was their little brother, who ran in, crying,

'Mother, my sisters are there.'

'Nonsense!' she answered angrily. 'Why do you say such things? They have

been dead this many a long day.'

'They _are_ my sisters,' shouted he. 'Do you suppose I don't know them?'

'Well, let me see the hair from their marten-skin robes,' she replied,

still unbelieving, for she remembered that her daughters had marten-skin

robes, such as only the chief families were allowed to wear. Then the

boy went and spoke to his sisters, and pulled little pieces of the fur

out. As soon as she saw the fur, the mother believed, and she and her

husband and their kinsfolk went forth to meet the lost girls, weeping

for joy at having found them again.

The next day the big girl said to her mother, 'There is a little basket

in the woods, filled with meat. Let it be fetched.' So several people

went to fetch it, but returned, saying it was so large that all of them

put together could not bring it in.

'I will go and see about it,' answered the girl, and she made it small

so that she could easily carry it, but as soon as she laid it down in

the house, it became as large as ever. She knelt on the floor and

unpacked the basket, and the house could hardly contain all that was in

it; and the village people came and feasted likewise. Only the mother

ate so much that she grew very ill, and never got any better.

To this day luck befalls every man who hears Mountain Dweller chopping

the wood.

_THE ESCAPE OF THE GALLEY-SLAVES_

In the year 1563 the 'Three Half Moons,' with thirty men on board, set

sail from Portsmouth for the south of Spain, intending to sell their

goods to merchants in the town of Seville, situated on the river

Guadalquivir. The wind was behind them and they had a prosperous voyage

till they neared the Straits of Gibraltar, when eight Turkish ships

suddenly hove in sight, and surrounded the 'Three Half Moons.'

Of course, no vessel ever entered the Mediterranean, which in those days

was alive with pirates, without being fully armed, and every man was a

fighter. So when the captain of the 'Three Half Moons' beheld the flag

with the crescent flying at the masthead of each galley, he ordered the

trumpets and drums to be beaten, and served out swords and ammunition to

the crew. This done, John Fox the gunner moved his cannon into position

and sent a shower of bullets at the Turks.

The enemy however either had better artillery or were in greater

practice than the English men, for they loaded at least three times as

quickly, coming up as they did so to closed quarters, so that the crew

were forced to take to their bows. Their aim was deadly and soon many of

the Turks had fallen upon their decks, but again their more rapid firing

told, and soon there were signs that the 'Three Half Moons' was filling

with water from the holes pierced in her side. Then the Turks left their

own galleys and tried to board her before she sank. Bows and cannon were

alike useless now, so the English seized their pikes and swords, and

fought hand to hand till they were overborne by the number of the enemy.

At length they could resist no longer; their weapons were taken from

them, and those who were left alive were sent, as prisoners of war

usually were, to work at the oars of the galley. This was a fate dreaded

by all from nearly the beginnings of history. The unfortunate slaves

were generally chained together on benches in a stifling, dark place,

where they could hardly breathe; their food was scanty and often bad,

and if from exhaustion any man showed symptoms of flagging, an overseer

was at hand to flog him into greater vigour. Should the ship sink, as

often happened, the heavy chains deprived the unhappy slaves of any

chance of escaping death.

* * * * *

It was the custom of the Turks to lay up their galleys during the winter

in a harbour near the town of Alexandria, and to throw all their

prisoners and galley-slaves into gaol, with irons on their legs. The

crew of the 'Three Half Moons' were thrust into dungeons like the rest,

but before very long the captain and the owner of the ship, who had

sailed with them, were ransomed by their friends.

Thankful though they were to be free again, they suffered terrible pain

at leaving their companions to so many and great miseries, and they

could only falter out a few broken words about doing their best to

collect money at home to deliver them also. The prisoners sighed and did

not answer: they knew too well the worth of promises such as these.

Their daily allowance of food in the prison was no greater than it had

been on the galleys, and they were all more than half starved. Yet their

plight would have been even worse than it was, had not John Fox the

gunner possessed unusual skill as a barber, which somehow became known,

and the officials about the gaol and harbour would send for him to shave

them and cut their hair. With the money thus earned, he bought good food

for his mates and himself. After a while, he and certain of his

companions were allowed by the keeper to go out for the day and make

what they could, a regular part of their earnings being paid to the

gaoler. As they were obliged to report themselves at night and always

kept the irons on their legs, there was not much fear of their running

away.

In the winter of 1577, when the crew of the 'Three Half Moons' had

reached the fourteenth year of their captivity, the galleys were

dismantled of their masts and sails, and laid up in harbour till the

spring. The captains and sailors, having nothing more to do, returned to

their own homes; and the prisoners, amounting in all to two hundred and

sixty-eight Christians belonging to sixteen different nations, were

marched back to the prison.

Not far from the harbour was an eating-house kept by one Unticaro, a

Spaniard, who since he had been thirty years a captive without once

attempting to escape was permitted certain privileges. With him, John

Fox had long ago made friends, and it was of this man he now asked

advice as to his best plan of running away, because Fox had determined

that, even if he died for it, he would stay there no longer. Unticaro

had lacked the courage to move on his own account, but fired by Fox,

readily agreed to risk his own life also. Six of the other prisoners

whom they could trust were let into the secret, and they swore they

would stand or fall together.

* * * * *

The first thing to be done was, of course, to get rid of their chains,

so Fox distributed files among them, with orders to have their irons off

their legs by eight o'clock the next night. They had by this time been

imprisoned for so many years, and the gaoler had got so accustomed to

seeing them about, that so long as they were all there when he locked

up, he did not trouble himself further.

On the evening of the following day, January 1, 1578, the six captives

accompanied by John Fox met at Unticaro's eating-house, pretending to be

in high spirits so that nobody who dropped in should guess that anything

serious was on hand. When eight o'clock struck, Fox sent Unticaro to the

master of the harbour, with a message professing to come from one of the

city officials, a friend of the gaolers. Unticaro seems to have

persuaded the gaoler to go with him, and the two set out, injunctions

being given to the warders not to bar the gate till his return, as he

should not be absent long. No sooner had they departed, than the other

men began to search Unticaro's house for the various weapons which he

had hidden there. These all proved to be old, and there was only one

sword among them which Fox took, and, grasping the hilt, he concealed

himself round the corner of the house and awaited the gaoler.

The man was not long in coming, and when he saw the house in total

darkness he instantly suspected that something was the matter. Stepping

back from the door in order to make sure that he might not be taken by

surprise, he perceived Fox standing in the shadow, and cried 'O Fox,

what have I deserved of thee that thou shouldst seek my death?'

'Thou villain!' answered Fox, 'thou hast sucked many a Christian's

blood, and now thou shalt know what thou hast deserved at my hands,' and

he lifted his sword and struck the keeper such a blow that he fell stark

dead to the ground.

Leaving the body, the men went down to the place where the six warders

were waiting.

'Who goes there?' asked one, and Fox replied:

'All friends,' which, says the chronicler, 'when they were in, proved

contrary,' for the prisoners fell upon the gaolers and soon dispatched

them all. Then Fox barred the gate and dragged a gun against it, for he

had work to do inside.

In the gaoler's lodge, which appears to have been empty, they found the

prison keys and a number of weapons much better than those they had

brought with them. There was also a chest containing money which they

would certainly need, if they managed to escape from the town. John Fox,

however, declined to touch any of it, but Unticaro and two others were

not so scrupulous, and stuffed as many golden ducats into their clothes

as they could contrive to stow away. After this was done Fox bade them

follow him into the prison, unlocking the doors with the gaoler's keys,

and slaying the warders in charge. The prisoners, thus set free, were

put by him to different tasks, the greater number being ordered to seize

a galley lying at the prison end of the harbour, while the others

carried down to it the mast and the sails and oars which had been stored

up in the prison. Although most of the warders had been killed, eight

of them had taken refuge in the roof of the prison, and in order to come

at them the conspirators had to place ladders against the walls. The

fighting was hot, and Fox received three shots in his clothes, while

Unticaro and the two men who had taken the ducats were killed outright,

which Fox considered a judgment upon them, for taking what did not

belong to them.

All seemed going well, when a wounded Turk fell outside the prison wall,

and 'made such a lowing' or bellowing, that he was heard by the people

who lived in one or two scattered houses about. They instantly gave the

alarm, and the prisoners fighting for their freedom felt as if the way

of escape was barred to them. For at each end of the harbour was a

fortress, while the city of Alexandria lay behind. Yet, such good use

had the men made of the start they had had in getting ready the galley

that before another ship could put to sea they were all on board, and

had passed in safety the guns of the two forts, gaining the open water.

Once fairly away, they looked back to be sure that none of the Turkish

vessels were likely to catch them up. The shores of the harbour were

black with people, 'in companies like unto swarms of bees, bustling

themselves to dress up the galleys.' But this was not so easy, as the

whole of the fittings were locked up in the town. So the Christians

breathed again, and, falling on their knees, gave thanks for their

deliverance.

But the danger was by no means over, the wind was constantly shifting,

and they did not know how to shape their course; and worse than that,

the few provisions, which in their haste they had been able to bring,

were soon exhausted. In twenty-eight days, eight persons died of

starvation, just before they made the port of Gallipoli in the island of

Candia. Here they were welcomed by the abbot and the monks, who bade

them stay till they were strong again, and thankful the fugitives were

for their rest. After a while they took ship, and reached the harbour of

Taranto in south Italy without further adventure, and there by order of

Fox the galley was sold and the price divided equally among the men.

Together they marched to Naples where they parted, every man going to

his own country, Fox himself journeying to Rome. The Pope granted him a

private interview, and bestowed a large sum of money on him, while the

King of Spain pensioned him on twenty pence a day, which in those times

meant a great deal more than it does now. The Ministers of Queen

Elizabeth were not behind the rest, and, when Fox returned to England in

1579, 'extended to him their liberality to maintain him in his age, to

the great encouragement of all Christians.'

_THE BEAVER AND THE PORCUPINE_

Once upon a time there lived in the North West of America a beaver and a

porcupine, who were great friends; and, as often happens, they loved

each other all the better because they were so different. To begin with,

the porcupine as no doubt you know is stuck over like a pin-cushion with

long prickly quills, while the beaver is smooth-haired. Then the beaver

had his house in the middle of a great lake, and the porcupine much

preferred to dwell on land among the mountains, and if the beaver had

not been able to swim, the two would never have met at all.

Now the beaver was often to be seen at the door of the porcupine's

house, and was continually urging him to return the visit; but so far

the porcupine had always refused.

'How can I?' he would ask. 'You know quite well that in a moment I

should have swallowed so much water that my body would sink to the

bottom, and I should never come up again. No, no! it is

impossible--totally impossible--sorry as I am to give up the pleasure of

seeing all the wonderful things you have told me of.' And try as he

might, the beaver never could get another answer.

But one day he thought of a very clever plan, and he lost no time in

putting it into practice. He had noticed from his house that the

porcupine was sitting on the shore, enjoying the sun, so he instantly

set off to swim to him.

'You are coming to see my house this minute,' said he.

'To see your house?' repeated the porcupine in amazement; 'but how am I

to do that? I have told you a hundred times I should be drowned before I

had gone ten yards.'

'Oh, no, you wouldn't!' replied the beaver, 'for I am going to carry

you. Be quick and get on my back, and hold fast round my neck.'

'But I shall die! I know I shall!'

'I tell you, you _won't_ die. I will take care of that! Oh, don't be

such a coward!' And at length, very slowly, the porcupine climbed up and

seated himself.

'Hold tight round my neck,' said the beaver again; 'I am just going to

start.' But he need not have troubled to give that advice, for the

porcupine's grasp nearly choked him. Still, so long as the beaver kept

on the surface, the porcupine really had nothing to complain of; but

when he dived as he did once or twice, the water got into the rider's

eyes and nose and down his throat, and almost suffocated him.

No words could tell how thankful he was to reach the beaver's house, but

he could not think how he should ever have the courage to make that

dreadful journey a second time.

* * * * *

'You seem tired; you must have something to eat,' said the beaver as the

porcupine lay down feebly on his side. The porcupine was very glad to

hear that, for he was certainly hungry; but great was his disappointment

when the beaver took out of a hole a bundle of sticks and placed them

before his guest.

'They are quite young twigs--you will find them very good,' said he, and

the poor porcupine did not know how to refuse, and ate them silently and

without making more faces than he could help, for he did not like them

at all.

Next morning, when the porcupine awoke, the beaver was standing by him.

'Let us have a game, friend,' he cried; 'I know ever so many!'

'What sort of game is it?' asked the porcupine, and the beaver answered:

'You shall get on my back, and put your nose well down on the nape of my

neck, and four times will I dive to the bottom of the lake, and four

times will I come up!'

This did not sound a very good game to the porcupine, and he would have

preferred something quite different, but he did not like to be rude or

ill-natured, so he agreed to play it. But when it came to the point,

the game proved even worse than he thought, for before the beaver

started he splashed about with his tail, and filled the porcupine's eyes

and nose with water; and not content with that he stayed below at each

dive so very long that, when they rose to the surface for the fourth

time, the porcupine was nearly dead.

'I will take you home now,' said the beaver; 'I have enjoyed my game so

much.'

* * * * *

No sooner had the porcupine touched dry land than he went up to join his

tribe, and bade them come to a feast in his house. As soon as they were

all assembled he told them of the terrible sufferings he had gone

through at the hands of the beaver, whom he had always looked on as a

friend, though he could do so no more.

'He really almost killed me,' he said mournfully; and his guests replied

smilingly, 'Well, invite _him_ to come and play with _you_.'

The porcupine was well pleased with their words, and next day sent a

message to the beaver, begging for the honour of a visit as early as

possible. The beaver lost no time in setting out, and the porcupine who

was keeping watch soon saw him coming up the valley.

'Come in! come in!' cried he, and gave the fire a switch with his tail,

so that some sparks flew right into the eyes of the guest. 'Do you feel

inclined for some food?' inquired the porcupine; 'you have had a long

walk and I am sure you must be hungry.'

'Thank you, I should like some,' replied the beaver; but he did not

fancy the bark and pine needles that the porcupine placed before him.

However, the porcupine did not seem to notice his guest's unwillingness,

and only said:

'Eat a little faster, my friend, for I am longing to have a game with

you'; so the beaver was forced to swallow some of the bark, which he did

not like any better than the porcupine had liked the twigs.

'What game is it, and where do you play?' he asked when he had

finished.

'Do you see that tree on the slope over there? That is my play-ground.

But, perhaps, as it is getting late and you may be tired, it would be as

well to put it off till to-morrow. I will show you where you are to

sleep.' And as they walked along, the porcupine said something to the

sky and the clouds vanished, and in the morning the ground was covered

with ice.

The following day he told the beaver he had prepared another feast for

him, but as it was just like the last, the beaver would rather have been

without it.

'I have finished now,' he observed as soon as he could, and the

porcupine answered:

'Very well; now we will go out to play.'

So the two went down towards the slope and came to a frozen stream which

had to be crossed. The porcupine easily got over with his long claws,

but the beaver's feet were smooth, and had nothing to hold on with, thus

he slid from one side to the other and was very uncomfortable.

'Come along,' said the porcupine, 'it is all right'; but the beaver

could not 'come along,' and at last the porcupine had to go back and

take him by the hand and lead him over.

'Now you will be able to walk,' remarked the porcupine, and they went on

to the place where the tree was standing.

* * * * *

'Here we are!' said the porcupine, stopping beneath it.

'But what is the game?' asked the beaver.

'Oh, you have to climb this tree.'

'But I have never climbed a tree in my life,' replied the beaver

anxiously. 'How do you begin?'

'I will go first, and you have only to watch me and see how I do it,'

answered the porcupine, and he climbed and climbed till he reached the

very top of the tree. Then he let go the branch he was on, and dropped

straight to the ground.

'There, it is not very difficult,' he said to the beaver; 'but as you

are not used to climbing I will take you up on my back, and you can come

down by yourself. Be sure you cling tight round my neck.' And the beaver

did--very tight indeed.

It took them some time to reach the top of the tree and then the

porcupine put the beaver on to a branch. But the beaver was not much

more comfortable than when he was crossing the ice, for his smooth hands

could not dig into the bark like the porcupine's claws.

'Hold fast to the tree, and I will go down first,' said the porcupine,

and as he spoke he let the branch go, and fell down to the earth. Then

he got up, and ran about at the foot of the tree, watching the beaver

who was still on his branch, too frightened to move.

'Oh, don't be afraid! Look at me! I am alive as you see,' so at last the

beaver let go as the porcupine bade him. But he did not know the proper

way to fall as the porcupine did, and his head struck on a rock, and the

blow killed him.

Then the porcupine went home.

[_Tsimshian Texts, by Franz Boas._]

_AN OLD-WORLD GHOST_

Children are often inclined to think that the nations who ruled the

world long, long ago, were quite unlike ourselves, and always busy with

very serious things, such as the passing of laws or fighting. It is

quite a surprise sometimes to learn that they really shared our feelings

on a whole quantity of subjects, and even, as this story will show, were

quite as much afraid of ghosts or haunted houses as anybody in these

days could be. It is told by a famous Roman citizen called Pliny, who

was born near Lake Como in the reign of the Emperor Nero.

There was, he says, at that time a large and comfortable house in a good

part of the town of Athens which, to the astonishment of everybody,

stood empty for many years. It seemed odd that so fine a building should

remain so long unoccupied, and at length one man more curious than the

rest asked his host when at a small dinner party if he could explain the

reason. The tale he heard from the Athenian noble was a marvellous one,

and the guest shuddered as he listened, for though he was bold enough in

the field of battle, he trembled in the presence of that which he did

not understand.

Once the house had been filled with a gay family; music had floated

through the garden, children had played at knuckle bones in the hall,

and young men had thrown discs in the courts. But gradually sounds of

laughter grew more rare and the dwellers in the house fell ill of

mysterious maladies, till at last the few that were left departed for

another place, hoping amidst new surroundings to shake off the gloom

which possessed them. For a while none dared ask why the home of their

fathers had been thus forsaken; but little by little whispers of the

truth got abroad, and it was noticed that men turned down another street

sooner than pass the empty mansion.

A little girl was the first to hear the noise and sat up straight in her

bed with wide-open eyes peering into the darkness, too frightened even

to call to her slave, as a sound like the clanking of chains struck upon

her ear. It seemed to come from very far off; but soon, to the child's

wild terror, it drew closer and closer, till she expected every moment

to feel the touch of the cold iron on her cheek. Then, to her immense

relief, it became fainter, and went farther and farther away, by and bye

dying out altogether.

Such was the tale the little girl told to her mother in the morning, and

very shortly there was not a person in the house who had not been roused

by the mysterious noise. For a time this was all that happened, and

though it was bad enough, perhaps it might have been borne; but there

was worse to come. One night the form of an old man appeared, so thin

you could almost see his bones, his hair standing up like bristles, and

a white beard flowing to his waist. On his wrists and ankles were iron

chains, which shook as he moved. Henceforward there was no sleep for any

of the household; their days were passed in dread of the nights, and one

by one they fell a prey to their terrors. At length there came a time

when the living skeletons could endure it no longer and fled, leaving

the ghost behind them. Such was the tale told to the guest, but the end

was yet to come.

Years passed by, and the survivors began gradually to recover their

health and spirits, and wondered if things had really been so bad as

they had thought, and if some stranger, ignorant of the story, might not

be persuaded to take the house if the rent was made low enough. So a

notice was put up in a public place, offering the mansion for sale or

hire, and one of the first to read it happened to be Athenodorus the

philosopher, who had arrived on a visit to Athens. He knew nothing of

the evil reputation which belonged to the house, but the low price asked

aroused his suspicions, and he at once inquired why so fine a dwelling

should be offered for so little. With some difficulty he managed to

piece together the true story, and when he heard it, instantly took the

house, resolved to find out if possible the secret of the ghost.

[Illustration: ATHENODORUS CONFRONTS THE SPECTRE.]

As it grew dark, he bade his slave carry a couch for him to the front

part of the mansion, and place a lamp and writing materials on a table

near it. He afterwards dismissed the slaves to their own quarters, and

turned his whole attention to the book he happened to be writing, so

that he might not from idleness fancy he saw or heard all sorts of

things which were not there. For a little while he worked amidst dead

silence; then a faint sound as of the clanking of chains smote on his

ears, always coming nearer and nearer, and growing louder and louder.

But Athenodorus, as became a philosopher, was master of himself, even at

this moment. He gave no sign of having heard anything out of the common,

and his sharp-pointed instrument never faltered for an instant in

drawing the words on the waxen tablet. In a few seconds the noise

reached the door; next, it was within the door and coming down the room.

At last Athenodorus _did_ lift his head and beheld the figure he had

been told of standing close to him, and signalling with his finger. In

reply the philosopher waved his hand, begging the ghost to wait until he

had finished the sentence he was writing, and this he succeeded in doing

in spite of the fact that the figure incessantly rattled the chains

close to his ears. Athenodorus, however, would not hurry himself, and

wrote on deliberately. Then he laid down his stylus and looked round.

The ghost was again beckoning to him, so he took up the lamp and

motioned the figure to go before him. With a slow step, as of one who

carries a heavy weight on his feet, the old man walked through the house

as far as the courtyard, where he vanished quite suddenly; nor could the

philosopher discover the smallest trace of him, though he searched every

corner carefully by the aid of his lamp. As it was now night and too

late to examine further, Athenodorus made a little heap of leaves and

grass to mark the spot where the figure disappeared, and returned to his

couch where he slept peacefully till dawn.

When he awoke next morning he at once visited a magistrate of the city

and, after telling his story, begged that some men might be sent to dig

up that part of the courtyard. The magistrate gave the order without

delay, and, accompanied by Athenodorus, the slaves set about their task.

A few feet from the surface the pickaxes struck upon iron and the

philosopher drew nearer, for he felt that the secret of the haunting was

about to be disclosed. And so it was, for there lay a heap of bones with

chains fastened to them.

How they came there, how long they had been there, whose bones they

were, none could tell; but they were collected in a box and buried by

order of the magistrate, at the expense of the public. This seemed to

satisfy the unquiet spirit, for the house was henceforward left in

peace, and as Athenodorus had no further interest in the matter its

owners were free to return and dwell there, which they gladly did.

[From _Pliny's Letters_.]

_THE GENTLEMAN HIGHWAYMAN_

Few people can have crowded more occupations into a life of twenty-six

years than James Maclean.

His father, a Scot by birth, had settled in the Irish county of

Monaghan, where the position of minister to a body of dissenters had

been offered him. From the first moment of his coming amongst them Mr.

Maclean was much liked by his congregation, who carried all their

troubles to him, sure that if he could not help them, he would at least

give them advice and sympathy, and there was not one of them who did not

drink his health with his whole heart when the minister married the

daughter of a gentleman in the neighbourhood.

More than twenty years passed away quietly and happily. The Macleans had

two sons, and the elder one early showed a wish to follow his father's

profession, and, at an age when most young men are still at the

University, received a 'call' to a Protestant congregation at the Hague.

James, the younger, was educated for a merchant, and as soon as he was

eighteen was to go into a counting-house and learn his business.

Unfortunately, just before he reached the date fixed, his father died,

leaving the youth his own master--for as no mention is made of his

mother, it is probable she was dead also. Without consulting anyone,

James threw up the post which old Maclean had taken so much pains to get

for him, and withdrawing the money left him by the will, from the bank,

spent it all in a few months on racing and betting.

Of course he was not allowed to make himself a beggar in this silly way

without an effort to save him on the part of his mother's friends. But

from a child he had always thought he knew better than anyone else, and

quarrelled with those who took a different view. Naturally, when the

money had all disappeared without anything to show for it, he chose to

forget how rude he had been, and expected his relations to support him

in idleness, which they absolutely refused to do. At length, not knowing

which way to turn, he was glad enough to become the valet of a certain

Mr. Howard, who was on his way to England. When he liked, the young

Irishman could make himself as pleasant as most of his countrymen, and

Mr. Howard took a great fancy to him, and treated him with much

kindness. But from first to last James never knew when he was well off,

and after a while he returned to his old ways, and frequently stayed out

all night, drinking and gambling. In vain did Mr. Howard warn him that

unless he gave up these habits he would certainly be dismissed. The

young man paid no heed to his words, and in the end his master's

patience was exhausted, and one day James found himself on board the

Irish boat, without a character and nothing but his quarter's wages in

his pockets.

* * * * *

Now James Maclean was one of those people who are totally without a

sense of shame, and if once a person cannot be made ashamed of what he

has done, and always imagines himself to be the victim of bad luck or of

somebody else, his case is hopeless. On this occasion he was quite

convinced that it was the duty of his relations to supply him with an

income, or at least with a home, and when as before refusals met him on

all sides, he applied not for the first or even the second time, to his

brother at the Hague for help. We do not know what excuse he made for

his request, but we may be quite certain it was not the true one; still

whether his brother believed him or not, he sent him a small sum,

probably at the cost of great self-denial, for the salaries of ministers

were not high. This money, as was to be expected, went the way of the

rest, and again James found himself penniless and reduced to look for a

place as a servant.

Hearing that a Colonel in the British army who had served abroad with

some of his Scotch uncles was in need of a butler, young Maclean went

to see him, and was lucky enough to obtain the situation, though he knew

as little of a butler's work as he did of a printer's. He was, however,

quick at picking up anything that he chose and contrived to keep this

place for a year or two, till the Colonel discovered that his butler had

been carrying out a system of robbery ever since he had been in his

house. After a few words from his master, James was once more cast on

the world, and had some idea of enlisting in the Irish brigade then

serving under the French flag, and this would have been the best thing

that could have happened to him. But as, on inquiry, he learned that

unless he became a Roman Catholic he would be refused a commission, he

changed his mind and resolved to remain where he was.

* * * * *

'Well, I suppose there is nothing for it but a humble letter to the

Colonel,' thought James one day, when he heard from a man whom he met at

a tavern that his late master was on his way to England. So calling for

paper and a pen, he composed a letter to such good purpose and so full

of lies, that the kindhearted Colonel really believed he had repented,

and offered to take him back, desiring at the same time that James

should take his baggage by sea to London, and allowing him a shilling a

day for his food.

It was with mingled feelings of contempt and relief that the young

reprobate read his master's reply. 'What a fool he is!' he said to

himself, adding after a moment 'Well, after all, it is lucky for me!'

But the Colonel, good-natured though he was, knew too much about master

James to give credit to his stories, and declined a request, made soon

after their arrival in London, to purchase a commission for his late

butler, with a view to enabling him to marry an heiress. Yet when he

discovered that Maclean had really enlisted in Lord Albemarle's regiment

of horse-guards, he consented to give him the ten pounds necessary for

the purpose, which, to keep it the more safely, was placed in the hands

of one of the officers. Whether Maclean ever succeeded in handling the

money seems doubtful, for as soon as his papers were made out and he was

ordered to join the army in Flanders, he suddenly disappeared, and the

troopship sailed without him.

* * * * *

There must have been something very attractive about this rogue, for

whatever desperate plight he was in he always contrived to fall on his

feet; and when he thought it safe to emerge from the place where he was

in hiding while there was a hue and cry raised after the deserter, it

was in the character of a man anxious to start for the West Indies--if

someone would only lend him fifty pounds!

Someone _did_ lend it to him, and it was instantly spent on fine clothes

which captured the heart of Miss Macglegno, the daughter of a

horse-dealer, with five hundred pounds to her dowry.

This time, Maclean did not dare to throw about the money as he had

previously done, but with his father-in-law's eye upon him, he opened a

grocer's shop in Welbeck Street, hoping that the fashionable people who

had come to live in the big new houses in Cavendish Square might give

him their custom. But his wife speedily saw that if the business was to

prosper she must look after it herself, as her husband could be depended

on for nothing. Therefore she set to work, and for three years all went

well, and the neighbours said to each other that it was fortunate she

was such a stirring woman, as though Master Maclean was a harmless sort

of man he was apt to be lazy.

At the end of this period Mrs. Maclean died, after a short illness, and

her two little girls went to live with their grandmother. Left alone,

James neglected the shop more and more, and at length it grew plain to

himself, as well as to everybody else, that if any money was to be saved

at all, the goods must be sold for what they would fetch. And once sold,

it is easy to guess how quickly the gold melted in James's pocket.

* * * * *

It was not till he had come to his last shilling--or at any rate his

last pound--that Maclean began to ask himself 'What next?' After these

years of comfort and plenty--and idleness--it would be hard to become a

servant again, yet he could not see any other means of keeping himself

from starving.

He was slowly getting accustomed to the idea of seeking for a servant's

place, when one day he met in the streets an apothecary named Plunket,

whom he had known in Monaghan.

'How now?' asked Plunket. 'Is anything the matter? You look as if you

were on the road to be hung at Tyburn.'

'The matter is that to-morrow I shall not have a penny in the world,'

answered Maclean, gloomily.

'Oh, things are never so bad as they seem,' said Plunket. 'Cheer up.

Perhaps I can find a way to supply you with _more_ pennies. It only

wants a little pluck and spirit! If _we_ haven't got any money, there

are plenty of other people who have.'

Maclean was silent. He understood at once what Plunket meant, and that

he was being offered a partnership in a scheme of highway robbery. He

had, as we know, stolen small sums before, but that felt to him a very

different thing from stopping travellers along the road, and demanding

'their money or their life.' However, he soon shook off his scruples,

and was ready to take his part in any scheme that Plunket should

arrange.

'You are in luck just now,' said his tempter, who all this time had been

watching his face and read the thoughts that were passing through his

mind. 'I heard only this morning of a farmer who has sold a dozen fat

oxen at the Smithfield Market, and will be riding home this evening with

the money in his saddle-bags. If he had any sense he would have started

early and ridden in company, but I know my gentleman well, and dare

swear he will not leave the tavern outside the market till dusk is

falling. So if we lie in wait for him on Hounslow Heath, he cannot

escape us.'

It was autumn, and dark at seven o'clock, when the farmer, not as sober

as he might have been, came jogging along. He was more than half-way

across, and was already thinking how best to spend the sixty pounds his

beasts had brought him, when out of a hollow by the roadside sprang two

men with masks and pistols, which were pointed straight at his horse's

head.

'Your money or your life,' said one of them, while the other stood

silent; and with trembling fingers the farmer unloaded his saddle-bags,

and delivered up his watch. As soon as Plunket saw there was no more to

be got out of him, he gave the horse a smart cut on his flanks, and the

animal bounded away.

All this while Maclean had not uttered a word, nor had he laid a finger

on the victim. He had in reality trembled with fear quite as much as the

farmer, and it was not till they were safe in Plunket's garret off Soho

Square that he breathed freely.

'Sixty pounds, do you say? Not bad for one night's work,' cried Plunket.

'Well, friend James, I will give you ten pounds for your share, which I

call handsome, seeing you did not even cock your pistol! But perhaps it

is all one could expect for the first time, only on the next occasion

you must do better. And you might just as well, you know, as if the

officers of the peace catch you they will hang you to a certainty, never

stopping to ask questions as to your share in the matter.'

Maclean nodded. He saw the truth of this, and besides, the excitement of

the adventure began to stir his blood, and he was soon counting the days

till he heard from Plunket again. On this occasion a travelling carriage

was to be stopped on the St. Albans road, and it was settled that

Maclean should present his pistol to the coachman's head, while Plunket

secured the booty. But when it came to the point, James's face was so

white, and the fingers which held the pistol so shaky, that Plunket saw

they had better change parts, and indeed, as the gentleman inside

offered no resistance whatever, and meekly yielded up everything of

value he had about him, Maclean succeeded in doing all that was required

of him by his partner.

'Much good _you_ are!' said Plunket, when they had plunged into the

neighbouring wood. 'If I had not been there that coachman would have

stunned you with the butt end of his whip. You are the lion who was born

without claws or teeth! A cat would have been as useful.'

'Yes, I know,' answered Maclean hurriedly, feeling very much ashamed of

himself. 'I can't think what was the matter with me--I suppose I'm not

quite accustomed to it yet.' And that very evening, to prove to

Plunket--and himself--that he was not such a coward as he seemed, he

attacked a gentleman in Hyde Park and robbed him of a gold watch and

chain and a small sum of money.

* * * * *

After this Maclean shook off his timidity, and became known to his

brother highwaymen as one of the most daring and successful 'gentlemen

of the road,'--for so the people called them. Only on one occasion did

he run any risk of being caught, and then he took refuge on board a

vessel that was sailing for Holland, and sought out his brother at the

Hague.

'It is so long since we have seen each other, I could not but come,' he

said to the minister, who, suspecting nothing, was delighted to welcome

him, and insisted on hearing the story of James's life since they had

last parted. For a whole evening the good man listened to a moving tale,

not one word of which was true, except that which related to James's

marriage and the starting of the grocer's shop. The minister praised and

pitied, and told it all to his friends, rich and prosperous citizens who

were proud to invite the fine gentleman from London to their parties.

And if at the end of the evening some purses and watches were missing,

well! they might have been robbed on their way hither, or have forgotten

them at home. At any rate, nobody dreamed for one moment of suspecting

their minister's guest.

* * * * *

But in spite of all the precautions which, notwithstanding his

recklessness, Maclean thought well to take--in spite of his silence

respecting his own affairs, and his frequent changes of lodgings so that

no one might connect him with one particular neighbourhood, he at last

put the rope round his own neck by an act of gross carelessness.

On the morning of June 26, 1750, James robbed Lord Eglinton in his

travelling carriage, and a little later in the same day attacked the

Salisbury coach, in company with Plunket. They escaped as usual,

Maclean carrying with him a bag containing several suits of fine

clothes, trimmed with beautiful lace, belonging to one of the passengers

named Higden. Maclean's first care was to strip off the lace, and to

send a message to a dealer that he had some clothes to sell, if the man

would call to see them at his address. At the time, the dealer chanced

to be busy and could not come, and by the following morning, when he

made his way to Maclean's rooms, an advertisement was out describing the

garments so exactly that the man instantly recognised them, and gave

information to the magistrate.

That night the 'gentleman highwayman' was arrested on a warrant, and

carried to the prison of Newgate, and Plunket, who had been uneasy since

the dealer's visit, and was on the watch, hurried to the coast in

disguise and hid on board a smuggler's boat, bound for France. Maclean

remained to take his trial, and after first confessing and then denying

his confession, was convicted of robbery on the King's highway, and was

hanged at the gallows erected at Tyburn, where the corner of Connaught

Square and the Edgware Road now stand. He was at the period of his

execution only twenty-six, yet he had contrived to do more mean and base

deeds than most rogues of sixty.

[Illustration: MACLEAN AND PLUNKET STOP LORD EGLINTON'S CARRIAGE]

_THE VISION OF THE POPE_

It was the evening of October 7, 1571, when the Christian fleet, under

the command of Don John of Austria, had defeated the Turks at the battle

of Lepanto--one of the 'Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World.' Far away

from the narrow Greek seas, where the victory had been gained, the Pope,

Pius V, was in his palace of the Vatican in Rome, discussing business

with his treasurer, Busotti of Bibiana. Pope Pius suffered from a

painful complaint which made him very restless, and he always preferred

to stand or walk about, rather than to sit. He was therefore pacing the

room, putting questions or listening to statements as he did so, when

suddenly he broke off in the middle of a sentence and stood still with

his neck stretched out in the attitude of a person whose ears are

strained to catch some sound, at the same time signing to Busotti to

keep silent. After a moment's pause he approached the window and threw

it open, always in the same listening attitude, while Busotti, half

frightened, sat watching. Then in an instant a look of rapture passed

over the face of Pius, and lifting his head he raised his clasped hands

to Heaven as if in thanksgiving. At this sight Busotti understood that

something strange was happening which he could not see, and he remained

awed and still for three minutes, as he afterwards swore. When the three

minutes were ended the Pope aroused himself from his ecstasy, and with a

countenance shining with joy, spoke to Busotti:

'This is not the hour for business. Let us give thanks to God for our

great victory over the Turks,' and he retired into his oratory.

* * * * *

Left at liberty the treasurer hastened to give an account of these

strange events to various bishops and cardinals, who desired that it

should instantly be taken down in writing, the time and place of the

scene being carefully noted. They ordered further, that when sealed, the

document should be deposited for safety in the house of a lawyer. This,

it will be remembered, was on October 7, but the first news of the

battle was not received in Rome till the 26th, when a messenger arrived

from the Doge of Venice, Mocenigo, followed three or four days later by

one from Don John himself. Then calculations were made of the difference

of time between the longitude of Rome and that of the islands off the

Greek coast where the battle was fought, with the result that it was

proved that the vision of the Pope had occurred at the precise moment in

which Don John had sprung, sword in hand, from his place in the centre

of his galley to beat back the Turks who were swarming over the

bulwarks.

The repelling of the attack had turned the scale in the fortunes of the

day, and the power of the Turks over Christendom was broken for ever.

_GROWING-UP-LIKE-ONE-WHO-HAS-A-GRANDMOTHER_

That was the name of a little Indian boy living on the North-West coast

of America, and a very odd name it is, as well as a very long one. To be

sure, in his own language it could all be put into seventeen letters,

while in English it takes thirty-four, as you will find if you count

them, and that _does_ make a difference.

However, though we should have preferred a name that was shorter and

prettier, there is something satisfactory about this one, for a little

boy who has a grandmother is likely to be well fed and petted, and made

to feel himself a person of importance, and that is pleasant to

everybody. But it also means in general that he has lost his father and

mother, which had happened to this particular little boy. They had died

a long while before, and now there only remained his grandmother and his

mother's brother, who was chief of the village.

* * * * *

One evening the chief was sitting on the beach gazing up at the sky. And

while he gazed, fire came right down like a shooting star, and struck

the point of a branch which grew on a tree behind his house. As it

touched the branch it became solid and hung there, shining like copper.

When the chief saw this he arose and walked to the house and said to the

people inside:

'There is a great piece of copper hanging from that tree. Bid the young

men go and knock it down and whichever hits it shall marry my daughter.'

Quite a crowd of youths gathered at the back of the chief's house early

next morning, and many of the old men came likewise to watch the sport.

All day the young Indians threw stones till their hands became sore and

their arms ached, but never once did the lump of copper move. At last

for very weariness they had to rest, and eat some food. After that they

felt better and went on throwing stones till darkness fell, but still no

one had hit the copper.

As soon as the stars peeped out the poor little boy who had been looking

on also ran down to the beach, as his uncle had done, and laid himself

upon a rock. By and bye a man approached him and said:

'What are the village people talking about? They make a great noise!'

'A lump of copper is hanging on the tree and they were trying to knock

it down, but nobody succeeded,' answered the boy; and as he spoke, the

man stooped and picked up four pebbles.

'It is you who shall knock it down,' said he. 'First you must throw the

white stone, then the black stone, then the blue stone, and last of all

the red stone. But be careful not to show them to anybody.'

'I will be careful,' replied the boy.

On the following morning all the people returned to the place behind the

house, and the poor little boy went with them.

'I am going to throw, too,' said he, and the young men tried to push him

aside, asking scornfully how one so small could hope to succeed when

they had failed. But the old men would not allow them to have their way,

and said:

'Let him throw, too; the chief has given leave to everybody, and he can

but fail as you have done. He shall throw first.' So the poor little boy

stepped forward, and taking out the white stone swung it round his head

so that it whistled four times before he let it go. It flew very near

the copper, nearer than any of the young men's stones had flown, and the

black and the blue almost grazed it. The young men looking on grew

uncomfortable and ceased mocking, and as the poor little boy drew out

the red stone, they held their breath. Swiftly it shot through the air

and struck the copper with a great clang, so that it fell down to the

earth. The old men nodded their heads wisely, but the young men quickly

picked up the copper and carried it into the chief's house, each man

crying out that it was he who had hit the copper and had gained the

chief's daughter. But as they could not _all_ have hit it, the chief

knew that they were a pack of liars and only bade them wait a while, and

he would see. As for the poor little boy, he did not want to marry the

girl or anyone else, so he did not mind what the young men said.

* * * * *

Nothing more was heard that day of the winner of the prize, but at night

a white bear came to the back of the house, and growled loudly.

'Whoever kills that white bear shall marry my daughter,' said the chief,

and not a youth slept all through the village, wondering how best to

kill the white bear, and between them they made so many plans that it

seemed as if the white bear could never escape. In the evening, the poor

little boy went down to the beach again, and sat upon a rock looking out

to sea, till at last he beheld a man approaching him, but it was not the

same man whom he had seen before.

'What are the people talking about in the village?' asked the man, just

as the other had done, and the poor little boy answered:

'Last night a white bear appeared behind the house. Whoever kills it

shall marry the chief's daughter.'

The man nodded his head and thought for a moment; then he said:

'Ask the chief for a bow and arrow: you shall shoot it.' So the poor

little boy got up and left the beach, and returned to the village.

When it grew dark, all the young men met in the house of the chief, and

the poor little boy stole in after them. The chief took from a shelf a

tall quiver containing a quantity of bows and arrows, and he held them

to the fire in order to make them supple. Then he gave a bow and two

arrows to each man, but to the poor little boy, his own nephew, he gave

nothing.

'Give me a bow and arrows also,' said the poor little boy, when he saw

that the chief did not notice him, and the young men broke out into

scoffs and jeers as they had done before; and as before, the old men

answered:

'Give a bow and arrows to the poor little boy.' And the chief listened

and gave them to him.

All that night the young men sat up, listening, listening; but it was

only before daybreak that they heard the white bear's growl. At the

first sound they ran out, and the poor little boy ran out with them, and

he ran more swiftly than they and shot his arrow. And the arrow passed

right through the neck of the bear, so that when the poor little boy

pulled it out it was covered with blood.

By this time the young men had come up and found the bear dead, so they

dipped their arrows in the blood, and picking up the bear, carried it

into the house of the chief, the poor little boy coming behind them.

'It was I who shot the bear; we are bringing him to you,' shouted one

quicker to speak than the rest; but the chief was a wise man, and only

answered:

'Let every man give me his bow and arrows, that I may examine them, and

see who has killed the white bear.'

Now the young men did not like that saying, but they were forced to

obey.

'Give me your bow and arrows also,' he said to the poor little boy, and

the poor little boy handed them to him, and the chief knew by the marks

that it was he who shot the white bear. And the young men saw by his

eyes that he knew it, but they all kept silence: the chief because he

was ashamed that a boy had done these two things where grown men had

failed; the young men, because they were ashamed that they had lied and

had been found to be lying.

* * * * *

So ashamed was the chief that he did not wish his people to look upon

his face, therefore he bade his slave go down to the village and tell

them to depart to some other place before morning. The people heard what

the slave said and obeyed, and by sunrise they were all in their

canoes--all, that is, except the chief's daughter, and the poor little

boy and his grandmother. Now the grandmother had some pieces of dried

salmon which she ate; but the chief's daughter would not eat, and the

poor little boy would not eat either. The princess slept in a room at

the back of the house and the poor little boy lay in the front, near the

fire. All night long he lay there and thought of their poverty, and

wondered if he could do anything to help them to grow richer. 'At any

rate,' he said to himself, 'I shall never become a chief by lying in

bed,' and as soon as some streaks of light were to be seen under the

door, he dressed himself and left the house, running down to the bank of

the great river which flowed by the town. There was a trail by the side

of the river, and the poor little boy walked along the trail till he

came to the shore of a lake; then he stopped and shouted. And as he

shouted a wave seemed to rise on the top of the water, and out of it

came the great frog who had charge of the lake, and drew near to the

place where the poor little boy was standing. Terrible it was to look

upon, with its long copper claws which moved always, its copper mouth

and its shiny copper eyes. He was so frightened that his legs felt

turned to stone; but when the frog put out its claws to fasten them in

his shoulders, fear gave him wings, and he ran so fast that the frog

could not reach him, and returned to the lake. On and on ran the poor

little boy, till at last he found himself outside the woods where his

grandmother and the chief's daughter were waiting for him. Then he sat

still and rested; but he was very hungry, for all this time he had had

nothing to eat, and the grandmother and the chief's daughter had had

nothing to eat either.

[Illustration: HOW THE BOY SHOT THE WHITE BEAR.]

* * * * *

'We shall die if I cannot find some food,' said the poor little boy to

himself, and he went out again to search the empty houses in the

village, lest by chance the people might have left some dried salmon or

a halibut behind them. He found neither salmon nor halibut, but he

picked up in one place a stone axe, and in another a handle, and in a

third a hammer. The axe and the handle he fastened together, and after

sharpening the blade of the axe he began to cut down a tree. The tree

was large, and the poor little boy was small, and had not much

strength, so that dusk was approaching before the tree fell. The next

thing he did was to split the tree and make a wide crack, which he kept

open by wedging two short sticks across it. When this was done he placed

the tree on the trail which led to the lake, and ran home again.

Early in the morning he crept safely out, and went to the shore of the

lake and shouted four times, looking up as he shouted at the sky. Again

there arose a wave on the water, and out of it came the frog, with the

copper eyes and mouth and claws. It hopped swiftly towards him, but now

the poor little boy did not mind, and waited till it could almost touch

him. Then he turned and fled along the trail where the tree lay. Easily

he slipped between the two sticks, and was safe on the other side, but

the great frog stuck fast, and the more it struggled to be free the

tighter it was held.

As soon as the poor little boy saw that the frog was firmly pinned

between the bars, he took up his stone hammer which he had left beside

the tree and dealt two sharp blows to the sticks that wedged open the

crack. The sticks flew out and the crack closed with a snap, killing the

frog as it did so. For awhile the poor little boy sat beside the tree

quietly, but when he was sure the great frog must be quite dead, he put

back the sticks to wedge open the crack and drew out the frog.

'I must turn it on its back to skin it,' said he, and after a long time

he managed to do this: But he did not take off the claws on the skin,

which he spread on the ground to dry. After the skin was dried he put

his arms and legs into it, and laced it firmly across his chest.

'Now I must practise,' he said, and he jumped into the lake just as a

frog would do, right down to the bottom. Then he walked along, till a

trout in passing swished him with its tail, and quickly he turned and

caught it in his hands. Holding the trout carefully, he swam up to the

surface, and when he was on shore again he unlaced the skin and hung it

on the branch of a tree, where no one was likely to see it.

After that he went home and found his grandmother and the princess still

sleeping, so he laid the trout on the beach in front of the house and

curled himself up on his mat.

By and bye the princess awoke, and the first thing she heard was the

sound of a raven crying on the beach. So she quickly got out of bed and

went to the place where the poor little boy was lying, and said to him:

'Go down to the beach, and see why the raven is crying.'

The poor little boy said nothing, but did her bidding, and in a few

minutes he came back holding out the trout to the princess.

'The raven brought this,' he said to her. But it was the trout which he

himself had caught in the bottom of the lake; and he and his grandmother

ate of it, but the princess would not eat. And every morning this same

thing happened, but the princess would eat nothing, not even when the

raven--for it was he, she thought--brought them a salmon.

At last a night came when the princess could not sleep, and hearing a

movement she rose softly and peeped through her curtain of skins. The

poor little boy was getting ready to go out, and as she watched him she

saw that he was a poor little boy no longer, but a tall youth. After a

long, long time he crept in again and lay down, but the princess did not

sleep; and when daylight broke and the raven called, she went to the

beach herself, and beheld a large salmon on the sand. She took up the

salmon, and carried it into the house, and stood before the poor little

boy.

'I know the truth now,' she said. 'It was you and not the raven who

found the trout,' and the poor little boy answered:

'Yes; it was I. My uncle deserted us all, and I had to get food. The

frog lived in the lake, and when I called it, it came, and I set a trap

for it and killed it; and by the help of its skin I dived into the lake

likewise, and now I am great, for you have taken notice of me.'

'You shall marry me,' said the princess, and he married her, for he had

ceased to be a poor little boy, and was grown to be a man. And whenever

he went out to hunt or to fish, luck was with him, and he killed all

that he sent his spear after, even whales and porpoises.

Time passed and they had two children, and still his hunting prospered

and he grew rich. But one day he suddenly felt very tired and he told

his wife, who feared greatly that some evil should befall him.

'Oh, cease hunting, I pray you!' said she. 'Surely you are rich enough';

but he would not listen, and hunted as much as ever.

Now most of the people who had left the town at the chief's bidding were

dead, and the chief never doubted but that his daughter and the poor

little boy and the old grandmother were dead also. But at length some of

those who survived, wished to behold their homes once more, and they set

out in four canoes to the old place. As they drew near, they saw many

storehouses all full of spoils from the sea, and four whales laid up

outside. Greatly were they amazed, but they got out of their canoes and

went up to speak to the young man who stood there, and he spread food

before them, and gave them gifts when in the evening they said farewell.

They hastened to tell their chief all that they had seen and heard, and

he was glad, and bade his people move back to the town and live in their

old houses. So the next day the canoes put to sea again, and the poor

little boy opened his storehouses and feasted the people, and they chose

him for their chief.

'It grows harder every day to take off the frog blanket,' he said to his

wife, and at his words she cried and would not take comfort. For now her

husband could not rest contented at home, but hunted elks and bought

slaves and was richer than any other chief had ever been before him. At

length he told his uncle he wished to give a pot-latch or a great

banquet, and he invited to it the Indians who dwelt many miles away.

When they were all gathered together he called the people into the

house, for in the centre of it he had placed his slaves and elk-skins

and the other goods that he possessed.

'You shall distribute them,' he said to his uncle, and his uncle bade

him put on his head the great copper he had knocked down from the tree,

and the skin of the white bear which he had killed when he was still a

poor little boy. Thus with the copper on his head and the bear-skin on

his shoulders he walked to the pile of elk-skins in the middle of the

house and sang, for this was part of the ceremony of giving him a name

to show that he was grown up. And after the song was ended the chief

said:

'Now I will call you by your name,' and the name that he gave him was

Growing-up-like-one-who-has-a-grandmother, because his grandmother had

always been so kind to him. After that the poor little boy took off the

great copper and the bear-skin, and gave gifts to his guests, and they

departed.

* * * * *

The chief and his wife were left alone and he put on his frog blanket,

for he was going to catch seals for the people to eat. But his face was

sad and he said to his wife:

'I shall return safely this time, but when next I put on that blanket I

may not be able to take it off, and if I can't, perhaps I may never come

home again. But I shall not forget you, and you will always find the

seals and halibut and the salmon, which I shall catch for you, in front

of the house.'

He did not leave them quite as soon as he expected. For several days his

wife who was always watching for him, saw him walk up the beach; then

one day she watched in vain, for though salmon and whales were there,

the poor little boy was not. Each morning she took her two children down

to the shore and they stood looking over the waves crying bitterly as

the tide went out, because they knew he could not come till it was high

again.

Food in plenty they had, and enough for the people of the town also, but

the poor little boy never came home any more, for he had grown to be a

frog, and was obliged to live in the sea.

[_From the Bureau of American Ethnology: Tsimshian Texts

by Franz Boas._]

_THE HANDLESS BRIGADE_

Have you ever thought what it would be like to have no arms, and be

obliged to use your toes for everything? If not, try it on a wet day,

and see how much you can manage to do. Yet, there are plenty of true

stories of people born without hands, who have contrived by practice to

teach their toes not only to supply the place of _ordinary_ fingers, but

of very clever fingers, which is quite another matter! I myself once saw

a young man in a Belgian gallery busily engaged in copying a picture,

and as he had no arms he painted with his toes, seated on a high stool,

to place him on the level he wanted. It was near the hour of closing

when I happened to notice him, and after a few minutes during which I

had watched him spellbound, he got down from his stool, kicked off one

shoe, disclosing a stocking neatly cut across the toes, leaving them

free. He then shut up his paint box, and picking up his brushes one by

one dabbled them in a glass of water that stood near, and wiped them on

a cloth, after which he put them carefully in their case, lying on a

table.

At the sight of this, I forgot my manners and uttered a cry of

amazement, which I think rather pleased the painter, for everyone likes

to feel that he can do something better than his fellows. At all events

he knew I did not mean to be rude, for he went to his box on the floor,

opened it, took up the top card printed with his name, Charles le Felu,

from a packet, and presented it to me. Then he put on his hat which was

hanging on a peg, bowed and walked away, the sleeves of his coat being

so fastened that he looked like a man with his hands in his pockets.

I kept that card till I was married, and obliged to throw away many of

my treasures.

James Caulfield, about the beginning of the last century, collected many

stories of handless people--who were 'handless' in a very different

sense from what _we_ mean, when we use the word. He tells us of a German

called Valerius, who was born when Charles II. was on the throne of

England, and like my friend the painter, had no arms. This would have

seemed a terrible calamity if it had come alone, but before he was out

of his boyhood both his parents died, and left him penniless. Happily

for Valerius, his mother had been a sensible woman, and insisted that

her son should learn to make his toes as useful as fingers. Perched on

his high stool, he did his copies like another child, and in later life,

when he became famous, often wrote lines round his portraits. But much

better than writing copies, he loved to beat a drum. Now beating a drum

does not sound nearly so difficult as writing copies, and perhaps he was

allowed to do it as a treat when he had said his lessons without a

mistake, but with practice he was able to play cards and throw dice as

well as any of his friends. He certainly always shaved himself when he

grew to be a man, but it is rather hard to believe that in fencing he

used his rapier, which he held between his big toe and the next, 'with

as much skill as his adversary,' standing on his left leg the while.

* * * * *

The admiration of his playfellows at his cleverness filled him with

pride, and Valerius was always trying fresh feats to show off to his

audience.

When it became necessary for him to earn his own living, he was able to

support himself in comfort, travelling from one country to another, and

always drawing crowds who came to see this Eighth Wonder of the

world--for so they thought him. In his leisure hours he practised some

of his old tricks, or learnt new ones, and in 1698 he came to England

where he stayed for seven years. Many are the tales told of him during

this time. Sometimes he would raise a chair with his toes, and put it in

a different place; sometimes with the help of his teeth he would build

towers made of dice, or he would lie on his back and, taking a glass of

water in his toes, would carry it to his mouth. He could fire a pistol

with his toes when seated on a stool, and using both feet he could

discharge a musket. This must have been the hardest thing of any, for

the musket of those times was a clumsy, heavy weapon, and it was not

easy to keep your balance when it went off.

* * * * *

Then we have all of us heard of the famous Miss Biffin, who lived at the

time when James Caulfield wrote his book. She went to the big fairs

round London, and had a little booth all to herself. There, on payment

of a small sum, visitors were admitted to see her sewing with a needle

held by her toes, and sewing much more neatly than many of those who

came to look at her would have been capable of doing with their fingers.

And if they paid a little extra she would draw them, roughly, anything

they wanted; or cut them out houses or dogs, or even likenesses of

themselves on paper.

Miss Biffin, it is pleasant to think, thoroughly enjoyed her life, and,

far from feeling that she was to be pitied because she had no hands, was

quite convinced that she was much superior to anybody with two.

Perhaps the most wonderful of all the 'Handless Brigade' was a man

called William Kingston, who was living in a village near Bristol in

1788. In that year a Mr. Walton happened to be staying in Bristol and

was taken to see this marvel, of whom he writes an account to his friend

John Wesley.

On the entrance of the two gentlemen into his house Kingston did not

lose a moment in giving them their money's worth. He was having

breakfast, and after inviting them to sit down, took up his cup between

his big toe and the next, and drank off his tea without spilling a drop.

After waiting till he had buttered his toast and eaten as much as he

wanted, Mr. Walton then 'put half a sheet of paper upon the floor, with

a pen and an ink-horn. Kingston threw off his shoes as he sat, took the

ink-horn in the toes of his left foot, and held the pen in those of his

right. He then wrote three lines as well as most ordinary writers, and

as swiftly. He writes out,' continues Walton, 'his bills and other

accounts. He then showed how he shaves with a razor in his toes, and how

he combs his own hair. He can dress and undress himself, except

buttoning his clothes,' which really does not sound half as difficult as

many of his other performances. 'He feeds himself and can bring both his

meat and his broth to his mouth, by holding the fork or spoon in his

toes. He cleans his own shoes; can clean the knives, light the fire, and

do almost every domestic business as well as any other man. He can make

his hen-coops. He is a farmer by occupation; he can milk his cows with

his toes, and cut his own hay, bind it up in bundles, and carry it about

the field for his cattle. Last winter he had eight heifers constantly to

fodder. The last summer he made all his own hay-ricks. He can do all the

business of the hay-field (except mowing) as fast and as well with only

his feet, as others can with rakes and forks; he goes to the field and

catches his horse; he saddles and bridles him with his feet and toes. If

he has a sheep among his flock that ails anything, he can separate it

from the rest, drive it into a corner, and catch it when nobody else

can; he then examines it, and applies a remedy to it. He is so strong in

his teeth that he can lift ten pecks of beans with them; he can throw a

great sledge-hammer with his feet as other men can with their hands. In

a word, he can do nearly as much without, as other men can with, their

hands.'

'He began the world with a hen and chicken; with the profit of these he

purchased an ewe. The sale of these procured him a ragged colt and then

a better; after this he raised a few sheep, and now occupies a small

farm.'

It would be interesting to know how many of these astonishing feats Mr.

Walton actually saw Kingston perform. But at any rate we put down his

letter with the impression that to be born _with_ fingers is a distinct

disadvantage.

_THE SON OF THE WOLF CHIEF_

Once upon a time a town near the North Pacific Ocean suffered greatly

from famine and many of the Indians who lived there died of hunger. It

was terrible to see them sitting before their doors, too weak and

listless to move, and waiting silently and hopelessly for death to come.

But there was one boy who behaved quite differently from the rest of the

tribe. For some reason or other _he_ seemed quite strong on his legs,

and all day long he would go into the fields or the woods, with his bow

and arrows slung to his back, hoping to bring back a supper for himself

and his mother.

One morning when he was out as usual, he found a little animal that

looked like a dog. It was such a round, funny little thing that he could

not bear to kill it, so he put it under his warm blanket, and carried it

home, and as it was very dirty from rolling about in the mud and snow,

his mother washed it for him. When it was quite clean, the boy fetched

some red paint which his uncle who had died of famine had used for

smearing over their faces, and put it on the dog's head and legs so that

he might always be able to trace it when they were hunting together.

The boy got up early next morning and took his dog into the woods and

the hills. The little beast was very quick and sharp, and it was not

long before the two got quite a number of grouse and birds of all sorts;

and as soon as they had enough for that day and the next, they returned

to the wigwam and invited their neighbours to supper with them.

A short time after, the boy was out on the hills wondering where the dog

had gone, for, in spite of the red paint, he was to be seen nowhere. At

length he stood still and put his ear to the ground and listened with

all his might, and that means a great deal, for Indian ears are much

cleverer at hearing than European ones. Then he heard a whine which

sounded as if it came from a long way off, so he jumped up at once and

walked and walked till he reached a small hollow, where he found that

the dog had killed one of the mountain sheep.

'Can it really _be_ a dog?' said the boy to himself. 'I don't know; I

wish I did. But at any rate, it deserves to be treated like one,' and

when the sheep was cooked, the dog--if it was a dog--was given all the

fat part.

After this, never a day passed without the boy and the dog bringing home

meat, and thanks to them the people began to grow fat again. But if the

dog killed many sheep at once, the boy was always careful to give it

first the best for itself.

* * * * *

Some weeks later the husband of the boy's sister came to him and said:

'Lend me your dog, it will help me greatly.' So the boy went and brought

the dog from the little house he had made for it, and painted its head

and its feet, and carried it to his brother-in-law.

'Give it the first thing that is killed as I always do,' observed the

boy, but the man answered nothing, only put the dog in his blanket.

Now the brother-in-law was greedy and selfish and wanted to keep

everything for himself; so after the dog had killed a whole flock of

sheep in the fields, the man threw it a bit of the inside which nobody

else would touch, exclaiming rudely:

'Here, take that! It is quite good enough for you.'

But the dog would not touch it either, and ran away to the mountains,

yelping loudly.

The man had to bring back all the sheep himself, and it was evening

before he reached the village. The first person he saw was the boy who

was waiting about for him.

'Where is the dog?' asked he, and the man answered:

'It ran away from me.'

On hearing this the boy put no more questions, but he called his sister

and said to her:

'Tell me the truth. What did your husband do to the dog? I did not want

to let it go, because I guessed what would happen.'

And the wife answered:

'He threw the inside of a sheep to it, and that is why it ran off.'

When the boy heard this, he felt very sad, and turned to go into the

mountains in search of the dog. After walking some time he found the

marks of its paws, and smears of red paint on the grass. But all this

time the boy never knew that the dog was really the son of the Wolf

Chief and had been sent by his father to help him, and he did not guess

that from the day that he painted red paint round its face and on its

feet a wolf can be told far off by the red on its paws and round its

mouth.

The marks led a long, long way, and at length they brought him to a

lake, with a town on the opposite side of it, where people seemed to be

playing some game, as the noise that they made reached all the way

across.

'I must try if I can get over there,' he said, and as he spoke, he

noticed a column of smoke coming right up from the ground under his

feet, and a door flew open.

'Enter!' cried a voice, so he entered, and discovered that the voice

belonged to an old woman, who was called 'Woman-always-wondering.'

'Grandchild, why are you here?' she asked, and he answered:

'I found a young dog who helped me to get food for the people, but it is

lost and I am seeking it.'

'Its people live right across there,' replied the woman. 'It is the Wolf

Chief's son, and that is his father's town where the noise comes from.'

'How can I get over the lake?' he said to himself, but the old woman

guessed what he was thinking and replied:

'My little canoe is just below here.'

'It might turn over with me,' he thought, and again she answered him:

'Take it down to the shore and shake it before you get in, and it will

soon become large. Then stretch yourself in the bottom, and, instead of

paddling, wish with all your might to reach the town.'

The boy did as he was told, and by and bye he arrived on the other side

of the lake. He shook the canoe a second time, and it shrunk into a mere

toy-boat which he put in his pocket, and after that he went and watched

some boys who were playing with a thing that was like a rainbow.

'Where is the chief's house?' he asked when he was tired of looking at

their game.

'At the other end of the village,' they said, and he walked on till he

reached a place where a large fire was burning, with people sitting

round it. The chief was there too, and the boy saw his little wolf

playing about near his father.

'There is a man here,' exclaimed the Wolf Chief. 'Vanish all of you!'

and the wolf-people vanished instantly, all but the little wolf, who ran

up to the boy and smelt him and knew him at once. As soon as the Wolf

Chief beheld that, he said:

'I am your friend; fear nothing. I sent my son to help you because you

were starving, and I am glad you have come in quest of him.' But after a

pause, he added:

'Still, I do not think I will let him go back with you; but I will aid

you in some other way,' and the boy did not guess that the reason the

chief was so pleased to see him was because he had painted the little

wolf. Yet, as he glanced at the little beast again, he observed with

surprise that it did not look like a wolf any longer, but like a human

being.

'Take out the fish-hawk's quill that is hanging on the wall, and if you

should meet a bear point the quill straight at it, and it will fly out

of your hand. I will also give you this,' and he opened a box and lifted

out a second quill stuck in a blanket. 'If you lay this side on a sick

person, it will cure him; and if you lay the other side on your enemy,

it will kill him. Thus you can grow rich by healing sick people.'

So the boy and the Wolf Chief made friends, and they talked together a

long time, and the boy put many questions about things he had seen in

the town, which puzzled him.

'What was the toy the children were playing with?' he asked at last.

'That toy belongs to me,' answered the chief. 'If it appears to you in

the evening it means bad weather, and if it appears in the morning it

means fine weather. Then we know that we can go out on the lake. It is a

good toy.'

'But,' continued he, 'you must depart now, and, before you leave eat

this, for you have a long journey to make and you will need strength for

it;' and he dropped something into the boy's mouth.

And the boy did not guess that he had been absent for two years, and

thought it was only two nights.

* * * * *

Then he journeyed back to his own town, not a boy any more, but a man.

Near the first house he met a bear and he held the quill straight

towards it. Away it flew and hit the bear right in the heart; so there

was good meat for hungry people. Further on, he passed a flock of sheep,

and the quill slew them all and he drew it out from the heart of the

last one. He cooked part of a sheep for himself and hid the rest where

he knew he could find them. After that he entered the town.

It seemed strangely quiet. What had become of all his friends and of the

children whom he had left behind him when he left to seek for his dog?

He opened the door of a hut and peeped in: three or four bodies were

stretched on the floor, their bones showing through their skin, dead of

starvation; for after the boy had gone to the mountains there was no one

to bring them food. He opened another door, and another and another;

everywhere it was the same story. Then he remembered the gift of the

Wolf Chief, and he drew the quill out of his blanket and laid one side

of it against their bodies, so that they all came to life again, and

once more the town was full of noise and gaiety.

'Now come and hunt with me,' he said; but he did not show them his quill

lest he should lose it as he had lost the dog. And when they beheld a

flock of mountain sheep grazing, he let fly the quill so quickly that

nobody saw it go, neither did they see him pull out the quill and hide

it in his blanket. After that they made a fire and all sat down to

dine, and those who were not his friends gave him payment for the meat.

For the rest of his life the man journeyed from place to place, curing

the sick and receiving payment from their kinsfolk. But those who had

been dead for many years took a long while to get well, and their eyes

were always set deep back in their heads, and had a look as if they had

seen something.

[_Tlingit Myths._]

_BLIND JACK OF KNARESBOROUGH_

This is the story of a blind man who did more, without any eyes at all,

than many people can do with two. For numbers of children need really to

be _taught_ to use their eyes, or they will never see things that are

right under their noses; or else they will only see exactly what they

are looking for, and nothing besides.

Blind Jack's proper name was John Metcalfe, and he was born in the town

of Knaresborough in Yorkshire, in 1717. His parents seem to have been

comfortably off--small farmers perhaps, as we are told that Jack learned

to ride on his father's horses; and at four years old he was sent to

school, exactly as a child of working people would be now. The boy was

very quick and had a good memory and his teachers were proud of him, and

prophesied that he would be a great scholar, and who knew if some day he

might not be Lord Chancellor, or even Archbishop of Canterbury? The

Metcalfes quite agreed that nothing was more likely; but a sudden end

was put to these dreams when one morning Jack woke with a rash all over

his face and chest, and the doctor declared he had got small-pox.

Now in those times, before babies were vaccinated, small-pox was a most

terrible disease and very few lived through it without being marked in

one way or another. Jack was very ill, but he does not appear to have

been pitted like some of the other children who suffered from it, and

only his mother observed that when the crisis was over and the boy was

getting better every day, and beginning to chatter again, he did not, as

was usual with him, make remarks on the things he saw around him or out

of the window. Then a dreadful fear shot through her heart. Could it be

that he was blind? With great difficulty she controlled her voice and

answered the child's questions, but with every hour she understood more

clearly that what she dreaded had indeed come to pass. By and bye Jack

himself wondered why the curtains always seemed to be drawn in his room

and asked his mother to pull them back. She invariably had some good

excuse for his remaining in the dark, and little by little the truth

dawned on him also. We cannot guess at the poor boy's horror at his

fate, nor at his struggles to behave like a man, but as he grew

gradually accustomed to his darkness and became stronger, he made up his

mind, as other blind people have done, that if he was so unlucky as to

have lost his eyes, he would learn to get on just as well without them.

* * * * *

The bare idea of all he would do was exciting. As Jack sat by the fire

in the kitchen or lay curled up in the window-seat listening to the

horses which went by, he began to make his plans for the future. How

fortunate it was that he was able to ride already!--why, most of the

boys at school, who were not blind at all, had never been across a

horse's back, far less galloped at full speed up and down the street as

Jack had loved to do! So he, blind though he was, could do something

which they could not, and had the start of them! Now that he could walk

about the room without falling down from weakness he must lose no more

time, but try and learn the positions of the chairs and tables and count

exactly how many steps there were on the staircase, so that he might

soon run up and down them as fast as he did before. The next thing was

to trust himself in the street, and find his way about. He was rather

shy at first, and felt a little bewildered, but he would not go home

till he had gone as far as the baker's shop--up and down, up and down,

several times over.

'Well, I can go _there_ all right, if mother sends me,' he said to

himself, and walked home in triumph to tell his parents.

Having once made a beginning, Jack never let a day pass without learning

to do something fresh, till by the time he was nine he could carry

messages to any part of Knaresborough as well as another boy. He had a

good many friends of his own age, and with them he would go on

expeditions into the woods near the town, and even climb trees after

birds' eggs. Very quickly the boys discovered that Jack was a better

climber than any of them. He was so light, and then he could tell by his

sense of touch if a branch was rotten, or whether he might trust himself

upon it, and it was not long before it was Jack who was always sent to

the top of the tree while the rest remained at the bottom. His mother

suffered agonies of fear at first during these hours that the boy was

away, but she knew it was no use trying to hinder him, and after a while

she ceased to trouble, as Jack never came to harm, and she had too much

to do in looking after the younger children to worry about him. It was

impossible to keep Jack in the house; if he was not in a tree, he was on

the back of a horse or exercising a couple of young hounds that his

father had given him; but when, about thirteen, he showed a liking for

music, she had him properly taught, in the hope of inducing him to stay

at home in the winter evenings.

It was in the summer after this that Blind Jack made friends with some

bad boys, whose chief delight consisted of robbing cherry orchards; not

so much, if the truth be told, for the sake of the cherries, as for the

pleasure of doing what they ought not. One hot night Jack stole quietly

to the window of the room which he shared with his little brothers, and

swinging himself down through the branches of a tree as lightly as a

cat, was over the garden wall in a moment and in the street. Once there

he ran quickly to the porch of the parish church, reaching it as the

clock struck twelve, and just as the rest of the band, who were waiting

for him there, had almost given him up. They set off silently to the

orchard and soon had gathered a large basket of ripe cherries, which had

been intended by the farmer's wife for the Knaresborough market next

day. Enchanted with their booty, the young thieves hurried back in order

to eat the cherries comfortably and warmly inside the church. They were

in the highest spirits and felt that after their success they were

capable of capturing a fort or holding an army at bay. So seizing the

big iron ring on the church door which lifted the latch, one of the

leaders exclaimed loudly:

'A tankard of ale here!' as if he was entering a tavern. Of course he

meant nothing, but from within a voice answered:

'You are at the wrong house.' This so startled the boys that they were

struck dumb, hardly believing their ears, till Metcalfe whispered

softly:

'Didn't you hear something speak in the church?' This put their own

fears into words, and, as one boy, they all turned and fled. When they

had put a long distance between themselves and the churchyard they

stopped, feeling quite brave again, and began to discuss the matter and

what the voice could have been; but as none of their guesses satisfied

them, they determined to go back and try to find out for themselves.

As soon as they were again in the churchyard path, they saw bright

lights in the church and at once fancied it was on fire. This idea was

delightful to them, as they foresaw all kinds of fun in helping to put

it out. But before they even had time to open the west door in the

porch, they heard once more the latch being lifted from the inside. All

their old terror returned, and they rushed home as fast as they could,

the sexton's son even jumping into his mother's bed for protection.

The laugh against him was loudest of all next day, when it was

discovered that the supposed fire was only some candles lit by the

sexton himself, who was in the church with the grave-digger, opening a

vault for a funeral which was to take place early in the morning; and

the voice which had so frightened the boys was that of the grave-digger.

For some time the young thieves were jeered at by the whole town, and

grew to hate the very sight of a cherry, so the adventure had one good

result, for they let the orchards alone.

Metcalfe now had to amuse himself in some other way, and as many of his

friends used to meet every evening in order to bathe in the pools of the

river Nidd, he would not be left behind, and persuaded one of them to

teach him to swim and dive. Of course, all those things would have been

impossible if he had been the least nervous or frightened, but Blind

Jack did not know what fear was of any earthly thing. At least he had

thought at the time that the voice and the lights in the church were

ghostly, and _anybody_ might be afraid of ghostly manifestations. But

with the air and the shouts of other boys about him, he was as brave as

a lion, and soon could swim farther and dive deeper than any of them.

The Nidd is one of those rivers which easily rise and fall, and it is

full of 'holes,' as they are called, where the water swirls and eddies,

and whatever is swept over them by the current always stops for a moment

and then slowly sinks. In some strange way which was never explained by

him, Jack contrived to reach these holes without being drawn into the

eddies, and it quickly became a regular trade with him to rescue with

the aid of a hooked stick anything which had sunk in the pool. In this

way he drew up several pieces of valuable wood, a quantity of wool swept

into the river by a sudden flood, and even the body of a drowned man.

* * * * *