Jack was now about fifteen and was famous throughout Knaresborough,

which had grown quite proud of him. He had continued to practise his

violin, and everybody declared that never were country-dances danced

with such spirit as when Jack was the fiddler. So very speedily he got

an engagement as one of a band of four musicians to appear at the

Assembly Rooms once a fortnight, where a ball was given, and was invited

besides to many other places round about. In this very year too, 1732,

he was offered the post of fiddler at Harrogate, for the old man who had

held it for seventy years, and was now a hundred, could no longer play

briskly enough to please the young people. Jack's only assistant was a

boy younger than himself, whom he took about everywhere. Perhaps they

both rode pillion--that is, one behind the other; for Jack had saved up

his earnings and bought a horse, of which he was very fond. On its back

he was to be seen at Ripon or Boroughbridge or many other towns, and

when people were tired of giving balls, Metcalfe would run his horse at

the small races, of which there are so many in Yorkshire. Here he met

with some of the gentlemen who lived in the neighbourhood, and as they

all admired the cleverness and courage with which he had triumphed

over his blindness, and found him besides an amusing companion, they

made friends with him and sometimes invited him to stay in their houses

and hunt with them. To Mr. Barlow, of Middleton near York, he once paid

a visit of six months, and while there became acquainted with a

celebrated musician called Hebdin, who begged him to come and see him,

so that they might practise together. Jack accepted the kind offer

gladly, and when no hunting was to be had he went to York, and would

play for hours in the old house near the walls.

[Illustration: BLIND JACK PLAYS HIS FIDDLE AT THE ASSEMBLY BALLS.]

He had been there one day at the end of his visit to Mr. Barlow, trying

over a new piece of music before going home to his parents at

Knaresborough, which was a long ride even for him. By this time he could

find his way through all the principal streets, and as he was passing

the George Inn, the landlord ran out and told him that a gentleman was

dining there who wanted to reach Harrogate that night, but that as he

was a stranger he must have a guide.

'You can be as good a guide as anybody,' added the man, 'if you are

going that way.'

'Yes, I can,' answered Metcalfe; 'but you mustn't tell him I am blind,

or he won't believe it.'

'Oh! I'll take care,' replied the landlord. 'Wait here! he will be out

in a minute,' and the stranger was only too thankful to start at once,

for it was getting late. He insisted, however, that Jack should be given

a cup of wine before they set forth, as the landlord had made some

excuse for his refusal to enter the inn.

The gentleman and his guide were passing the corner of Ousegate, when

Jack was startled at hearing a shout of 'There goes Squire Barlow's

Blind Huntsman,' but he perceived from the manner in which his companion

continued the conversation that if the words had reached his ears, they

had no meaning for him. They rode steadily on for some distance,

Metcalfe carefully placing himself a little in front, so that the

gentleman should only see part of his face when he turned to answer his

questions. Once or twice he had some fears as to whether he was taking

the right road or not, but by long practice he had so sharpened his

other senses that the slightest sign was sufficient for him. He could

tell by the feeling of the wind or the echo of the horses' hoofs if they

were in the open country, or if a wall ran along one side of the road,

and he could detect at once the presence of water. All through that long

ride he only made one mistake and that his companion never guessed. He

bent down to open the gate, but as it was seven months since he had

passed that way he approached it at the wrong side, which he perceived

instantly when his hand touched the hinges. However, he did not lose his

presence of mind, and quickly backed his horse, exclaiming as he did so:

'Confound thee! thou always goest to the gate heel instead of the head.'

'He _does_ seem a little awkward,' observed the gentleman. 'Let me try:

mine is rather good at a gate,' and as he spoke he rode forward and

swung it open.

It was now quite dark, and though of course that made no difference to

Metcalfe, his companion had much ado to see his way. However, he

followed his guide carefully and at length they found themselves in the

streets of Knaresborough.

'Let us stop and have a bottle of wine,' said the stranger, for he was

tired from being so many hours in the saddle; but Jack told him that the

horses were too hot to think of halting, and they pressed on. By and bye

as they were passing under an oil lamp hung by a chain across the road,

a boy cried out:

'That's Blind Jack!'

'Not he,' answered another; 'that fellow is much too dark.' Jack

chuckled to himself as he listened to them, but never turned his head.

Over the bridge they went and into the forest.

'What is that light I see?' asked the gentleman when they had gone a

little distance. His guide guessed that it must be a will-o'-the-wisp

from some swampy ground that lay there, but was careful not to betray

himself by saying so lest he should be mistaken.

'Do you not see two lights?' he inquired by way of making some answer;

'one on the right and the other on the left.'

'No; I can only distinguish one--one on the right,' replied the

stranger.

'Then that is Harrogate,' said Jack. 'We shall soon be there now,' and

in a quarter of an hour they drew rein in the courtyard of the Granby

inn. Early hours were kept in those days and the ostler had gone to bed,

so Jack, who knew the place well, stabled the horses himself after

rubbing them down. He then went into the inn where his companion was

seated by the fire, with a pewter pot of hot spiced wine beside him.

'You must be as cold and tired as I am,' observed the gentleman; 'it is

your turn to have a drink.' To his surprise, Metcalfe, who happened to

be thinking of something else, stretched out his hand at first very wide

of the mark, a fact which did not escape the stranger's eye, though Jack

at once recollected himself, and, noting from what direction the voice

proceeded, picked up the tankard, took a good draught and left the room.

'My guide must have drunk a good deal, landlord, since we arrived,' then

said the gentleman.

'And what makes you think so, sir?' asked the landlord.

'Well, his eyes look so odd, and he fumbled about so after the tankard.'

'Yes, sir? Why, don't you know he is blind?'

'Blind!' echoed the stranger; 'impossible!'

'Yes, sir, as blind as a bat.'

'Blind!' repeated the gentleman again. 'Call him back. I should like to

speak to him,' and as Jack entered he exclaimed:

'My friend, is it really true that you are blind?'

'It is indeed, sir. I lost my sight when I was six years old.'

'Had I known that, I would not have ventured with you for a hundred

pounds.'

'And I, sir, would not have lost my way for a thousand,' answered Jack

with a laugh, as he pocketed the two guineas held out to him.

* * * * *

Metcalfe, as we know, was fond of races, like a true Yorkshire-man, and

he often ran his horse for private bets. On one occasion he laid a wager

with some other young men that he would win what would now be called a

point-to-point race--that is, posts were set up at different places for

the distance of a mile, and the competitors were bound to pass each of

them. The whole course was three miles, and they were obliged to go

round it three times. Every man was to ride his own horse, and as it

seemed almost impossible that even Blind Jack should be able to stick to

the course, the odds were heavy against him.

On the morning of the race Jack might have been seen by anyone who had

got up early enough, going round to the four inns that Knaresborough

contained, and coming away from each with a big dinner-bell in his hand,

and numbers of little ones in a bag. These he distributed among his

friends, and ordered them to stand out at every post, and at a certain

number of yards in between. As the bells were to be rung in turn, he had

a perfect chain of sound to guide him the entire distance. With the help

of this, he felt he had no reason to fear any rivals, and, as his horse

was both fast and steady, he easily won the race.

When the cheers of the crowd had somewhat died down, a gentleman named

Skelton came up to Metcalfe and offered to make a bet with him that he

would not gallop a certain horse of his for a hundred and fifty yards,

and pull him up within two hundred. The horse chosen was noted for

having a very hard mouth, and to be ready to bolt at every opportunity.

Metcalfe never refused a wager and accepted this one eagerly, but

stipulated that he should be allowed to select his own ground.

'Very well,' answered Skelton; 'but remember there must be no hedges or

walls. Do you agree to that?'

'I agree,' said Metcalfe; 'see that the stakes are deposited, and I will

let you know later where the wager shall come off.'

The day was fixed for the following Saturday, and the night before,

Skelton received a message bidding him to be at the old Spa not far from

Harrogate at eleven o'clock. He arrived punctually, but found Metcalfe

and his horse there before him. Now Blind Jack knew what Skelton did

not, that about a hundred and fifty yards from the old Spa there was a

very large bog, in which three weeks earlier a traveller had got stuck

in the dark, and would inevitably have been sucked down had not Jack

heard his cries and managed to rescue him. The few minutes before the

appearance of Skelton had been used by the cunning youth to place a

friend near the entrance of the bog, with orders to stand with his back

to the wind and sing a song at the top of his voice. This was to be

Blind Jack's guide to the direction he wanted.

'I am quite ready, you see,' he cried, as Skelton rode up. 'Give the

word and I will start.'

'Go!' said Skelton, and away the horse bounded at the top of his speed

straight into the bog, which held him like a vice. Cautiously Metcalfe

dismounted and picked his way as well as he was able till he was on firm

ground again, when he demanded the money he had won, which was at once

handed over to him. He then went back to extricate his horse, but this

was no easy matter, for, in his flounderings to get free, the poor beast

had only sunk deeper and deeper. However, by the help of two or three

men who had been watching the wager, this was at last accomplished, and

Jack rode smilingly home, both man and horse covered with dirt up to

their necks.

* * * * *

Jack grew up a great deal more quickly than most boys, and by the time

he was twenty had fallen very much in love with a girl called Dorothy

Benson, who lived at Harrogate. For a long while they only met secretly,

as both well knew that the elder Bensons would never allow their

daughter to marry a man who was not only poor and blind, but earned his

living by fiddling at balls all over the country.

Matters were in this state when Jack, who had not been to Harrogate for

seven months, suddenly heard that he had a rival. This was a prosperous

shoemaker called Dickinson, much favoured by Dolly's parents, and they

seemed to have pressed her so hard to accept the man that she consented

to have the banns published in church. This news woke up Metcalfe, who,

thinking he had won Dolly's heart, was taking things rather easily, and

he at once resolved that Miss Benson should be the wife of no one but

himself, and after much consideration he laid his plans.

Now Dickinson, in order to celebrate his marriage, had arranged to give

a dinner to two hundred of his workpeople, and this took place on a

Saturday in his native parish of Kirkby-Overblow. The wedding was fixed

for Monday, and for some reason it was to be at Knaresborough, though

the breakfast was to be held at Harrogate.

On the Sunday Blind Jack came to Harrogate and was riding past the hotel

of the Royal Oak, when he was startled at the sound of a voice close to

him saying:

'One wants to speak with you.' He pulled up his horse in surprise, but

instantly recognised the voice to be that of a maid of the Bensons. She

turned towards the stables, telling him to follow, and there was

Mistress Dolly herself, anxious and excited, as he guessed by the tremor

of her tone as she said:

'I knew you would come, so I sent for you.'

'Well, lass,' he answered, pretending not to care, though his heart was

beating fast; 'thou's going to have a merry day to-morrow; am I to be

the fiddler?'

'Thou never shalt fiddle at my wedding,' replied she.

'Why--what have I done?' asked Metcalfe, bent on teasing her; but she

only answered darkly that matters might not end as some folks thought

they would, and she might wish things done another way. But, though her

words might not have seemed very plain to another person, Metcalfe

understood.

'What! Wouldst thou rather have me? Canst thou bear starving?'

'Yes,' said she; 'with thee I can.'

So that was settled, and nothing remained but to arrange when and how

Dolly could escape from the house.

'Thou must put a light in thy window when everyone is asleep to-night,'

said Jack.

'A light!' cried Dolly; 'but what good is that to thee?'

'Ay, a light; and as for the "good," leave that to me,' answered Jack,

who had already thought of a friend to help him. 'And now farewell, lest

they should seek for thee.'

That evening he went to a trusty man, who was ostler at the inn of the

World's End, and told him his story.

'Canst thou borrow thy master's mare for the night?' asked Jack

anxiously. 'She is used to carry double, and my horse is not.'

'Ay, if she is in her stable before morning,' replied the ostler; and

then Jack begged him to be at Raffle's shop at ten o'clock, and to

whistle when he got there by way of a signal.

Ten o'clock found them both at the appointed place, but they had to wait

some time before the ostler announced that the promised light was in the

window. Leaving both horses tied up a little way off--for Metcalfe had

brought his own--they stole up to the Bensons' house and gave a faint

tap at the door. Dolly was expecting Jack and came out, shutting the

door after her.

'Not so fast,' said he; 'hast thou not brought any gowns? It would be

well, as thou mayst not see thy mother for some time; and where is thy

new pillion and cloth that thy father gavest thee?'

'Oh dear!' she replied, 'I had forgotten all that. I have nineteen or

twenty gowns, and sure, I cannot bring them all. The pillion is in the

other part of the house, but we must have it. As the door is shut, I

will wake my sister, but she can keep a silent tongue.' She then threw

some gravel at her sister's window, which, like her own, looked out on

to the street, and in another moment the door was opened by Mistress

Anne.

'I want my new tabby gown and the pillion,' whispered Dolly; and her

sister, who knew more about the whole affair than Dolly had any idea of,

showed no surprise at her request or at the sight of the two men

standing in the shadow.

'The pillion? But it is in the room where Dickinson is lying,' she

answered in some dismay.

'Oh, never mind, I will get it!' said Dolly, and, going upstairs, softly

entered the room, which was lit by moonlight, and took up the pillion

and cloth, which had been placed on a chair.

'Who is that?' asked Dickinson, awakened by her entrance.

'It is only me,' said the girl; 'I've come to fetch the pillion, so that

I may brush it and have it ready for to-morrow.'

'That's well thought on,' replied the bridegroom; and, turning on his

pillow, he fell asleep again.

Metcalfe smiled as he heard the latch lifted, and took the pillion from

her. The ostler put it on his master's mare, then jumping into the

saddle, swung Dolly up behind him. Metcalfe mounted his own horse, and

they rode away twelve miles to the house of a clergyman whom he had

often met on the hunting field. The good man took some time to wake, but

at length he came down, and, when he found out what was required of him,

hurried into his gown and bands without asking questions, and in a few

minutes Dorothy Benson had become Mistress John Metcalfe. This time it

was Jack who mounted the landlord's mare, and leaving Dolly at the house

of a much-astonished friend five miles from Harrogate, himself placed

the borrowed animal in its stall at the World's End. He was only just in

time, for the landlord had taken a fancy to start early for

Knaresborough, and it would have gone hard with the ostler had the mare

not been in its place.

Then Jack went to the Queen's Head, and played his fiddle as he often

did, while the guests were breakfasting.

By this time Dolly's elopement had been discovered, but nobody suspected

Jack of being concerned in it till a young man, who had been one of the

girl's suitors and had noticed more than her family had done, told her

brother that he had better go and question Blind Jack. The culprit, when

asked, at once told the whole story and declared that he had only stolen

Dolly away from her home because he knew that her parents would never

consent to their marriage.

And in this he was right, for they both vowed that if they ever met him

they would kill him; and it was not till Dolly had some children to show

them, that she was taken into favour again.

_BLIND JACK AGAIN_

Would you like to hear some more of Blind Jack? This story tells how he

joined the army of the Duke of Cumberland, which was sent to fight

Prince Charlie and the Highlanders in 1745.

There was great excitement in York when the news came that the Scotch

were marching south, and measures were taken to raise 4,000 men for the

defence of the country. L90,000 was very soon subscribed in the county,

and this large sum was intended to clothe and pay volunteers during the

time their services were needed. The gentlemen of Yorkshire held a

meeting in the castle to discuss the matter, and Blind Jack's old

friend, Thornton, was present. When the meeting was over he rode back to

Knaresborough and sent for Metcalfe, whom he asked to help him enlist

some soldiers, and further begged him to join the company himself, which

Jack, always on the look out for a fresh adventure, was delighted to do.

He lost no time in going round to the men he knew in his native town,

and was ready to promise anything that he thought was likely to gain him

what he wanted. He even assured these carpenters and blacksmiths and

ostlers and ploughmen that they would find themselves colonels of

regiments, or holding some well-paid post under the king, as soon as the

war--or _bustle_ as he termed it--was over.

Out of the hundred and forty men who agreed to enlist on receiving five

shillings a head from Captain Thornton, sixty-four were chosen and clad

in uniforms of blue cloth, with buff facings and waistcoats, made by

Leeds tailors. These tailors were not at all anxious to hurry, and

declined to work on Sunday, upon which the captain sent an indignant

message to ask whether, if their houses caught fire on a Sunday, they

would not try to put the flames out? The tailors were more easily

convinced than they would have been at present, and, on receiving the

message, instantly crossed their legs and took up their needles, and in

a very few days the new soldiers were strutting about in their fine

clothes or attending drill, while waiting for the swords and muskets

which were coming down from the arsenal in the Tower of London. Then the

captain invited them all to stay at Thorneville, and every other day a

fat ox was killed for their dinners.

At last they were ready, and off they marched to Boroughbridge, where

General Wade's army was halting on its way to the north. Very smart the

recruits looked, and none was smarter than Blind Jack, who stood six

feet two inches in his stockings. In the evenings he always went to the

captain's quarters, and played 'Britons, strike home,' and other popular

tunes, on his fiddle. The captain's friends, who came over to see what

was going on, pressed him to play one thing after another, and, when

they took their leave, pulled out their purses and offered the musician

a guinea or two. But Jack always refused the money, as he knew that

Thornton would not like him to take it.

From Boroughbridge they marched to Newcastle to join General Pulteney.

Winter had now set in, and snow often fell heavily, and during a heavy

storm the troops started on their march westwards to Hexham. They had a

terrible day's journey to their first stopping-place seven miles away,

and it sometimes took three or four hours to accomplish one single mile.

Although the ground was frozen hard, all sorts of obstacles had to be

overcome, and ditches filled up, so that the artillery and

baggage-waggons might pass over. When at last a halt was sounded, after

fifteen hours' march, the frost was so intense that no tent-pegs could

be driven into the earth, and the men were forced to be on the ground

without any cover.

After various marches backwards and forwards along the northern line,

Thornton's company, now attached to General Hawley's, reached Edinburgh

and proceeded to Falkirk, where the Highland army was encamped three

miles away. It was very cold and the wind blew the rain straight in the

faces of the English, and also wetted their powder, so that their guns

were quite useless. The general, observing this, ordered the troops to

fall back on Linlithgow, which afforded more shelter, and as soon as the

town was reached many of the tired men entered the houses to get their

wet clothes dried, or borrow fresh ones, little thinking that the

Highlanders were close upon them. A large number of English prisoners

were taken in the sudden surprise of the attack, and among them twenty

of Thornton's men. The captain himself was just leaving the house in

which he had taken refuge, when he heard the bagpipes close to him.

Quickly and noiselessly he rushed upstairs, and opening the first door

he saw, stood behind it. It was a poor chance of escape, but the only

one that offered itself. Luck, however, attended him, for a man merely

put his head into the room and exclaimed, 'None of the rascals are

here,' and went off to search the rest of the house in the same manner.

As soon as the Highlanders had disappeared down the street, the mistress

of the house, who had seen the captain's hurried flight up the

staircase, went to him and begged him to hide in a closet at one end of

the room, which he gladly did. She next dragged a sort of kitchen

dresser in front of the cupboard and piled plates and dishes on it, so

that no one would have guessed there was any door behind. Fortunately

the closet door did not touch the floor by a couple of inches, so that

the woman was able to thrust in food underneath. In his dripping wet

clothes and in this cupboard about five feet square, the captain

remained for nearly a week, in a room which was constantly full of

Highlanders, among them being Prince Charlie's secretary, Murray of

Broughton.

All this time Blind Jack was busy searching for his master. He had been

present at the battle of Falkirk with the rest of the company, and when

the order for retreat was given he found his way to a widow's house a

little way from the town, where the captain had left two of his horses.

There they were, safe in the stable, and Metcalfe hastily saddled them

both. He was leading out the first when some Highlanders came up.

'We must have that beast,' said they.

'You will have nothing of the sort,' answered Metcalfe.

'Shoot him,' said one of the men, and as Metcalfe heard them cock their

muskets he exclaimed quickly:

'Why do you want him?'

'For the Prince,' they replied; and Jack, understanding that he must

give way, answered:

'If it is for the Prince, you must have him of course,' and waited till

the sound of their footsteps died away. He then led out the other horse,

which they had not noticed, and was about to jump on his back when

Thornton's coachman, who had also been seeking his master, came up. They

both mounted the horse and rode to join the army, with which Metcalfe

marched on to Linlithgow and afterwards to Edinburgh.

Thornton's company were one and all very anxious about their captain and

could not imagine what had become of him. They knew the names of the men

who had been taken prisoners and of those who were killed in battle, but

Thornton had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him

up. The matter reached the ears of the superior officers in Edinburgh,

and, hearing that Metcalfe was one of the troop, sent for him to give

them what information he could, and also because they were curious to

see this blind volunteer. But Jack could tell them nothing new; only

that, if the captain was alive, he would find him.

Now he happened to have met in Edinburgh a Knaresborough man who had

joined Prince Charlie, and this fellow might, Jack thought, be of great

help to him in his search. So he sought the man out, and told him that

he was tired of serving with the English and felt sure they would be

badly beaten, and he would like a place as musician to Prince Charlie.

The Knaresborough man at once fell into the trap and replied that an

Irish spy was going to join the Prince at Falkirk immediately, and

Metcalfe might go with him and ask for an interview.

The first difficulty was with the English sentries in Edinburgh, who

refused to let them pass; but Jack overcame this by demanding to be

taken before the officer on guard, to whom he explained the real object

of his journey.

[Illustration: THE HIGHLANDERS DEMAND THE CAPTAIN'S HORSE FOR THE

PRINCE.]

'Give it up, give it up! my good fellow,' said the captain; 'it is

certain death to a man with two eyes, and you have none, though you

manage to do so well without them.' But Metcalfe would not listen, so he

and the Irishman were allowed to proceed, and after various adventures

arrived safely in Falkirk.

All this time, as we have said, Thornton had been caged up in the

cupboard in his wet clothes, till he was almost too stiff to stoop to

pick up his food when the woman thrust it under his door. He caught a

bad cold besides, and more than once could not restrain his cough, even

when he knew the soldiers were in the room. They heard it of course, but

as the partitions were very thin, they took for granted it was next

door, for the dresser completely hid all trace of an opening.

But by Monday night he felt he could not stay in the closet any longer,

and when the woman brought him his provisions for the next day he told

her that he would not die there like a rat in a hole, but would come out

whatever it cost him.

'Remain there till to-morrow night,' she said, 'and I will contrive some

way of escape for you,' and so the poor captain was forced to pass

another twenty-four hours in his most uncomfortable prison. Then, when

the soldiers had all gone off to their night duty, the landlady brought

a carpenter whom she could trust to take away the dresser. Oh! how

thankful the captain was to stretch himself again, and to put on a

Highland dress and a black wig which the woman brought him. He had only

ten guineas with him, and eight of them he thankfully gave to the

landlady while the other two he bestowed on the carpenter. As he was

bid, he slung over his shoulder a bag of tools, and hid himself

downstairs till it grew light and people were setting out to work, when

he and the carpenter started together just four hours before Metcalfe

entered Falkirk. On the way to Edinburgh they had a terrible fright, and

narrowly escaped falling into the hands of a large body of Highlanders,

but at length they reached a house belonging to a friend of the

carpenter's, who lent Thornton a horse, which carried him in safety to

Edinburgh.

Metcalfe meanwhile had fared rather badly. His dress, consisting of a

plaid waistcoat which he had borrowed, and a blue coat faced with buff,

the uniform of his company, had attracted the attention of the

Highlanders. He told them that he had been fiddling for the English

officers, who had given him the coat (which belonged, he said, to a man

killed in the battle) as payment. The men would have been satisfied had

not a person chanced to pass who had often seen Jack at Harrogate, and

said:

'You had better not let him go without a search; I don't like the look

of him.' Accordingly Metcalfe was removed to the guard-room and his

clothes examined all over to see if they concealed any letters. The

guard even split in two a pack of cards which Metcalfe had in his

pocket, imagining that he might have contrived to slip a piece of thin

paper between the thick edges of the cardboard then used. The cards,

however, had not been employed for this purpose, and after three days'

confinement in a loft Metcalfe was tried by court-martial and acquitted,

and given besides permission to go to the Prince. By this time, however,

he had somehow discovered that Thornton had escaped from Falkirk, so he

was only anxious to return to the British army as fast as he could. The

Irish spy was equally desirous of taking letters to Edinburgh to some of

the friends of Prince Charlie, who were to be found there, but did not

know how to pass the English sentries, a difficulty easily solved by

Blind Jack, who assured him that he would tell them he was going to

Captain Thornton.

Not far from the English outposts the two travellers met with an officer

who knew Metcalfe, and informed him to his great delight that the

captain was in Edinburgh, so when the sentries were passed he bade

farewell to the Irishman after promising to meet him the next night, and

went straight to the captain.

'You have given me a great deal of trouble,' was Metcalfe's greeting.

'Really, people might manage to come home from market without being

fetched.'

'Well, so I did,' answered Thornton with a laugh. 'But what is to be

done now, as I have neither clothes nor cash?'

'Oh, I can get you both!' replied Metcalfe; 'some friends I have here

have often heard me speak of you, and they will trust you for payment.'

And he was as good as his word, and quickly borrowed thirty pounds,

which provided the captain with all the clothes he wanted.

In January 1746 the Duke of Cumberland, Commander-in-Chief of the

English army, arrived in Edinburgh, and as Thornton was a great friend

of his, the Duke heard all his adventures and the share Blind Jack had

taken in them. He then sent for Metcalfe, and being much interested in

his story often watched him on the march, and noticed, to his surprise,

that, by listening to the drum, Jack was able to keep step with the

rest.

The British forces proceeded northwards as far as Aberdeen, where the

Duke suddenly determined to give a ball to the ladies and begged that

Thornton would allow Metcalfe to play the country dances, as the wind

instruments of the German musicians were unsuitable. It must have been

rather a strange ball, as up to the last moment it was quite uncertain

whether they might not have to fight instead of dance, and the

invitations were only sent out at five o'clock for the company to

assemble at six. Twenty-five couples were present and kept Metcalfe hard

at work till two the next morning; the Duke, then about twenty-five,

dancing away with the rest.

The English then turned westwards and defeated the Highlanders at

Culloden, near Inverness, after which all British prisoners were set

free, and the volunteers returned home.

Captain Thornton and Metcalfe rode back together as far as

Knaresborough, where they parted company. Blind Jack's wife had suffered

a great deal of anxiety during the eight months of his absence, for she

knew that his love of adventure would thrust him into all kinds of

unnecessary dangers. But here he was, none the worse for the hardships

he had gone through, and in the best of spirits, but, to Dolly's great

relief, quite ready to stay at home for a bit.

According to his own account--and again we ask ourselves how much we

may believe of Metcalfe's amazing story--there was no end to the

different trades he carried on successfully for the rest of his life. He

soon grew restless and went to Aberdeen to buy a large supply of

stockings, which he sold at a profit among his Yorkshire friends; for a

while he became a horse dealer, feeling the animals all over before he

made an offer to purchase, so that he knew exactly what condition they

were in, and their good and bad points. He next turned smuggler, getting

a great deal of excitement out of cheating the Government, and finally

took to building bridges and making roads. In 1751 he started a coach

between York and Knaresborough, which he drove himself. It ran twice a

week in the summer and once in the winter; and as soon as he grew tired

of this employment, for he detested being obliged to do things at stated

times, he managed with his usual luck to get the business taken off his

hands.

We bid farewell to him in 1795 when he was seventy-eight, but still

strong and active and able to walk ten miles in three and a half hours.

His friendship with Colonel Thornton was as fast as ever, and he

remained a welcome guest in several of the big houses round York and

Knaresborough. And if perhaps he was not _quite_ so wonderful a person

as he thought, and saw some of his deeds through a magnifying glass,

there is no doubt that he was a very uncommon man, worthy of all

admiration for not allowing his life to be spoilt by his blindness.

_THE STORY OF DJUN_

Once upon a time a famine broke out among the tribe of the Tlingits, and

one of their girls, who was an orphan and had to look after herself,

would have fared very badly had she not now and then been given some

food by her father's sister. But this did not happen often, for

everybody was almost starving, and it was seldom that they had any food

for themselves, still less for anyone else.

Now the girl, whose name was Djun, heard some of the women planning to

go to the forest and dig roots, and though she wished very much to

accompany them, they would not take her.

'You will bring us bad luck,' they said, and struck her fingers when, in

despair at being left behind, she grasped the side of the canoe. But

though the girl was obliged to loosen her hold from pain, she was so

hungry that she would not be beaten off, and at last her father's

sister, who was one of the party, persuaded the others to let her go

with them. So she jumped in and paddled away to the forest.

All that day the women hunted for roots till they had collected a large

pile, and had even caught some salmon in the river as well, and as

evening drew on they prepared to encamp for the night, and built a fire

to warm them and to cook some of the roots. But the girl, who had

wandered away by herself as soon as they had landed, did not return, and

the women were angry, and said that if she did not choose to come back,

she might stay in the forest for ever. And the next morning, when they

started for home, they threw water on the fire so that Djun might not be

able to cook her food, if she had any to cook. However, the girl's aunt

managed to steal a burning coal which lay on the fire, and, unseen by

the rest, threw it into a deserted brush-house where they had slept,

and put a piece of dried salmon with it. Just as she had done this she

caught sight of the girl hiding behind the brush-house, and went to

speak to her; for the other women were too busy packing the food into

the boat to notice what she was doing.

'Are you not coming with us?' she asked, and Djun answered:

'No; as they don't want to take me, I had better stay here.'

'Well, I have put a live coal in that brush-house for you and a piece of

salmon,' said her aunt, 'so you will have something to eat for a day or

two.'

* * * * *

The girl did not leave her hiding-place till the boat was out of sight,

and then she made a big fire from the burning coal, and cooked her roots

and her salmon; but though they smelt very good, and she was hungry, she

did not somehow feel as if she could eat. So she soon got up and went

farther into the forest and dug some more roots.

'I shall be almost starving by the evening,' thought she, 'and I will

eat them then;' but when evening came she had no more appetite than in

the morning, so she curled herself up in a corner and fell asleep, for

she was very tired.

She was awakened early next day by a rushing of wings, and, looking out

of the door, found a flock of birds sweeping by. But there was nothing

very uncommon in that, and she lay down again and slept for several

hours longer. Then she got up and walked some distance till she reached

a flat plain, where the best roots grew, but the flock of birds had

found them out also, and were feeding upon them.

When they saw her they flew away, and she went to a spot covered with

dead grass, for she expected that would be a good place to dig in. To

her surprise, under the dead grass lay several big canoes filled with

oil, dried halibut and dried salmon.

'How lucky I am!' she said to herself; 'it was well indeed that I did

not return with the others,' and she broke off a piece of salmon and

tried to eat it, but she could not.

'What is the matter with me?' she wondered. 'I wish my aunt were here,'

and she felt rather frightened. And the next day she grew more

frightened still, for she found out that the birds were spirits, and it

was they who were preventing her from eating food, so that she might

become a great shaman or medicine-man. After a little while her eyes

were opened, and she understood many things she had never guessed at,

and the spirit-birds she had seen took possession of her, and others

came from the woods and the sea, and sang to her.

At first she went two or three times every day to visit the buried

canoes and to dig for roots, but she quickly gave that up, for she had

nothing with which to sharpen the sticks she used instead of spades; and

besides, what was the use of digging for roots if you could not eat

them? Meanwhile, in the village the girl's aunt mourned for her, as she

felt sure Djun must by this time be dead of hunger.

* * * * *

'I am very lonely: I wish some of my old friends would come to see me,'

thought Djun when she had been living by herself for several months, and

the next morning a canoe appeared in sight, and in it were seated some

people whom she knew. Then Djun was happy indeed, and she bade them

follow her to the brush-house, and gave them food out of the canoes; for

two or three days they stayed, digging for roots and for anything else

they could get, and at the end of the time Djun said to them:

'It is well that you should go again, but be careful not to take with

you any of the food that I have given you. Tell my friends that I am

alive, and beg my aunt to come and visit me.'

So the people of the canoe returned to the village, and told such tales

of the food they had received from Djun that all the townsfolk hastened

to get into their canoes and paddled straight off to the place where she

was living. When they drew near enough to see the brush-house, they

beheld it surrounded by thousands of birds that seemed to stretch right

upwards from the earth to the sky. They also heard the shaman's voice

and the sound of singing, but as soon as they approached closer to the

brush-house, the birds flew away.

After that the shaman went out to meet them, and she asked:

'Where is my aunt? I want her;' and when her aunt came Djun gave her

everything that was stored in one of her buried canoes, and then she

said:

'I should like two of the women to stay with me and help me with my

singing,' and one after another the chief women of the tribe, with their

faces newly painted, rose up in the canoes; but she would have none of

them, and chose two girls who were orphans like herself, and had been

treated very badly by their kinsfolk.

'The rest can come ashore,' she said, 'and camp out here,' but she took

the orphans and her aunt into the brush-house.

Now these high-born women had brought their slaves with them, and Djun

took the slaves in exchange for food, and put necklaces and paint and

feathers and fine robes upon the orphans. And the whole of the village

people stayed with her a long while, and when they got into the canoes

again they were fat and strong with all that Djun had given them.

* * * * *

For some time Djun lived quite happily in the brush-house now that she

had some companions; then a longing took hold of her to go back to her

own village, so she worked magic in order to make the chief of the town

fall ill, and the people, who had learnt that she had become a shaman,

sent a canoe to fetch her and offered her much payment if she would cure

him.

The family of Djun the shaman was one of the noblest in the tribe, but

misfortune had overtaken them. One by one they had all died, and when

the girl came back to the village nothing remained but the posts of her

uncle's house, while grass had sprouted inside the walls. She beheld

these things from the canoe and felt very sad, but she bade the slaves

cease paddling, as she wished to land. Then she drew out an eagle's

tail, and, holding it up, blew upon it and waved it backwards and

forwards. After she had done this four times, the posts and the grass

disappeared, and in their place stood a fine house--finer and larger

than the one the chief had lived in.

[Illustration: DJUN'S MAGIC IN THE HOUSE OF THE CHIEF.]

'Bring in whatever the canoe contains,' she said; and when everything

was ready she went into the house, and the two orphan girls went with

her.

'The chief's daughter is ill as well as her father,' so Djun heard after

she had been back in the village for a few days, and she waited in the

house, expecting to be summoned to work a cure. But though they had sent

for her while she was living far from them, now that she was amongst

them again she looked so like the girl they had known from a child that

the people could not believe she could be a _real_ shaman, and called in

others. However, in spite of the care of these medicine men, both the

chief and his daughter became worse and worse, and in despair, their

kinsfolk suddenly bethought themselves of Djun. The girl was not in the

house at the time that the messenger arrived, but one of the orphans met

him, and asked:

'How much will they pay the shaman if she cures them?'

'Two slaves,' was the answer.

'That is not enough,' said the child; 'go back and tell them so.'

And the messenger went back and came again.

'How much will they pay the shaman?' asked the child as she opened the

door to him.

'Two slaves and much goods,' answered he.

'That is well; she will come,' said the child, and the messenger

returned with her answer.

* * * * *

'We will go together,' Djun said to the orphans, and the three set off

at once to the house of the chief. Inside, there was a crowd of people,

except for an empty space round the fire where lay the chief and his

daughter. The shaman sat down between them and worked all the spells she

knew, but they grew no better. Then she rose and walked through the

people in the room, and when she had looked at each one she said to the

chief:

'The witch that is killing you two is not here.'

As soon as the people heard that, they left the house and brought in

those of the villagers who had not come before, for there was not room

for a very great number. For the second time Djun went among them and

examined them, and then she repeated:

'The witch is not yet here.' But the spirits, which showed her what

others could not see, opened her eyes, and after a moment she spoke

again.

'The road of the witch is very clear now; it runs straight to this

house.' After that she waited in silence, and the people were silent

also. At last they heard a bird whistling in the woods at the back, and

the shaman said:

'She is coming now; open the door and let her in,' and they flung the

door wide, and there flew in a wild canary.

'Go and sit between the two sick persons,' said Djun, and the canary

fluttered towards them, making such a noise with her wings that they

were frightened and shrank away from her. And the shaman desired a man

to tie the bird's wings to her side so that she might be still. Next a

rolling sound such as thunder makes a long way off filled the air.

'Here come her children,' cried the shaman. 'Stop all the holes so that

they may not enter, for they are very angry.' But though the holes were

stopped, there were cracks in the boards, and the birds flew in through

the cracks till the house became full of them, and the noise was

deafening. They flew round and round among the people, and whosoever

they touched received a cut or a bruise. Suddenly--no one knew how--they

all vanished, and not a bird was left in the room save the one which was

tied.

* * * * *

Hours had passed since the shaman first came to the house, and it was

now morning. The canary never ceased making a noise all that time, and

at last the shaman said:

'She wants to go to the place where she has put the food and the locks

of hair with which she is bewitching the chief and his daughter. Untie

her wings and let her do as she will, but be careful to follow her.' So

they untied her wings, and the canary flew out of the house followed by

four men, and she hopped ahead of them the way she had come through the

woods.

At length she stopped and began scratching at the roots of some bushes

till she laid bare a skull. On the top of the skull some leaves, hair,

food, and scraps of clothes were carefully arranged in a pattern. She

picked up as many of them as she could carry in her beak and flew with

them down to the sea, letting the wind scatter them in different

directions. This she did till all had disappeared and the skull

likewise, and then she returned to the house with the four men following

her, and they found the chief and his daughter quite cured, for as soon

as the skull and the other things had touched the sea, they recovered by

magic.

* * * * *

'Do you hear the noise she is making?' asked the shaman, when the bird

had begun to chatter as noisily as before. 'She wants to go away from

here, but not to her home, because the other birds will be

ashamed of her. The place she wishes to go to is a town called

Close-along-the-beach. Therefore, let a canoe be got ready at once to

take her there.' So the canoe was got ready, and the bird flew into it,

and they pushed off from the shore, and paddled till the bird suddenly

broke out into the strange speech, which no one could understand but the

shaman.

'This must be the place,' they said, and paddled in towards the beach,

and the canary flew out of the boat and went very fast down to the shore

followed by a man who wished to see where she was going, and she stopped

at a tree whose roots stuck out above the ground. For this was the

bird-town of Close-along-the-beach.

That is how the ancient Indians first heard of witchcraft.

[_Tlingit Myths and Texts._]

_WHAT BECAME OF OWEN PARFITT?_

In the early part of the eighteenth century a family named Parfitt were

living in a small town in the West of England called Shepton Mallet. We

are not told how many children they had, but some probably died young,

for the only two we hear about are the eldest daughter Mary and her

brother Owen, about fifteen years younger.

Owen was apprenticed by his father to a tailor as soon as he had reached

the proper age, and learnt his trade thoroughly. But he hated sitting

still sewing all day long, and one morning his stool waited for him in

vain, and some hours later a message was brought that he had enlisted

under the king's banner. Little was known of him for many years:

occasionally a report was carried by some pedlar or old soldier that

Owen was serving in this country or in that, but after a while even

these rumours ceased, and at length people forgot that such a person as

Owen Parfitt had ever existed. His parents were dead; only his sister

was left to remember him.

* * * * *

Then suddenly he appeared amongst them, bent and crippled with wounds

and rheumatism, and unrecognisable by anyone but Mary. Together they set

up house, and Owen again got out the board and the big scissors and the

chalk and the wax which his sister had carefully kept, and announced to

the town of Shepton Mallet that he was going to become a tailor once

more. However, the cottage which the brother and sister had taken proved

inconvenient in many ways, and after a time they moved to another, near

the high road, with the main street lying at the end of the garden. Here

he used to sit in the evening when his work was done, and talk with

some of his old friends who would lean over the gate and tell him all

the news.

As time went on, Owen's rheumatism grew worse and worse, till at length

he was too crippled to move without help, and by and bye he became

unable to stir hand or foot. Mary had grown very old also, for her

eightieth birthday had long been past, and though no cottage in Shepton

Mallet was cleaner than hers, she was very feeble, and Owen looked

forward with terror to the day when she would certainly break down. But

Mary was not the woman to give in while there was any strength left in

her, and when she found that she could not get her brother outside the

door by herself, she engaged a girl called Susannah Snook, living about

fifty yards away, to come and assist her. Between them they carried him

along the passage to a chair placed, if the weather was fine, outside

the house door, and there they left him, warmly wrapped up, while his

bed was made and his room put tidy.

It was in the afternoon of a June day in 1768 that Owen Parfitt, dressed

in the night things which he always wore, with an old greatcoat over his

shoulders, took up his usual position in the little garden. No one seems

actually to have seen him or spoken with him, but then it was haymaking

season, and the fields round the Parfitts' cottage were filled with

people, while it is only reasonable to suppose that the turnpike road

opposite had many carts and horsemen passing up and down. Be this as it

may, there was the old man taking his airing, 'plain for all folks to

see,' when Susannah, having made him comfortable, turned and went back

to Mary. After the bed had been made and the room put to rights, the

girl went home, but she must either have quitted the cottage by a _back_

door, or else the helpless old man must still have been sitting where

she left him. In any case, in about half an hour the news reached her

that Owen had disappeared, and his sister was almost distracted.

Susannah flew back to the cottage as fast as her feet would take her,

and found Mary weeping bitterly. The girl at once tried to find out what

had happened, but the old woman was so upset that this was not very

easy. Bit by bit, however, Susannah discovered that after she had

returned home, Mary had gone upstairs for a short time, and on coming

down again was struck by the silence.

'Owen, are you there?' she cried, but there was no answer. 'Owen!' she

repeated in a louder voice, but still there was nothing. Then she went

to the door and found the chair just as she and Susannah had left it,

but with no trace of her brother save the greatcoat which was lying on

the back.

'Did you hear no noise?' asked the girl, after listening to her story.

'No; nothing at all. I just came down because I had finished what I had

to do upstairs!' And Susannah added, on telling her tale, 'the chair,

when I looked, was exactly as we had placed it.'

The alarm once given, the neighbours lost no time in making a thorough

search of both town and country for some distance round, even of the

most unlikely spots. Ponds and wells were dragged, ditches examined,

outhouses explored; though _why_ anyone should wish to hide a harmless

old cripple in any of these places, nobody stopped to ask, still less

how it could have been done in broad daylight. But in spite of the

thorough nature of the hunt, which did not cease even during a sharp

thunderstorm, and went on all that night and the next day, neither then

nor later was any trace ever found of Owen Parfitt.

* * * * *

As far as we know, nothing further was done about the matter for nearly

fifty years, when some gentlemen happened to hear the story and were

interested in it. They sought out all the old people in the town who had

known the Parfitts and questioned them as to what had happened. Of

course, the worst of this kind of evidence is that no kind of notes had

been taken down at the time, and also that the love of astonishing their

hearers by wonderful details which never occurred is a great temptation

to many. On the whole, however, the witnesses in the inquiry into Owen

Parfitt's disappearance seem to have been more truthful than usual.

Susannah Snook, the last person living to see the old man, told her

tale as it has been already set down, and her account was closely borne

out by that given by another old woman as far as her own knowledge went.

Then followed some men, whose clothes had been made by Parfitt as long

as he had been able to work, and who had helped in the search for him.

One of these declared that Owen was 'neither a very good nor a very bad

man, but was said sometimes to have a very violent temper.' Yet, even if

this was correct, it does not throw much light on the mystery.

The general opinion of the neighbours at the time of the vanishing of

Parfitt was that he was carried off by demons, and indeed the whole

affair was so strange and without reason that their view was hardly to

be wondered at. The discovery of part of some human bones under a wall

near Parfitt's cottage gave a new turn to their thoughts, but this

happened many years after the disappearance of Owen, and were held, when

examined in 1814, to be the bones of a girl supposed to have been

murdered. One witness only contradicted Susannah's evidence, and that

was Jehoshaphat Stone, who swore Mary Parfitt had assured him that she

had come downstairs hastily after hearing a noise, to find her brother

gone and the chair displaced. But this fact he did not know of his own

knowledge, and Susannah, when asked about the displacing of the chair,

declared for the second time that the chair was exactly as she had left

it, and that Mary had expressly said she had heard no noise.

One more question remained to be put, and that was if the old man had

any money about him which might have led to his kidnapping or murder,

though this seems very unlikely. One witness said he had a small pension

amounting to about seven pounds a year, but an old woman who was related

to the Parfitts 'was quite sure he had nothing of the sort,' and even if

he had contrived to save a little during the years when he could still

work at his trade, it must soon have gone in the days of his

helplessness. At any rate, he would hardly have had it upon him when he

was dressed in his night things, without any sort of pocket to put it

in.

'But _was_ he a _totally_ helpless cripple?' inquired Dr. Butler, the

future Bishop of Lichfield, to whom the evidence was sent by the

gentlemen who had collected it. 'Be very careful, gentlemen, to discover

whether he _walked_ to his chair on the day of his disappearance, or

whether he was capable of walking so much as a few yards; for there

seems to have been a rumour that a person of his description was seen

wandering that evening near Frome ten or twelve miles distant.'

In accordance with Dr. Butler's wish, a close examination was made into

this matter, but none of the witnesses had ever seen Parfitt on his feet

or attempting to use them for many years before he vanished. But

supposing, as has been sometimes known, that a sort of miracle had been

wrought and his powers of walking had come suddenly back, how could he

have got from Shepton Mallet to Frome in broad daylight, past cottages

and along roads where everyone knew him, without being recognised by a

single person on the way?

'I give it up,' as they say about riddles; and Dr. Butler 'gave it up,'

too.

_BLACKSKIN_

In an Indian town on the North Pacific Ocean there lived a chief, whose

ambition it was to be stronger than other men and be able to kill the

sea-lions down the coast. On the coldest mornings in winter he might be

seen running down very early to bathe and the village people followed

him into the water. After he had swum and dived till he was quite warm,

he would come out and rush up a hill, and, catching hold of a big branch

on a particular tree, would try to pull it off from the trunk! Next he

would seize another tree and endeavour to twist it in his hands like a

rope. This he did to prove to himself that he was daily growing

stronger.

Now this chief had a nephew named Blackskin, who besides appearing weak

and delicate, was never seen to bathe and seemed terribly frightened

when the boys pushed him into the water. Of course, they could not know,

when they saw Blackskin sleeping while everyone else was enjoying

himself in the sea, that he was merely pretending, and that as soon as

_they_ were asleep, he rose and went down to the shore by himself and

stayed in the sea treading water for so many hours, that he had to float

so as to rest his feet. Indeed, he would often remain in till he was

chilled to the bone, and then he damped the ashes of his fire in order

to make them steam, and put his sleeping-mat on top. The villagers, who

only beheld him in bed, thought him a dirty fellow; but in reality he

was cleaner than any of them, and was never known to lie or to steal. If

they laughed at him for his laziness or his cowardice, he took no

notice, though he was strong enough to have picked them up with one

hand, and thrown them over the cliffs; and when, as often happened, they

begged him, for a joke, to bring them in a large log for their fire, he

was careful to make a great fuss and to raise it very slowly, as if it

was very hard to lift.

'A lazy fellow like that does not deserve any food,' said they, and so

poor Blackskin seldom had enough to eat.

* * * * *

Things went on like this for some time, and Blackskin bathed constantly

unknown to anyone till one night when he heard a whistle.

'Someone has seen me,' he thought to himself, 'well, if so, I may as

well come out,' and he walked up the beach in the direction of the sound

till he reached a short man dressed in a bear-skin. To his surprise, the

man caught hold of him, picked him up, and flung him down on the sand.

'I am Strength,' said he, 'and I am going to help you. But tell no one

that you have seen me, for as yet you are not strong enough to do that

which you wish to do.'

These words made Blackskin very happy, but he was quieter than ever, and

the boys and villagers counted him a poor-spirited creature, and did not

mind what tricks they played on him, even though he _did_ belong to the

family of the chief. They ordered him about just as if he had been a

captive taken in war, and he bore it quite meekly, and when the little

boys wrestled with him he always let them win the match.

'Fancy a great, big man being thrown by a child!' cried those who

looked.

Yet, in spite of all this, Blackskin was contented, for after a few more

weeks of bathing, he felt there was nothing that he could not do quite

easily. Then one night he heard the whistle again, and on the shore

stood the same man, who signed to him to come out of the water.

'Wrestle with me,' said the man, and as soon as they had seized each

other, he added:

'Now you have strength at last and do not need to go into the sea. Do

you see that tree? Try and pull out that big branch.' Blackskin ran over

to the tree, and pulled out the branch with ease, and even put it back

again, which was harder.

'Very good,' said the man, 'Next, twist that other tree right down to

its roots,' and Blackskin did that also, and afterwards untwisted it so

that it seemed just as before.

[Illustration: I AM STRENGTH SAID HE, & I AM GOING TO HELP YOU.]

* * * * *

He had hardly got to bed, when the people began to run down to the sea,

for it was their bathing hour. And the boys, as they passed, came in and

pulled Blackskin's hair, and cried:

'Come and bathe with us,' but as usual he answered nothing. After they

all returned from bathing, the chief went up to the tree and pulled out

the branch, while the people shouted for joy that at last he was strong

enough to do what he had sought to do for so long.

And Blackskin lay in bed and listened. Next, the chief found he was able

to twist the other tree, and they shouted again, and the chief felt very

proud and thought himself a great man. By and bye they came again to

Blackskin and laid hold of his feet to drag him from his bed, laughing

and saying as they did so:

'Your chief has pulled out that branch and twisted that tree. Why

couldn't you?'

'To-morrow we will hunt the sea-lions,' said the young men to each

other. And one of them added:

'I wonder which part of the canoe that great strong Blackskin will sleep

in.'

'Why, in the bow, of course,' answered a boy, 'then he can land first

and tear the sea-lions in two before any of us,' and they all laughed

again. But Blackskin, though he heard, took no notice, as was his

custom.

All that day the people visited the tree to look at the branch which the

chief had pulled out, and in choosing the strongest men among them who

had bathed with him in the sea, to hunt the sea-lions. The store of meat

they had in the town was nearly exhausted, and it was time they

collected more; but the island on which the animals lived was very

slippery, and it was not easy for the men to climb over the rocks.

* * * * *

That night Blackskin took one more bath and then he went to his uncle's

wife, who never made fun of him like the rest, and said:

'Will you give me a clean shirt and something for my hair?'

'Have you been bidden to the hunt?' asked the wife, and Blackskin made

reply:

'No; I have not been bidden, but I am going.' So she got ready some food

and tied it up in a small package for him, and gave him the clean shirt

and what he wanted for his hair.

He was the last to reach the canoe, and the men who were seated in it

cried when they beheld him:

'Don't let him come! Don't let him come!' But Blackskin was determined

to get in, and seized the canoe as they were pushing it off. In vain

they struck his fingers to force him to let go; and to their amazement

he easily dragged back the canoe, till it was near enough for him to

jump in. Finding they could not keep him out, the men began to speak

rudely to him, till the chief stopped them.

'Let him alone,' he said; 'he can bale out the water if it should come

in;' so Blackskin sat in the seat of the man that bales, wondering

within himself if his uncle had suspected anything when he had pulled

back the canoe with the men in it. But as the chief said nothing,

Blackskin supposed he had been thinking of something else at the time.

When they were close to the island, the chief waited till the canoe was

lifted by a wave, and then he leaped on shore. He seized one sea-lion

and killed it, and managed to seat himself on the back of another; but

the sea-lion gave a sudden spring and threw the chief high into the air,

and he fell down heavily striking his head against a rock, so that he

died at once.

Blackskin had seen it all, and was sorry. He opened his bundle of

clothes and put on his shirt and his hair ornament, while the rest stood

round watching.

'I am the man who pulled out that branch and twisted that tree,' he

said, 'and now, bring the canoe closer in!' As he spoke he walked the

length of it upon the seats, which broke under him, so that those who

were sitting on them were thrown to the bottom. Very frightened they all

were when they heard the crash, lest he should revenge himself on them

for the way they had treated him. But he did not even look at them, only

jumped ashore as his uncle had done, and climbed straight up the tall

cliff, hitting some sea-lions on the head as he passed. When he reached

the big one which had killed his uncle, he slew that also, and carried

them all to the shore, piling them up in the canoe.

[Illustration: HOW THE CHIEF'S DEATH WAS AVENGED.]

There was enough meat to last them many months, and Blackskin was still

piling, when suddenly the men in the canoe pushed off, and paddled home

again, and this was because of their dread of Blackskin. They made the

canoe fast and told the people of the town that it was Blackskin who

pulled out the branch and twisted the tree, and that for very fear they

had left him on the island of the sea-lions.

'Why did you do that?' asked the people. 'Trouble may come of it.'

* * * * *

So Blackskin found himself alone on the island, and as there was nothing

to make a fire with, he rolled himself, head and all in his blanket, and

went to sleep. After a time he was wakened by a noise which sounded like

the beating of sticks, and someone called out:

'I have come after you.' He sat up and looked round, but only saw a

black duck swimming towards him.

'I have seen you already,' said he, and the black duck answered:

'I was bidden to fetch you. Get on my back and be sure to keep your eyes

tight shut till I tell you to open them.' And Blackskin kept his eyes

tight shut till the duck called out:

'Now you may open them,' and he opened them and found that he was in a

fine house, though he did not guess it was the house of the sea-lions.

Of course, the people of the town knew nothing of the black duck, and

they mourned for the chief and for Blackskin, who had been left to

perish on the island, and the chief's wife mourned most of all.

'Why did you do it?' she asked many times, and the townspeople

repeated,'Why did you do it? A strong man like that is scarce.'

Then the chief's wife begged some of the young men to cross to the

island and bring back her husband's body; and this they did at last, but

they could not find Blackskin's.

'Where can he be?' they said. 'Can the tide have taken him, or a wild

beast have eaten him? We must consult the wise man.'

And the wise man told them that Blackskin was not dead, but would come

back again some day; and this troubled them more than ever.

* * * * *

All this time Blackskin was quite happy in the house of the sea-lions.

He had grown so used to them that they seemed to him quite like human

beings, though when he thought about it, he knew of course they were

not. One day he heard a young sea-lion crying with pain, and his people

could not tell what was the matter. Then Blackskin came and examined

him, and declared that he had a barbed spear-point sticking in his side.

'This wise medicine man has found out why he cries,' said one; and

Blackskin answered:

'I am not a medicine man, but all the same I can take out that

spear-head!' And after it was out, he washed the place with warm water.

The young sea-lion was very grateful, and as he belonged to a powerful

tribe they wished to reward Blackskin for his kindness, and said to him:

'Anything that belongs to us, you may have if you will.'

'Give me, then,' answered Blackskin, 'that box that hangs overhead.' Now

the box was a magic box which could bring the wind out of whichever

quarter you wanted it, and this was what happened. The sea-lions pushed

the box up and down the surface of the sea, and whistled, and called to

the wind as you would call to a dog, saying:

'Come to this box! Come to this box!'

They were sad at parting with it, and would have wished him to ask for

anything else, but they would not break their word and showed Blackskin

how to get into it, and bade him on no account to take it near whatever

was unclean.

Then they said farewell to each other, and Blackskin packed himself

carefully into the box (which was rather small for a tall man), and in a

minute he was blown far out to sea.

'West wind! West wind! Come to this box,' he cried, and the west wind

came, and blew and blew, till it blew him to the shore, not far from his

own town. And when he saw where he was, he got out and shook himself and

stretched his arms and legs, and hid the box away in the branches of a

tree. After that he walked home.

The first person he saw was his uncle's wife, who welcomed him gladly,

for next to the chief she loved Blackskin better than anybody. He then

sent a messenger to beg all the townspeople to assemble together, and

they obeyed; but those who had been cruel to him came unwillingly, for

they feared his wrath always, and hoped he had disappeared for ever. And

when they lifted their glance and beheld him strong and tall and able to

force men to do his will, even though they liked it little, they

trembled more than before for the doom he might pronounce on them. As

for Blackskin, his eyes shone with an angry light; but he said to

himself:

'It is my own fault. If I had not let them do as they like, they would

never have dared to treat me in that way. It is not just to punish them:

I will forgive them.' But before he had time to tell them so, the men

who had left him on the island had run away in terror, and hid

themselves in the woods; thus they were not present at the assembling of

the people, nor heard of the welcome given him by many. Then Blackskin

looked round him, and spoke these words, and some who listened to him

hung their heads with shame:

'You know of yourselves what cruelty you showed me, and you do well to

be ashamed of it; and those who are cruel to people because they think

they are weaker than themselves will always have reason to feel shame.

Remember this, and do not make fun of poor people any more, as you did

in the days when my uncle was chief.'

This is what Blackskin said.

[_Tlingit Myths and Texts, recorded by John R. Swanton._]

_THE PETS OF AURORE DUPIN_

During the years in which Napoleon and his armies were fighting in

Spain, in Germany, and in Russia, a little girl might be seen running

wild in the province of Berry, which is almost in the very centre of

France. In those days if you had asked her name she would have answered

that it was 'Aurore Dupin'; but by and bye she took another, which by

her books she made famous--nearly as famous, indeed, in its own way as

that of her great ancestor, the general Count Maurice de Saxe.

But it is not the celebrated writer who called herself 'George Sand'

with whom we have to do now, but the child Aurore Dupin, and her friends

the birds and beasts, dwellers like herself in the bare and desolate

plains that surrounded her grandmother's chateau of Nohant. Maurice

Dupin, father of Aurore, was a soldier like his grandfather, Maurice de

Saxe; but her mother was the daughter of a bird-seller, who, curiously

enough, lived in the 'Street of the Birds' (Quai des Oiseaux) in Paris.

To this fact Aurore always declared that she owed her powers of

fascination over the chaffinches, robins, or starlings that would sit on

her shoulders or perch on her hands as she walked with her mother in the

garden. And far from being frightened at the presence of a grown-up

person, the birds often seemed to prefer Madame Maurice Dupin to Aurore

herself.

Aurore became very learned about birds and their ways, considering them

far cleverer than men or animals, and endowed with finer qualities than

either. Warblers she held superior to any other small bird, and says

that at fifteen days a warbler is as old in the feathered world as a

child of ten is in that which speaks instead of chirping. When she was a

little girl at Nohant, she brought up by hand two baby warblers of

different sorts and different nests.

The one with a yellow breast she named Jonquil; while the other, who had

a grey waistcoat, was called Agatha. Jonquil was as much as a fortnight

older than Agatha, and when under the care of Aurore she was a slim,

gentle young creature, inclined to be thin, and with scarcely enough

feathers to cover her skin, and not yet able to fly with certainty from

one branch to another, or even to feed herself. This Aurore knew was her

own fault, because if Jonquil had remained at home she would have

learned these things far earlier, for bird-mothers are much better

teachers than _our_ mothers, and insist that their children shall find

out how to get on by themselves.

Agatha was a most tiresome child. She would never be quiet for a moment,

but was always hopping about, crying out and tormenting Jonquil, who was

beginning to wonder at all she saw around her, and would sit thinking

with one claw drawn up under her wing, her eyes half shut, and her head

sunk between her shoulders. But Agatha, who never thought at all, did

not see why anybody else should do so either, and would peck at

Jonquil's legs and wings in order to attract attention, unless Aurore

happened to be in the room and glance at her. Then Agatha would dance up

and down the branch uttering plaintive cries, till some bread or biscuit

was given to her. For Agatha was always hungry, or always greedy; you

did not quite know which.

One morning Aurore was absorbed in writing a story, and her two little

friends were seated on a green branch some distance away. It was rather

cold, and Agatha, whose feathers still only half covered her, was

cuddling for warmth against Jonquil. They had actually been quiet for

half an hour--a very rare occurrence--but at length they made up their

minds it must be time for dinner, and if Aurore did not know it, she

must be told.

So Jonquil hopped on to the back of a chair and from that to the table,

and finally planted her claws upon the writing paper, making a great

mess of the words; while Agatha, who was afraid to leave the branch by

herself, flapped her wings and opened her beak, screaming with hunger.

Aurore was just in the middle of the great scene in her story, where

the hero and heroine had found out the wicked uncle, and fond though she

was of Jonquil, she felt for the first time very much provoked by her

behaviour. She pointed out to her that by now she really was old enough

to feed herself, and that close by was an excellent pasty in a pretty

saucer, only she was too lazy to eat it, and expected her mistress to

put it in her mouth. Jonquil was not accustomed to be scolded, and did

not like it, and to show her displeasure hopped sulkily back to her

branch. Agatha, however, had no mind to go without her dinner, and,

turning to Jonquil, insisted that she should return at once and help her

to that delicious dish. And she was so eloquent in her pleading that

Jonquil seemed really moved, though she hesitated as to whether she

should do as Agatha desired, or if she should keep her dignity and

remain on her branch.

Of course, Aurore pretended to see nothing of all this, although in

reality she was watching eagerly under her eyelids how it would end.

Suddenly there was a flutter in the air, and Jonquil stood on the edge

of the saucer. She opened her mouth and chirped, expecting the food to

fly into her beak; but as it did nothing of the sort, she stooped down

and pecked it. To the surprise of her mistress, instead of swallowing

the morsel herself, she flew back to the branch and gave it to Agatha.

From that day Jonquil took as much care of Agatha as if she had been her

own child. She saw that her feathers were kept in order, taught her very

soon to feed herself, and steadied her in her first nights from the

branch. Agatha proved quicker and cleverer than her mistress expected,

and in a month's time she and Jonquil had made a home for themselves

amongst the big trees in the garden, from which they would often fly

down to see their old friends at dinner in the garden, and to share

their dessert.

* * * * *

All through her life Aurore and the birds around were close friends;

others besides Jonquil and Agatha would come when she called them, not

because they knew their names, but because they recognised the sound of

her voice. In later years she had a splendid hawk whom everyone else

was afraid of, but his mistress would trust him to perch on her baby's

cot, and snap gently at any flies which settled on the child's face

without waking him. Unluckily this charming gentleman was not always

nice to people whom he did not like, and at last he was obliged to be

placed in a strong cage, from which he easily escaped the next day after

breaking the bars.

* * * * *

Maurice Dupin, the father of Aurore, was aide-de-camp to General Murat,

afterwards King of Naples and Napoleon's brother-in-law. In April 1808,

long before the time of Jonquil and Agatha, when the general was ordered

to Madrid, the Dupins followed him, and they all lived for a time in a

splendid palace belonging to the hated Spanish minister, known as the

'Prince of Peace,' who like his master the king, was now a captive in

France. Here Aurore was very happy. The rooms were large, the passages

long, and you never knew _what_ kind of delightful beast you might not

meet with in one or the other. Perhaps, on the whole, it was _most_

likely that you would come across a rabbit, as there were so many of

them that they came and went without the slightest attention from

anyone. A beautiful white bunny, with eyes as red as rubies, at once

bade Aurore welcome. He had established himself in the corner of her

bedroom behind the looking-glass, and would come out from there to play

games on the polished floor. When they were both tired, the little

girl--Aurore was then about four--would throw herself into a chair, and

the white rabbit would jump into her lap, and lie quietly there for

hours, while Aurore made up all kinds of interesting stories to amuse

him.

Besides the white rabbit, Aurore greatly admired General Murat

(especially when he wore his uniform) and was quite convinced he was a

fairy prince. Her mother made her a uniform too, not like the general's,

of course, but an exact copy of her father's. It consisted of a white

cashmere vest with sleeves fastened by gold buttons, over which was a

loose pelisse, trimmed with black fur, while the breeches were of yellow

cashmere embroidered with gold. The boots of red morocco had spurs

attached; at her side hung a sabre and round her waist was a sash of

crimson silk cords. In this guise Aurore was presented by Murat to his

friends, but though she was intensely proud of her uniform, the little

aide-de-camp found the fur and the gold very hot and heavy, and was

always thankful to change it for the black silk dress and black mantilla

worn by Spanish children. One does not know in which costume she must

have looked most strange.

Murat, who was a good-natured man, grew very fond of the child, and one

evening when he returned from hunting he went up to the rooms in the

palace occupied by the Dupins bearing in his arms a tiny fawn. Aurore

was sound asleep, for it was nearly midnight, but, followed by her

father and mother, the general entered the room and laid the fawn beside

her on the pillow. The child half-opened her eyes, and seeing the little

head close to her face, put her arm round its neck and dozed off again.

The next morning when she woke up, she found Murat standing by her bed,

for M. Dupin had told him what a pretty picture the two made, and he

wished to see it. The poor little creature--probably not more than a few

days old--had been chased by dogs the previous evening, and though it

had escaped unhurt, which was a marvel, was absolutely worn out, and had

settled itself comfortably to sleep like a kitten. It lay curled up on

Aurore's chest, with its head on the pillow and her arms still remained

round its neck. At the sound of voices she awoke, and rubbed her cheek

against the nose of her bedfellow, who, feeling warm and comfortable and

sure of a friend, licked her hands gratefully. But the little thing

pined for its mother, and though Aurore did her very best to replace

her, it was too late, and early one morning Madame Dupin found the fawn

quite dead under the pile of coverings Aurore had spread over it. She

dared not tell the child what had happened, so she said it had run away

in the night, and was now quite happy with its family in the woods. All

of which Aurore believed.

After a few months spent in Spain, the Dupins returned to Nohant at the

end of August, exhausted by the hardships they had undergone and their

terrible journey. For a few days they had peace and rest; then the

little blind baby died, and, at his mother's express wish, was buried by

his father secretly under a pear-tree in the garden of Nohant. Nine days

later Maurice Dupin mounted a hard-mouthed horse named Leopardo, and

rode off to dine with some friends in the country. On his return

Leopardo stumbled in the darkness over a heap of stones on one side of

the road, and threw his master.

[Illustration: BESIDES THE WHITE RABBIT AURORE GREATLY ADMIRED GENERAL

MURAT.]

'Weber! Come quickly! I am dying,' Maurice called to his groom, and it

was true. His back was broken; and though help was speedily got and he

was taken to an inn near by, there was no hope from the first, and he

spoke no more. For the second time in her life, his mother put her feet

on the ground, and _walked_ to meet him as they carried him back to

Nohant. The other occasion was when she awaited him on the road at

Passy, after his release from prison.

The blow was a dreadful one, but the elder Madame Dupin was a woman of

strong and silent courage, and tried to take up her life as usual. She

wished to adopt Aurore entirely, and leave Madame Maurice to take care

of another daughter named Caroline, whom she had had by a former

husband. But Madame Maurice could not bear to part from her younger

child, and as Caroline was at this time in a convent there was no need

to decide the matter at present. In this manner two or three years

slipped past, and Aurore grew strong and healthy in the open air,

playing with any children who came in her way, or, better still, with

any animals she could get hold of.

Among her particular friends at Nohant was a donkey--the best donkey in

the world. Of course, he might have been obstinate and fond of kicking

in his youth, like some other donkeys; but now he was old, very old

indeed, and was a model of good behaviour.

His walk was slow and stately, and, owing to the respect due to his age

and his long service in the house of Madame Dupin, no one either scolded

or corrected him. Every day Aurore and Ursule, the little girl who was

her companion, were placed in panniers on his back, and made what seemed

to them long journeys through the world. On their return home he was

unharnessed, and left to wander where he wished, for nobody ever dreamed

of interfering with him. He might have been met in the village, in the

fields, or in the garden, but always conducting himself as an elderly

gentleman should. Now and then the fancy took him to walk in at Madame

Dupin's front door, from which he would enter the dining-room or even

the lady's private apartments. One day she found him installed in her

dressing-room, sniffing curiously at a box of oris powder. As the doors

were only fastened by a latch after the old custom, he could easily open

them, and could find his way all over the ground floor, which he

generally explored in search of Madame Dupin, for he knew quite well she

would be sure to have something nice for him in her pocket. As to being

laughed at for his odd habits, he was quite indifferent to _that_, and

listened to the jokes made about him with the air of a philosopher.

One hot night in summer he could not sleep, and a wandering fit seized

him. He passed through a door which had been left open, mounted six or

eight steps, crossed the hall and the kitchen and arrived at Madame

Dupin's bedroom. He tried as usual to lift the latch, but as a bolt had

been put on the inside, he could not get in. He then began to scratch

with his hoofs, but Madame Dupin only thought that it was a thief,

cutting through the door, and rang for her maid violently. The maid,

fearing that her mistress had been taken ill, did not wait even to

obtain a light, but ran along the passage as fast as she could, falling

right over the donkey. The maid set up piercing cries; the donkey

uttered loud hee-haws, and Madame Dupin jumped hastily out of bed to see

what in the world _could_ be happening. It took a good deal to move her

stately composure, but on that occasion she really did allow herself to

smile, if only the maid and the donkey had not been too frightened to

notice it. But when Aurore heard the story next morning, she laughed

more than she had ever done in her life.

So good-bye to her for the present. When we next hear of her, she will

be busy with lessons.

_THE TRIALS OF M. DESCHARTRES_

For many years Aurore Dupin spent her life between Berry and Paris,

travelling in a coach drawn by six strong horses, till lack of money

obliged them to sell the big and heavy 'Berlin,' and go in a sort of gig

which could only hold two people, with a child between them. Of course,

the journey took some days, and Aurore, sitting between her mother and

her nurse, was thinking all the way of the forests they would have to

pass through, and how, on their way to Paris, she had overheard her

grandmother telling her maid that she remembered well when the Forest of

Orleans was the haunt of robbers, who stopped the passers-by and

stripped them of everything that was valuable. If the thieves were

caught, they were hung on the trees along the road, to prevent others

from following in their footsteps, though, to judge from the numbers of

the bodies seen by Madame Dupin, the warning had no effect whatever.

Aurore was thought to be asleep when Madame Dupin told this gloomy tale,

but it made a deep impression on her mind, and she never quite forgot

it, even amongst the wonders of Paris. So when they started for Nohant

she trembled at the sight of every wood, and only breathed freely when

they came out safely on the other side. What a comfort it was to arrive

safely at the town of Chateauroux, and know that you were only nine

miles from home!

They had dinner with an old friend, who insisted on showing them every

fruit and flower in his garden, so that it was getting dusk when they

climbed into the only sort of carriage to be hired in the place, a kind

of springless cart drawn by a horse whose bones could be counted. The

coachman was a boy of twelve or thirteen, new to that part of the world

and with no idea at all how to make his way in the dark, through a

lonely trackless waste, scattered over with pools of water and long

heather. For miles round there was only one cottage and that belonged to

a gardener.

For five hours the cart rocked and floundered as the horse found itself

knee-deep in gorse or picking its way through a marsh, and every instant

Aurore--and her mother also--expected a robber to spring up out of the

darkness and seize them. They need not have been afraid; it was not

worth any robber's while to waste his time in that barren district; but

there was a great risk of their being upset. This did at length happen,

and about midnight they suddenly found themselves in a deep sandy hole

out of which their horse was unable to drag them. The boy soon

understood this, and, unharnessing the beast, jumped on his back and,

wishing them gaily good-night, disappeared in the darkness, quite

unmoved by the prayers of Madame Maurice Dupin, the threats of Rose, or

the sobs of Aurore.

For a new terror had taken hold of the child. A strange hoarse noise had

burst out all round them, unlike anything she had ever heard.

'It is all right; it is only the frogs croaking,' said Rose; but Aurore

knew much better. How absurd to talk of frogs when everyone could guess

the voices were those of gnomes or ill-natured water-sprites, irritated

at having their solitude disturbed, and Aurore sobbed on, and clung to

her mother.

It was only when Rose flung stones into the water that the croaking

stopped, and Aurore was persuaded to go to sleep in the cart. Her mother

had decided that she must make the best of it, as they could not get on

till morning, and was talking cheerfully to Rose, when about two o'clock

they suddenly beheld a light moving jerkily about, some distance off.

Rose declared it was the moon rising, Mme. Maurice that it was a meteor,

but it soon became plain that it was coming in their direction. The boy

was not so faithless as he seemed. He had ridden in search of the

gardener's cottage of which he had heard, and the good man, who was used

to these accidents, had brought his sons, his horses, and a long torch

dipped in oil to the help of the travellers. By their aid, the cart was

soon out of the hole and two stout farm-horses harnessed to it, and as

it was too late to proceed to Nohant, the hungry and tired travellers

were taken back to the cottage, and given a good supper and warm beds,

in which they slept till morning, in spite of the noise made by cocks

and children.

The next day at twelve they reached Nohant.

* * * * *

It is never possible to forget that Aurore's childhood was streaked

through and through with Napoleon, though she does not write down her

recollections till three kings had succeeded him on the throne of

France. Still, he more or less pervades her book just as he pervaded the

hearts of the people, and when she was fifteen one of his generals

wanted to marry her. Which? How much we should like to know! But that

she does not tell us. Her grandmother, old Madame Dupin, did not share

the almost universal enthusiasm for the Emperor--she had lived her long

life mostly under the Bourbons, had nearly lost her head under the

Terror, and had been a pupil of the philosophers who were in fashion

during the last days of the old _regime_. She had inspired her son with

some of her feelings towards Napoleon; yet, though Maurice might and did

condemn many of the Emperor's acts, he could not, as he says himself,

help loving him. 'There is something in him,' he writes to his wife,

'apart from his genius, which moves me in spite of myself when his eye

catches mine,' and it is this involuntary fascination, his daughter

tells us, which would have prevented him not only from betraying

Napoleon, but from rallying to the Bourbons. Even his mother, Royalist

as she was, knew this.

'Ah!' she would exclaim in after years; 'if my poor Maurice had been

alive he would certainly have found death at Waterloo or beneath the

walls of Paris, or if he had escaped there, he would have blown out his

brains at seeing the Cossacks marching through the gates.'

But in the springtime of 1811, none of the dark days so near at hand

were throwing their shadows over France. 'His Majesty the King of Rome'

was only a few weeks old, and the sound of the hundred-and-one guns

which had greeted his birth were still ringing in the ears of Aurore,

who had heard them in Paris. No doubt she often talked to her friend

Ursule and her half-brother Hippolyte, both then at Nohant, of the

excitement of the people in the streets of Paris when she walked through

them with her mother, for Aurore was a child who noticed things and also

remembered them; but soon the life of the country absorbed her, and

besides, there were her lessons to do. Old Madame Dupin taught her

music, which they both loved, and from M. Deschartres--who had lived at

Nohant for years and years and was a little of everything--she learnt

grammar, and, much against her will, Latin too, as Deschartres thought

it would be of use to her in understanding and speaking French. He was

perfectly right, but even as a middle-aged woman Aurore protests that

the time spent in such studies was wasted, for at the end of years

children knew nothing about them.

What would she have said if she had known of the seven or eight

extraordinarily difficult and different languages which the little

Austrian Archdukes learnt to speak and write correctly while they were

still children? Luckily Aurore loved books, though she preferred to

choose them for herself, and she knew a good many curious things which

she would never have learned from any tutor.

Poor M. Deschartres did not have an easy time with his three pupils

Aurore, Hippolyte, and Ursule. He was rather a dandy and was very

particular about his shoes, and walked always with stiff knees and toes

turned out. One day Hippolyte took it into his naughty head to prepare a

'booby trap' for his tutor, of a kind very popular with the village

children. He dug, right in the middle of Deschartres' favourite walk, a

hole filled with fine liquid mud and concealed by sticks crossed on the

top, and covered with earth scattered over with dead leaves, collected

by Aurore and Ursule. They were old hands at this game, and many a time

had the gardener or the peasants fallen victims to it, but this was the

first occasion on which they had been bold enough to try it on M.

Deschartres. Walking a little in front, in his accustomed manner, his

head up, his hands behind him, he proceeded down the path, the children

following with dancing eyes. Suddenly plop, a splash, and a stagger! and

M. Deschartres was seen pulling himself up on the other side, but

without his beautiful shoes, which had stuck in the mud. Hippolyte

pressed forward, his face expressing surprise and horror at such a

misfortune, and the tutor, easily taken in, turned angrily upon the

little girls, who ran away shrieking with laughter. They knew they would

get nothing worse than a scolding, whatever they did, whereas a beating,

and a bad one, would be the certain fate of Hippolyte.

Deschartres, as has been said, performed the duties of a steward of the

estate, as well as those of tutor to the children, and on one occasion

he left Nohant quite early in the morning to superintend the sale of

some cattle at a neighbouring fair. Hippolyte always did his lessons in

the room of the great man, and it occurred to him that it would be fun

to play at being the great man himself. So without more ado he pulled

out of the wardrobe a hunting-coat, which reached to his heels, took a

hunting-cap from a peg, and marched up and down with his toes turned out

and his hands behind his back, in exact imitation of M. Deschartres, the

little girls watching it all from a corner. He next approached the

blackboard, and began to draw some figures with a piece of chalk,

stopped in the middle, stammered and grew angry, abusing his pupil for

being a doll and a blockhead. When he was satisfied that he could really

imitate the voice and manner of his master, he went to the window and

found fault with the gardener's way of pruning trees, threatening in

loud tones to inform Madame of his stupidity. The gardener, standing a

little distance off, fell into the trap and defended himself sulkily,

but what was his surprise when he lifted his eyes and beheld the true

Deschartres standing a few paces from him, but out of sight of his copy

at the window? The tutor may possibly have been amused at the imitation,

but he was not the man to allow his dignity to be tampered with. He

noiselessly mounted the staircase to his room, to find Hippolyte with

his back turned, saying, in a loud voice, to an invisible pupil at the

table:

'What is the good of expecting you to work? You write like a cat and

spell like a porter. Perhaps this will wake you up a little'--and here

there was the sound of a smack--'you lazy little dog.'

And for the spectators the scene was at this moment doubled, and while

the false Deschartres was boxing the ears of an imaginary Hippolyte, the

real Hippolyte was having his ears boxed by the true Deschartres.

* * * * *

There is no doubt, Aurore tells us in after years, that Hippolyte was

really very ill-treated by his tutor, and lacked the courage to stand up

to him, or even to complain to his grandmother. On the other hand, it is

not to be denied that the boy displayed the most amazing ingenuity in

showing up the absurdities of Deschartres. Often, during lesson hours,

Deschartres would be obliged hurriedly to leave his pupils to attend to

something which had gone wrong in the house or the farm. Then Hippolyte

would instantly seize his master's flageolet and play it with all the

airs and graces assumed by Deschartres. Ursule on her side, who worked

steadily as long as her tutor was present, grew perfectly wild when they

were left to themselves. She climbed over the furniture, played ball

with Deschartres' slippers, flung about his clothes, and mixed together

all the little bags of seeds that he had put aside for experiments in

the garden. In this sport she was joined by Aurore, and together they

shuffled the pages of manuscripts which he had received from learned men

of the Society of Agriculture. It is strange that, with all his

experience of his pupils, Deschartres never suspected that they were the

authors of these misfortunes, and, still more, that he did not lock up

his treasures. But as Aurore makes no mention of discovery or whippings,

we must suppose they did not receive the punishments they richly

deserved.

* * * * *

As the winter drew near, old Madame Dupin began to consider the question

of their move to Paris, and what was to be done with the children. At

length she decided that Hippolyte must be sent to school there, and that

he should make the journey on horseback in company with M. Deschartres.

As we know, Hippolyte loved to run wild, and was not anxious to lose his

freedom and be shut up in a French school (which was much stricter than

an English one), but all possible future pains were forgotten in the

fact that if he rode he _must_ have a pair of high boots--for long the

object of his dearest ambition. _How_ he pined for them may be guessed

from the fact that he had tried when at Nohant to make some for himself.

He had found an old pair of his tutor's, which he fancied might form the

upper part, while he expected to get the foot-soles out of a large piece

of leather--probably once the apron of a 'chaise'--that he picked up in

the stables. For four days and nights the boy worked, cutting, measuring

and sewing, till he succeeded in producing a pair of shapeless objects,

worthy of an Esquimaux, which split the first day he wore them.

'Never,' writes his sister thirty years after, 'never did I see anybody

so entirely happy as Hippolyte when the shoemaker brought him home

_real_ riding-boots with heels clamped with iron, and tiny holes to

receive the spurs. The prospect of the journey to Paris--the first he

had ever taken--the joy of performing it on horseback, the idea of

getting rid of Deschartres, all were as nothing in the light of those

boots. Even now,' she continues, 'he will tell you himself that his

whole life did not contain a joy to compare with the joy of that moment.

"Talk of a first love!" he would cry; "_my_ first love was a pair of

boots."'

We may be quite sure Hippolyte did not allow his friends to forget the

treasure which had come into his possession. To Aurore, in particular,

he showed them so often, displaying their special excellences and

calling on her to admire them, that at last they haunted her dreams. The

evening before their departure he drew them proudly on, and never took

them off till he reached Paris! But even so, he could not sleep. Not

that he was afraid of his spurs tearing the sheets, but of the sheets

dimming the brilliance of his boots. By midnight he was so distracted

at this terrible prospect that he got out of bed and went into Aurore's

room to examine them by the light of her fire. Aurore's maid, who slept

next door, tried to make him go away, as she said they would all have to

be up early next morning and would be very tired before they finished

their journey. But she need not have troubled herself; Hippolyte did not

pay the slightest attention to her, but merely woke up Aurore to ask her

opinion about the boots, and then sat down before the fire, not wishing

even to sleep, as that would be to lose some minutes of exquisite joy.

At length, however, fatigue got the better of him, and in the morning

when the maid came to wake Aurore, she found Hippolyte stretched on the

floor in front of the hearth, unconscious of everybody and

everything--even of his boots.

_AURORE AT PLAY_

When Aurore Dupin went to Paris she found herself in the Rue Thiroux,

where Madame Dupin had taken a suite of rooms, or, as the French say, an

'appartement.' For this 'appartement' the old lady paid a high

rent--more than she could afford, indeed; but she clung to the ancient

custom of a flat with a large drawing-room, where the friends of the

host and hostess could meet once or twice a year. During the rest of the

time it was kept shut, and all but rich and fashionable people lived in

their bedrooms. As Madame Dupin never gave parties at all, she might

have done without the _salon_ and housed herself for half the price, but

that she would have thought beneath her dignity, and would have starved

first.

Though Ursule was left behind at Nohant, Aurore had other playfellows,

with one of whom, Pauline de Pontcarre, she did lessons. Pauline was a

very pretty little girl, much less heedless than Aurore, and less in the

habit of losing her gloves and dropping her handkerchief. Madame Dupin

was always praising her for being so well brought up, and wishing that

Aurore had such nice manners; but instead of this making Pauline hated

by her new friend, Aurore admired her beauty and was quite fond of her.

Three times a week they had lessons together at Madame Dupin's in music,

writing, and dancing. The dancing-master came direct from the opera, and

was one of the best in Paris; the writing-master was also a person of

high reputation, but unluckily he was of opinion that a graceful

attitude at a desk was of more importance than a clear hand, and Aurore

soon became very impatient with his teaching.

On the other three days Madame de Pontcarre (who, unlike Madame Dupin,

loved walking) came to fetch Aurore to her own house, where Pauline was

awaiting them.

It was Madame de Pontcarre herself who taught them geography and history

by a method invented by the Abbe Gaultier that was much in fashion at

that period. It sounds as if it must have been like those used in the

kindergartens to-day, for everything was a sort of game, and played with

balls and counters. But best of all the hours spent at Madame de

Pontcarre's were those when Aurore sat and listened to her friend

singing and playing, or learned from her some of the principles of

musical composition. This was even a greater joy than the romps with

Pauline's cousins in a big garden in the Rue de la Victoire belonging to

Madame de Pontcarre's mother, where there was plenty of room for

blindman's buff, or for the game known in Scotland as 'tig.' In this

game--_barres_ was the French name--the children were formed into two

camps, the object being to take as many prisoners as possible. Sometimes

they all dined together and afterwards the dining-room was cleared out,

and they played games in which their mothers or even the servants

joined. How horrified old Madame Dupin would have been at the noise they

made! She would not have thought them at all 'well brought up.'

Aurore gives a very funny account of the way in which Hippolyte danced,

for he lived at home and only went to school for certain classes. It was

all very well for him and Aurore to laugh secretly when M. Gogault, the

dancing-master, entered the room 'like a zephyr cutting a caper'; but it

was M. Gogault's turn to smile when Hippolyte, who was more heavy and

awkward than it was possible to imagine, nearly brought down the house

when he did his steps, and shook the walls in his attempts to _chasser_.

If he was told to hold his head up and not to poke, he took his chin in

his hand, and kept it there all the time he was dancing. And all this he

did with the utmost seriousness, and with no idea of being troublesome.

But at school he only got into mischief, and when the whole Dupin family

returned to Nohant in the spring, it was thought best for Hippolyte to

go with them.

It was there during the next few months that, in the intervals of play

and laughter, Aurore first paid attention to the conversation of her

elders as to the result of the Russian campaign and the future of

France. Nowadays it seems to us almost impossible to believe that for a

whole fortnight no news was received of the French Army of 300,000 men,

and still more that Napoleon, 'the man who filled the universe with his

name and Europe with his presence,' should have disappeared like a

pilgrim lost in the snow. At Nohant no one spoke of anything else, till

one night this child of eight, who had silently brooded over the words

of her elders, had a curious dream, so clear that it was almost a

vision. She felt herself hovering in the air above endless white plains,

with the wandering columns of the vanished army straggling they knew not

where, and guided them towards France. When she awoke she was as tired

and hungry as if she had taken a long flight, and her eyes were still

dazzled by the snow.

* * * * *

In the summer of 1813--the year of the victories of Lutzen, Bautzen, and

Dresden--prisoners of war were sent to all parts of the country, many of

them not even under a guard. The first prisoner that the children

noticed was an officer sitting on the steps of a little pavilion at the

end of their garden. His shoes were dropping to pieces though his coat

and shirt were of the finest material, and in his hand he held the

miniature of a woman suspended from his neck by a black ribbon, which he

was examining sadly. They both felt awed--they did not know why--and

were afraid to speak to him. But in a moment his servant came up, and

the two went away silently together. After that, such numbers passed by

that the peasants paid no attention to them, and even Aurore and

Hippolyte speedily grew accustomed to the sight. One morning, in spite

of the stifling heat, they were again playing near the pavilion, when

one of these poor wretches passed and flung himself wearily on the

steps. He was a German with a simple good-natured face, and the children

went up and spoke to him, but he only shook his head and answered in

French, 'me not understand.' Then Aurore made signs to ask if he was

thirsty, and in reply the man pointed to some stagnant water in the

ditch. They contrived to convey to him by violent head-shakings that it

was not good to drink, and, further, that he must wait a minute and they

would get him something. As fast as they could, they ran to the house

and brought back a bottle of wine and some bread, which he swallowed.

When he had finished, and felt better, he held out his hand repeatedly

and they thought he wanted money. Not having any themselves, Aurore was

going to ask her grandmother for some, but the German, guessing her

intention, stopped her, and made signs that he only desired to shake

hands. His eyes were full of tears, and he was evidently trying hard to

say something. At last he got it out: 'Children very good.'

Filled with pity they ran back to tell Madame Dupin, who, remembering

how her own son had been taken prisoner by the Croats, gave orders that

every day a certain number of bottles of wine and loaves of bread should

be placed in the pavilion for the use of these unfortunate Germans.

Every instant of freedom that Hippolyte and Aurore could get was spent

in that pavilion, handing slices of bread and cups of wine to the weary

creatures sitting on the steps, who were so gentle and grateful for the

unexpected help. Sometimes, when three or four arrived together, they

would sing to their little hosts some of their national songs before

they left. Their talent for singing and dancing gained them friends all

through the country, and now and then gained them wives also.

* * * * *

The troubled years from 1814 to 1817 passed away and Aurore remained at

Nohant with her grandmother, who was constantly growing more and more

helpless from a stroke of paralysis. Aurore was left very much to

herself, but studied music under the organist of the neighbouring

village, learnt history and geography, and read Homer and Tasso in

translations. But her real life was the one she created for herself,

presided over by a mystic personage to whom she gave the name of

Corambe. In her mind, he represented all that was kind and pitiful, and

in the thickness of a wood in the corner of the garden she made him a

temple. That is to say, she decorated the trees which stood about a

round green space, with coloured pebbles, fresh moss, or anything else

she could find. A sort of altar was next put together at the foot of

a large maple from whose boughs hung wreaths of pink and white shells,

while trails of ivy reaching from one tree to another formed an arcade.

Empty birds' nests, chaplets of flowers and moss were soon added, and

when the temple was done it seemed so lovely to the child that often she

could hardly sleep at night for thinking of it.

[Illustration: AURORE SETS FREE THE CAPTIVE BIRDS AT THE ALTAR OF

CORAMBE.]

It is needless to say all would have been spoilt for Aurore had the

'grown-ups' guessed at the existence of her precious temple or of

Corambe. She took the greatest care to pick up her shells and the fallen

birds' nests as if she really hardly knew what she was doing, and was

thinking of something else all the time. Never did she enter the wood

except when alone, and then from a direction different from that which

she had taken before.

When the temple was ready, it was necessary to know what the sacrifice

was to be. Nothing dead should be offered to Corambe. Of that she was

certain. Then if no dead sacrifice was to be laid before him, why should

he not become the champion and deliverer of living objects in danger of

death? So Liset, a boy older than herself and her faithful follower, was

ordered to catch birds and butterflies and even insects in the fields,

and carry them to her, unhurt. What she was going to do with them, he

neither knew nor cared, for Aurore had kept her secret well. Great would

have been his surprise had he known that daily these captive swallows,

redbreasts, chaffinches, or dragon-flies were borne tenderly to the

altar of Corambe, and there set free. If one happened to perch for an

instant on a branch above her head before disappearing into the blue, a

thrill of ecstasy ran through the priestess.

But one day Liset, who had been sent to look for her, caught sight of

her white frock as she was entering the wood. And with his words:

'Oh, ma'mselle, what a pretty little altar!' the spell of her story was

broken, and it is a spell that can never be cast twice.

* * * * *

Aurore, however, did not always have dryads and cherubs and

wonder-working spirits for company; Hippolyte would not have allowed

anything of the sort, for he liked Aurore to be with him, whatever he

was doing. They had many friends too, both boys and girls, with whom

they climbed trees, played games, and even kept sheep, which means that

they did not keep them at all, but let them trample down the young wheat

in the fields or eat it, if they preferred, while they themselves were

dancing. If they were thirsty, they milked the cows and the goats; if

they were hungry they ate wild apples or made a fire and cooked

potatoes. Aurore's particular favourites were two girls called Marie and

Solange, daughters of a small farmer, and whenever she could get away

she ran up to the farm, and helped them seek for eggs, pick fruit, or

nurse the sickly little lambs. And apart from the pleasure the others

took in all this, Aurore found one of her own, for the orchard became

transformed by her fancy into a fairy wood, with little creatures having

sharp ears and merry eyes peeping from behind the trees. Then her dreams

would be roughly dispersed by Hippolyte's voice, summoning her to the

most delightful of all the games they ever played, which was to jump

from some high place into the mountain of sheaves piled up in the barn.

'I should like to do it now, if I dared,' says Aurore thirty years

after.

* * * * *