'Why are we all alone with grandmother?' he inquired at last, for he was

fond of asking questions. 'Did you never have friends like other people,

and have those houses over there always stood empty?' Then they told him

that once a large tribe had lived at that place, but they had gradually

gone away to hunt or to fish and had never come back. Only the woman and

the girl and the baby remained behind.

After this the boy was quiet for a time, and for a while he was content

to stay at home, only going out in the mornings to bring back a bird

from the forest for their dinner. But at length he said to his mother:

'If I could only paddle in the lake, I could catch you fish and

water-fowl; but all the canoes here are old and broken.'

'Yes; you must not go out in them. You will get drowned,' answered she,

and the boy went sadly to his mat to sleep.

As he slept, his father, whose name was Fire-drill, appeared to him and

spoke:

'Take one of those old canoes into the woods and cover it with bushes.

It does not matter how worn-out it seems to be; do as I tell you.' Then

the boy got up and did as his father bade him, and went home again.

Early next day he ran quickly to the place where the canoe was hidden,

but found that the old one full of holes had vanished, and a new one,

packed with everything he could need, was in its place. While he was

admiring it, his father stood before him, and pulled the root of a burnt

tree out of the ground, which he turned into a little dog. It was called

Gant or 'Burnt,' and could smell things miles away, and, though it was

so small, it was as strong as a bear. After that, Fire-drill gave his

son a fresh bow and arrows and a great club.

Then the boy remembered what his grandmother had said, and he carried

the canoe and his father's presents to the wigwam.

'I am going away,' he told his mother, 'and may be absent two days or

much longer. Take care of this fire-stick, or else if the fire goes out,

how will you make it again? Hang it in a safe place high on the ceiling,

and if I am killed, it will fall. So you will know. And now farewell.'

Thus speaking he climbed into the canoe and pushed off.

* * * * *

As he went he saw from afar another canoe coming to meet him, with a man

paddling it.

'That is the man who killed all my mother's friends,' thought he, and he

told it to his dog, his club, his bow and his arrows, for they had the

gift of magic and could understand his language.

[Illustration: THE GIRL BATHED HIM EVERY MORNING IN THE POOL.]

By this time the man had drawn near, and the boy saw that he had only

one eye, which was placed in the middle of his face, and that he was

more than commonly tall.

'Is it you, my nephew?' asked he, and the boy answered:

'Yes; it is I.'

'Where did you come from?'

'From my uncle's village.'

Then the man read what the boy had in his mind and said:

'It was not I who killed your uncles and your mother's friends; it was

the East Wind and the North Wind.'

But the boy did not trust the man's words, and knew that in his heart he

wished him evil. And while he was thinking this the big man said to him:

'Let us exchange arrows.'

'Not so,' replied the boy. 'My arrows are better than yours.' And his

words were true, for they were all different, and pointed with different

things. The point of one was a porcupine quill, and of another bark, but

the best of all was called Heart-stopper, because the moment it touched

a man's body his heart ceased to beat.

'My arrows are pointed with sea-urchins; behold how they move,' said the

man; but again it was not true what he told the boy, for the points were

made of weed.

'My arrows are not like that,' answered the boy. 'They are only good for

shooting birds;' but though he did not trust the man, he never guessed

that his desire was to get Heart-stopper. They talked for some time

longer, and at length the boy lost patience and cried out:

'You call yourself my uncle, yet you made away with my mother's friends.

Now know that you will never make away with me like that.'

His words angered the one-eyed man, and, quick as lightning, they both

held their arrows in their hands; but the boy was the quickest, and with

the help of the dog, soon killed his enemy. Then he burned the body, and

paddled on still further, never thinking that his mother at home was

wondering why he did not come back.

At last he heard a voice calling to him. 'That is another bad man,' said

he; but he paddled to the place where the sound came from, and found a

cliff rising straight out of the water. In the middle of the cliff was

an opening with a circle of red paint round it, and devil-clubs fastened

to a ring which was driven into the rock.

'Come in! Come in!' cried the voice, and the boy entered and saw a woman

there with a knife in each hand. He guessed who she was, and said to

her:

'I have seen your husband;' but she took no heed of his words, and

begged him again to enter and she would give him some food before he

went on his way.

'I do not like that sort of food,' he answered as soon as he had seen

it; and she exclaimed, 'Well! if you want to quarrel let us fight till

one of us is killed.'

'Willingly!' replied the boy, and he heard her go to the rock at the

entrance and sharpen the knives in her hands. When she had finished she

threw one of them at him, but he jumped aside and it stuck in the stool

where he had been sitting. Then he seized the knife and threw it at her,

and it stuck in her heart and she died. He let her lie where she fell,

and lifting his eyes he noticed with dismay that the hole at the end of

the cave was quickly growing smaller and smaller. Hastily he snatched up

some ermine skins that lay on the ground and tied two or three in his

hair, and shrank himself till he managed to get into one of them, and

squeezed through the entrance just before it closed entirely. Once out

of the cave he shot some deer and brought them down in his canoe to his

mother and his grandmother, who had spent their time in grieving over

him and wondering if they would ever see him again.

'I am all right,' he said to them when he got home; 'and I have slain

the people who put your friends to death.'

* * * * *

But in spite of his words, he did not know yet for certain whether the

man and woman he had killed had been the murderers of his uncles also,

and that he was determined to find out. So he soon went back into the

forest and began hunting again. From afar he saw smoke rising up, and

he walked towards it till he came to a house. At the door was Old

Mole-woman, and very old she was, but her face looked kind and honest

and the boy felt he might have faith in her.

'What is it you want, grandson?' said she, politely, and the boy

answered:

'I am seeking for the slayer of my uncles.'

'It is not easy to get at them,' she replied. 'It was the hawks that did

it, and first you have to find their nests which are very high up, and

next you must wait till the old birds go away, and only the young ones

are left.'

Thus spoke Old Mole-woman, and the boy thanked her and set off to find

the nests.

It took him a long time, but at length he discovered them; then he hid

himself and waited till the parent birds flew off and the young ones

were alone. After that, the boy came out of his hiding-place and climbed

up the tree and said to the little birds:

'What do you live on?' and the little birds led him to a place that was

full of human skulls, and answered, 'That is what we live on.'

'How long will your father and mother be away?' asked the boy.

'Till daybreak; but you will not be able to see them, because they come

in clouds. My mother flies over the mountain in a yellow cloud, and my

father in a black cloud.'

'Well, I am going now,' said the boy, 'and take care that you do not

tell them that I have been here, or I will kill you.'

'Oh, no, no! We will be sure not to tell,' cried the little birds,

fluttering their wings in a fright.

Just as it was getting light the boy saw the yellow cloud coming, and by

and bye he made out the mother-bird carrying a dead body in her beak. He

aimed an arrow at her and she fell dead at the foot of the tree, and the

body fell with her. Soon after, he saw the black cloud coming fast, and

when it reached the nest the father flew out of it and said to the

little ones:

'Where is your mother?'

'Our mother dropped the body she was carrying and fell down after it,'

answered they, and as they spoke the boy hit him with an arrow, and he

fell to the ground also.

Then the boy cried up to the little birds: 'You must never kill people

any more, or live on human flesh. I will go and get food for you until

you are strong enough to look after yourselves,' and he went out

hunting, and he and his dog killed some pigs and brought them to the

little birds. And when the little birds grew to be big birds, they

killed the pigs for themselves by letting stones fall on their heads,

and never more did they eat anything else. After that the boy went back

to Old Mole-woman.

* * * * *

'I have killed the birds,' said he, 'and because you have helped me, I

have brought you some food which will last you a long time. Now I must

hurry home to my mother and grandmother.'

Very glad they were to see him again, and for some time he stayed with

them and collected grease for candles and provisions of all sorts,

enough to last for many, many years. When this was done he said to his

mother: 'Mother, I am going to leave you for ever, for I was not meant

to be with you always, and I have finished that which I set myself to

do. If what is hanging overhead should fall, you will know that I am

dead. But as long as it remains where it is, do not trouble about me.'

With that he went out.

As he walked along the path, the son of Fire-drill beheld someone in

front striding very fast; and the boy chased him till he came first to

the Mink people and then to the Marten people. Both of them begged him

to stay with them and help them, but he would not, and hurried on after

the figure he had seen ahead of him, whose name was Dry-cloud. But when

Fire-drill's son came to the Wolf people they begged him so hard to stop

that at last he agreed to do so for a while; besides he was very tired,

and wanted to rest.

The Wolf Chief thought much of the boy, and they had great talk

together. One day a large company of the Wolf tribe was present, and

they spoke of the beasts which could run the fastest.

'The swiftest of all is the mountain goat,' said one; 'and it can jump

from rock to rock, and none can come up with it. To-morrow,' he added,

turning to the boy, 'we are going to hunt them, and if you are there

with us you will see if there is any animal that can outrun a mountain

goat.'

'I will be there,' answered the boy.

So they started in the morning and hastened to the place, and each tried

to be the first to kill one of the goats. But Fire-drill's son's dog got

there before any of them, and killed many goats and the rest galloped

away out of reach. Then the Wolves went up and carried the dead goats

back to their people, and much ashamed they were that the dog had slain

them all and they, the noted hunters, had got nothing.

'Men will speak ill of us if they know of this day's work,' said the

Wolves, whispering together. 'How can we get the better of this son of

Fire-drill?'

Now one, cleverer than the rest, thought of a plan, and he bade the

others cut a quantity of the long stringy creepers that grow on the

mountains, and make them into hoops. These hoops they were to roll down

the sides of the mountains, and jump backwards and forwards through

them, when they were at full speed. It was a good game for their

purpose, because anyone who touched the side of the hoops would be cut

in two, because of the sharp edges.

But the dog guessed this, and said to the boy: 'Friend, do not go near

those people who are playing. You know nothing of the game, and those

things may kill you.'

'No; I will not play with them, but let us watch them,' answered the

boy, and they watched them for some time, till the boy said to the dog:

'You take one of those rings and throw it up in the air as high as you

can.' And the dog took it in his mouth, and stood on his hind legs and

threw it upwards with all his might, and he threw it so high that it

never came down again but stayed up round the moon, where you may still

see it any night that there is going to be a change in the weather.

And as soon as he heard this that the dog had done, the Wolf Chief

called the rest of the Wolves, and bade them treat the son of Fire-drill

as a friend, 'for,' said he, 'he is a wonderful fellow.'

* * * * *

A little while after, Fire-drill's son and the wolf went away together.

When they had gone a short distance, the wolf raised his head and looked

about him.

'Some strange creature walks about here,' he exclaimed suddenly. 'Take

my advice and do not try to follow him or he will have your life.'

And though he did not say so, the boy felt it was Dry-cloud that the

wolf meant.

'Don't be afraid for me,' he answered; 'I only play with him. Well I

know that it is impossible to kill him, but it is also impossible for

him to kill me; but follow him I must, for this my father bade me.'

So they set off after Dry-cloud, and curious to say, the swift-footed

wolf was forced to run with all his might, while the boy did not seem to

himself to be walking faster than usual. Indeed, so rapid was their pace

that if in crossing a stream the wolf got his tail wet, he was too tired

to shake it himself, and he cried till the boy shook it for him. In this

manner they travelled till they came to a house where an old woman

lived, and this was the end of their journey for that time, as Dry-cloud

lived near by also and they could watch him in peace. And while they

were there Fire-drill's son saw a girl whom he thought he would like for

his squaw, and he married her and they had a baby. But when the baby was

born the father shook his head and said to his wife:

'This is going to be a very bad boy.'

* * * * *

And the fire-stick is still hanging on his mother's ceiling.

[_Tlingit story._]

_THE STRANGE STORY OF ELIZABETH CANNING_

Are you fond of puzzles? I am. And here is a mystery which all sorts of

people have been seeking to explain for a hundred and fifty years, and

nobody, not even the lawyers who have studied it, can make up their

minds. So now it is your turn to try.

In the year 1752 Elizabeth Canning was a girl of seventeen, the eldest

of a family of five children. Her mother was a widow and very poor, so

she was glad when Elizabeth or Betty, as her friends called her, was old

enough to go out to service. Betty was a steady, hard-working young

woman, and the neighbours who had known her from a baby were all ready

to help her and to get her a suitable place.

Her first master was a respectable man who kept a tavern, and in his

house she lived for eighteen months. But she did not serve the

customers, or come into the rooms where they drank. She then left to go

as servant to a carpenter and his wife named Lyon, in Aldermanbury in

the City of London, not very far from her own home. The Lyons were also

old acquaintances of Mrs. Canning, and had known Elizabeth since she was

two. Now she was grown up; a rather short, pleasant-looking girl with a

fresh complexion marked with small-pox, but not pretty.

Elizabeth had been with the Lyons for three months, and had pleased them

so well that they promised her a holiday on New Year's Day 1753, to go

to see her uncle and aunt, living behind the London Docks. So on New

Year's Day, the girl got up earlier than usual, in order to get her work

over as soon as possible. When everything was done, she went up to her

attic and took her best clothes out of a chest. She was a long time

dressing, but when she stepped out into the street, she felt herself as

smart as any maid in London in her purple gown, black petticoat, white

apron, a muslin handkerchief folded across her chest, blue stockings,

and neat leather shoes. On her head she wore a small, flat, white chip

hat bound with green.

On her way to the Docks she stopped at her mother's, and said that as

she had in her pocket thirteen shillings given her that morning by her

mistress--probably they were her wages--she would ask her aunt Mrs.

Colley to come out with her and buy a cloak. Mrs. Canning made her put

the half-guinea in a box, as so small a thing might easily get lost, and

then, after presenting each of the children with a penny a piece, except

a naughty little brother who had 'huffed her,' she gaily bade them all

good-bye and went her way, arriving at her uncle's house about twelve

o'clock. Here she had dinner, tea, and supper at seven when her uncle

returned from work--for Colley, poor man, had no holiday--and at last,

without the cloak which for some reason was never bought, Elizabeth

started back to Aldermanbury, the Colleys walking with her as far as

Houndsditch. There they said good-night to her soon after nine, and

returned home.

As far as we can tell, the Lyons must have expected her back quite early

in the evening, for when nine o'clock struck from the church tower close

by, the carpenter grew uneasy, and went round to Mrs. Canning to see if

Betty was there. No; her mother had not seen her since the morning, but

was sure she would be in directly, and Mr. Lyon would most likely find

her at home when he got back. But at ten he paid the good woman another

visit, saying he could not imagine what had kept the girl; and at last

Mrs. Canning, 'frightened out of her wits' as she herself says, sent

three of the children out into the fields to look for Elizabeth, and the

apprentice went down to the Docks to inquire if she was still at her

uncle's. It was now midnight, and the Colleys were so fast asleep that

the apprentice had some difficulty in rousing them to listen to his

errand.

'Betty here?' they asked. 'Why, we left her in Houndsditch hours ago.'

But they do not seem to have felt any alarm till the following morning

when the young man knocked again, and informed them that they could gain

no news of the missing girl.

Inquiries were made and advertisements were placed in the paper; all in

vain. To be sure, a 'gentlewoman in an oil-shop' in Bishopsgate declared

that she had heard a 'young voice scream out of a coach' on the night of

January 1; but as she 'did not know whether it was a man's or a woman's

voice,' her information was not of much use. However, vague though it

was, Mrs. Canning caught at it eagerly and put it into the

advertisement. As to what had become of her daughter, she guessed

something different every day. Perhaps she had been kidnapped, or she

might have been murdered, or have had an attack of illness.

Some years before, part of the ceiling of a garret had fallen on

Elizabeth's head and hurt her, so that if anything frightened her she

was apt to lose her sense of what was going on for a while. Naturally

when the girl was lost her mother remembered this and dreaded lest she

should have fallen down in some strange place unconscious. Every idea

that could come into a person's mind--every accident likely or unlikely

that had ever befallen anybody--was, we may feel certain, discussed in

the month of January 1753 by Mrs. Canning and her neighbours.

She had almost given up hope, and was even in the act of praying to see

her daughter's ghost, when Elizabeth at last came. But _what_ an

Elizabeth! The apprentice, when he hastened to the door on hearing the

latch lifted, did not recognise the girl, and thought it was a woman who

had called to ask her way. Then the truth suddenly dawned on him and he

cried out, 'Betty has come home'; but as she entered, nearly bent double

and walking sideways holding her hands before her, her mother took her

to be indeed the ghost she had prayed for, and, shrieking 'Feel her!

Feel her!' sank down in a fit.

It was the apprentice and not Mrs. Canning who attended to Elizabeth and

placed her in the chimney-corner, where she sat exhausted and to all

appearance nearly dead. Her mother's first act on recovering from her

fit was to send, not for the doctor but for the neighbours, and so many

flocked to see the lost girl, that in two minutes the room was full, and

the apprentice had to stand at the door to keep fresh people out. Of

course it was long before anyone thought of putting Elizabeth to bed,

and giving her something to eat or drink; instead they plied her with

questions as to where she had been and what she had been doing, and how

she had got in that dreadful condition. To these she replied, telling

the same tale which she repeated to Alderman Chitty upon oath two days

later.

On the following morning an apothecary was summoned, and attended her

for a week till a doctor was called in, and he for some days thought

very badly of her chance of living.

But weak and ill as she might be, two days after her return home she

'was brought' before Alderman Chitty to tell her story. And this was

what she said:

After her uncle and aunt had left her in Houndsditch, she was passing

along the wall which surrounded the lunatic asylum of Bedlam, into

Moorfields, when she was suddenly attacked by two men who took all her

money from her pocket, and then stripped off her gown and hat. She

struggled and tried to scream, but a handkerchief was quickly thrust

into her mouth, and she was told that if she made any noise they would

kill her. To show that they spoke the truth, one of them did indeed give

a blow on the head, and then they took her under the arms and dragged

her along Bishopsgate till she lost her senses, as she was apt to do

when frightened. She knew no more till she found herself in a strange

place which she had since learned was a house at Enfield Wash, about

eleven miles from Aldermanbury. By this time it was about four in the

morning of January 2.

In the kitchen in which she recovered consciousness were several people,

among them an old woman who asked her if she would stay with her instead

of returning home. To this Elizabeth replied No; she would not, as she

wanted to go back to her mother at once. The old woman looked very angry

at her answer, and pushed her upstairs into a room, where she cut her

stay-laces, and took the stays themselves away. She then told her there

was bread and water for her if she was hungry, but that was all she

would get; adding that the girl had better be quiet, for if she

attempted to scream out, she herself would come in and cut her throat.

Having said this, the old woman went away locking the door behind her,

and that was the last the girl saw of any human creature for four weeks,

except the eye of a person who peeped through the keyhole.

Left alone, Elizabeth looked about for the food which was provided for

her, and found there were some pieces of bread about as much as a

'quartern loaf'--and three-quarters of a gallon of water or a little

more, in a pitcher. She had besides a penny mince-pie that she had

bought while she was at her uncle's the day before, and intended as a

present for her little brother; for, as she said to her mother, the boy

had 'huffed her,' and she had not given him a penny like his sisters, so

the mince-pie was to make up.

At this point Chitty seems to have stopped her, and asked her to

describe the room in which she was imprisoned and to tell him what it

contained. There was but little furniture of any sort in it, she

answered. An old stool or two, an old chair and an old picture over the

chimney. The room itself had two windows, facing north and east, one of

which was entirely boarded up; but the other, though there were some

boards on it, was mostly glass. It was through the window at the end of

the room that she escaped about half-past three on the afternoon of

Monday January 29, dropping on to the roof of a shed built against the

house, and so to the ground.

She knew, it appears, that the road which ran past the house was the one

leading from London into Hertfordshire, because she recognised the

coachman who had carried parcels for her mistress many a time. Thus,

when she escaped, tearing her ear as she did so on a nail outside the

window, she had no difficulty in starting in the right direction for

London, though after a short distance she became confused, and had to

ask the way of several people. She ended by saying that she arrived at

home about ten o'clock very weak and faint, and that her mother gave

her some wine, which however she was unable to swallow.

Now in those times both lawyers and judges were apt to be very careless,

and according to our ideas, very dishonest, and Chitty seems to have

been no better than the rest. He took, he says, a few notes of the

interview with Elizabeth for his own memorandum, but 'not thinking it

would have been the subject of so much inquiry later, did not take it so

distinct as he could wish.' Even this paper which he did show was not

what he had written down at the time when the girl was telling her

story, but something that he had pieced together from her own account

and that of various other people who had been present at her mother's

two nights before, and had gone with her to the Alderman. So that no

court of law in these days would have thought that Alderman Chitty's

account given more than a year later, of what Elizabeth told him, was to

be trusted. In the end, however, Chitty, who declares he had examined

her for an hour and asked her 'many questions not set down' in his

paper, granted a warrant for the arrest of one Mother Wells at Enfield

Wash, for assaulting and robbing her. Elizabeth herself expressly says

she 'could tell nothing of the woman's name,' though 'she believed she

should know her;' but one of Mrs. Canning's visitors on the night of the

girl's arrival, who was acquainted with Enfield, was certain that the

house described could only be that in which Mother Wells lived, and on

his information Chitty allowed the warrant for her arrest to be made

out.

This man, Robert Scarrat, seems to have put to Elizabeth a great many

questions which never occurred to the Alderman. He asked her, for

instance, to describe the woman who had cut off her stays, and she

replied that she was 'tall, black and swarthy, and that two girls, one

fair and one dark, were with her.' This answer surprised him; it was not

what he expected. Mother Wells was not a tall, swarthy woman, and he

said at once that it could not have been Mother Wells at all, as the

description was not in the least like her.

On Thursday February 1, Elizabeth was put into a coach and drove with

her mother and two other women to Mother Wells' house in Enfield Wash,

where they were met by the girl's two masters and several friends. The

object of the visit was to prove if the description given by her of the

room, in which she was confined, was correct, and if she could pick out

from a number of persons the woman who had cut off her stays and locked

her up. As to how far the room, as seen by Elizabeth's friends, at all

resembled what she had told them, it is impossible to be certain. It

assuredly was very different from the place which Alderman Chitty swore

she had described, containing a quantity of hay, old saddles, and other

things that the girl had apparently not noticed, even though she had

been there a month; while there was no old picture above the

mantelpiece--nothing, indeed, but cobwebs--and there was no grate,

though she had sworn she had taken out of it the bedgown or jacket she

had come home in. Besides,--and this was more serious--there was not a

sign of the pent-house on which, she said, she had jumped after tearing

away the boards at the north window; and one of the witnesses declared

that you had only to push open the _east_ window to get out of it with

perfect ease, and that he himself had leaned out and shaken hands with

his wife, who was standing on the ground which rose on that side of the

house. But then the witnesses were not at all agreed among themselves

what Elizabeth had _really_ said, so again we are unable to make up our

minds what to believe.

After she had seen the room, she was taken into the parlour where eight

or ten people were sitting, and it is curious that now everyone tells

the same tale. On one side of the fireplace sat Mother Wells, and on the

other Mary Squires.

Mary Squires was a gipsy, tall and swarthy, very ill made and

extraordinarily ugly, and altogether a person whom it would be

impossible to forget. At the time of Elizabeth's entrance she was

sitting crouched up, with a white handkerchief on her head such as women

often wore, and over it a hat, while a short pipe was in her hand.

Several more persons were on the same side of the room, in a sort of

circle round the fire.

Elizabeth glanced towards them. Her eyes rested first on Mother Wells

and then looked past her.

'That is the woman who cut off my stays,' she said, pointing to the

gipsy. At these words Mary Squires rose and came up to the girl,

throwing aside her hat and handkerchief as she did so.

'Me rob you?' she cried. 'I hope you will not swear my life away, for I

never saw you. Pray, madam, look at this face; if you have once seen it

you must remember it, for God Almighty I think never made such another.'

'I know you very well,' answered Elizabeth; 'I know you too well, to my

sorrow.'

'Pray, madam, when do you say I robbed you?'

'It was on the first day of this New Year,' replied Elizabeth.

'The first day of the New Year?' cried the gipsy. 'Lord bless me! I was

an hundred and twenty miles away from this place then, at Abbotsbury in

Dorsetshire, and there are a hundred people I can bring to prove it.'

But no one at that time paid any attention to her words, or thought of

allowing her to prove her innocence. Elizabeth, with two girls found in

Mother Wells' house, were examined before Henry Fielding, the novelist,

author of 'Tom Jones,' then a magistrate of London, who showed,

according to his own account, gross unfairness in dealing with the

matter, and by him the case was sent for trial at the Old Bailey.

Elizabeth repeated the story she had told from the first, with the

result that the gipsy was condemned to be hanged, and Mother Wells to be

branded on the hand and to go to prison for six months. Luckily,

however, for them, the president of the court that tried them was the

Lord Mayor Sir Crispe Gascoigne, a man who had more sense of justice and

fair play than many of his fellows. He did not feel sure of the truth of

Elizabeth's tale, and never rested till both the old women were set at

liberty.

This made the mob very angry. They were entirely on Elizabeth's side,

and more than once attacked the Lord Mayor's coach. Other people were

just as strong on behalf of the gipsy, and things even went so far that

often the members of the same family declined to speak to each other.

Then came Elizabeth's turn. In April 1754 she was arrested on a charge

of perjury or false swearing, and sent to stand her trial at the Old

Bailey. Now was Mary Squires' opportunity for calling the 'hundred

people' to prove that she, with her son George and daughter Lucy, was

down at Abbotsbury in Dorsetshire, on January 1, 1753, at the moment

that she was supposed to be cutting off the stays of Elizabeth Canning

at Enfield Wash! And if she did not quite fulfil her promise, she

actually _did_ summon thirty-six witnesses who swore to her movements

day by day from December 29, 1752, when all three Squires stopped at an

inn at South Parret in Dorsetshire, to January 23, 1753, when Mary

begged for a lodging at Page Green. Now Page Green was within two or

three miles of Enfield Wash, where the gipsy admitted she had stayed at

Mother Wells' house for ten days before Elizabeth Canning had charged

her with robbery. Her denial of the accusation was further borne out by

a man and his wife, who appear in the reports as 'Fortune and Judith

Natus' (he was quite plainly called 'Fortunatus' after the young man

with the fairy purse), both of whom declared upon oath that they had

occupied the room in which Elizabeth stated she had been confined, for

ten or eleven weeks at that very time, and that it was used as a

hayloft.

Mary Squires had called thirty-six witnesses to 'prove an _alibi_'--in

other words, to prove that she had been present somewhere else; but

Elizabeth's lawyers produced twenty-six, stating that they had seen her

about Enfield during the month when Elizabeth was lost. This was enough

to confuse anybody, and many of the witnesses on both sides were

exceedingly stupid. To make matters worse and more puzzling, not long

before a law had been passed to alter the numbering of the days of the

year. For instance, May 5 would suddenly be reckoned the 16th, a fact it

was almost impossible to make uneducated people understand. Indeed, it

is not easy always to remember it oneself, but it all helps to render

the truth of Elizabeth's tale more difficult to get at, for you never

could be sure whether, when the witnesses said they had seen the gipsy

at Christmas or New Year's Day, they meant _Old_ Christmas or _New_

Christmas, _old_ New Year's Day or _new_ New Year's Day. Yet certain

facts there are in the story which nobody attempts to contradict. It is

undisputed that a young woman, weak and with very few clothes on, was

met by four or five persons on the night of January 29, 1753, on the

road near Enfield Wash, inquiring her way to London, or that on the very

same night Elizabeth Canning arrived at home in Aldermanbury, in such a

state that next morning an apothecary was sent for. Nor does anyone, as

we have said, deny that she picked out the gipsy from a number of

people, as the person who assaulted her. All this is in favour of her

tale. Yet we must ask ourselves what possible motive Mary Squires could

have had in keeping a girl shut up in a loft for four weeks, apparently

with a view of starving her to death? Elizabeth was a total stranger to

her; she was very poor, so there was no hope of getting a large ransom

for her; and if she had died and her kidnapping had been traced to Mary

Squires, the gipsy would have speedily ended her days on the gallows.

On the other hand, if Mary Squires did not know Elizabeth Canning,

Elizabeth equally did not know Mary Squires, and we cannot imagine what

reason Elizabeth could have had in accusing her falsely. Only one thing

stands out clear from the report of the trial, and that is, that

Elizabeth was absent during the whole of January 1753, and that she very

nearly died of starvation.

'Guilty of perjury, but not wilful and corrupt,' was the verdict of the

jury, which the judge told them was nonsense. They then declared her

guilty, and Elizabeth was condemned to be transported to one of his

Majesty's American colonies for seven years.

We soon hear of her as a servant in the house of the Principal of Yale

University, a much better place than any she had at home. At the end of

the seven years she came back to England, where she seems to have been

received as something of a heroine, and took possession of L500 which

had been left her by an old lady living in Newington Green. She then

sailed for America once more, and married a well-to-do farmer called

Treat, and passed the rest of her life with her husband and children in

the State of Connecticut.

Up to her death, which occurred in 1773, she always maintained the truth

of her tale.

Was it true?

The lawyers who were against Elizabeth said, at her trial, that as soon

as she was found guilty, the secret of where she had been would be

revealed.

It never was revealed. Now several persons must have known where

Elizabeth was; all the world heard her story, yet nobody told where she

had been. If the persons who knew had not detained and ill-used the

girl, there was nothing to prevent them from speaking.

Yet to the end we shall ask, why _did_ Mary Squires keep her at Enfield

Wash--if she _did_ keep her?

_MRS. VEAL'S GHOST_

Now you are going to hear a ghost story published, but he says, not

written, by Daniel Defoe the author of 'Robinson Crusoe.' If you read it

carefully, you will find how very curious it is.

Miss Veal, or as she was then called according to custom, Mrs. Veal, was

an unmarried lady of about thirty living with her only brother in Dover.

She was a delicate woman, and frequently had fits, during which she

would often stop in the middle of a sentence, and begin to talk

nonsense. These fits probably arose from not having had enough food or

warm clothes in her childhood, for her father was not only a poor man

but also a selfish one, and was too full of his own affairs to look

after his children. One comfort, however, she had, in a little girl of

her own age, named Lodowick, who often used to bring her neighbour half

of her own dinner, and gave her a thick wadded tippet to wear over her

bare shoulders.

Years passed away and the girls grew to women, meeting as frequently as

of old and reading together the pious books of the day, 'Drelincourt

upon Death' being perhaps their favourite. Then gradually a change took

place. Old Veal died; the son was given a place in the Customs, and his

sister went to keep house for him. She was well-to-do now, and had no

longer any need of a friend to provide her with food and clothes, and

little by little she became busy with her new life, and forgot the many

occasions on which she had exclaimed gratefully to her playfellow, 'You

are not only the best, but the only friend I have in the world, and

nothing shall ever loosen our friendship.' Now she visited in the houses

of people who were richer and grander than herself and sought out her

old companion more and more seldom, so that at length when this story

begins, two years and a half had passed by without their having seen

each other.

Meanwhile, though Mrs. Veal, in spite of a few love affairs, had

remained a spinster, her friend had married a Mr. Bargrave, and a very

bad match he proved, for the way in which he ill-used his wife soon

became known to everyone. They left Dover about a year after Mrs.

Bargrave's last visit to Mrs. Veal, and several months later they

settled in Canterbury.

* * * * *

It was noon, on September 8, 1705, and Mrs. Bargrave was sitting alone

in an armchair in her parlour, thinking over all the misery her husband

had caused her and trying hard to feel patient and forgiving towards

him. 'I have been provided for hitherto,' she said to herself, 'and

doubt not that I shall be so still, and I am well satisfied that my

sorrows shall end when it is most fit for me.' She then took up her

sewing, which had dropped on her lap, but had hardly put in three

stitches when a knocking at the door made her pause. The clock struck

twelve as she rose to open it, and to her profound astonishment admitted

Mrs. Veal, who had on a riding dress of silk.

'Madam,' exclaimed Mrs. Bargrave, 'I am surprised to see you, for you

have been a stranger this long while, but right glad I am to welcome you

here.' As she spoke, she leaned forward to kiss her, but Mrs. Veal drew

back, and passing her hand across her eyes, she answered:

'I am not very well;' adding after a moment, 'I have to take a long

journey, and wished first to see you.'

'But,' answered Mrs. Bargrave, 'how do you come to be travelling alone?

I know that your brother looks after you well.'

'Oh, I gave my brother the slip,' replied Mrs. Veal, 'because I had so

great a desire to see you before I set forth.'

'Well, let us go into the next room,' said Mrs. Bargrave, leading the

way to a small room opening into the other. Mrs. Veal sat down in the

very chair in which Mrs. Bargrave had been seated when she heard the

knocking at the door. Then Mrs. Veal leaned forward and spoke:

'My dear friend, I am come to renew our old friendship, and to beg you

to pardon me for my breach of it. If you can forgive me, you are one of

the best of women.'

'Oh! don't mention such a thing,' cried Mrs. Bargrave. 'I never had an

unkind thought about it, and can most easily forgive it.'

'What opinion can you have had of me?' continued Mrs. Veal.

'I supposed you were like the rest of the world,' answered Mrs.

Bargrave, 'and that prosperity had made you forget yourself and me.'

After that they had a long talk over the old days, and recalled the

books they had read together, and what comfort they had received from

Drelincourt's Book of Death, and from two Dutch books that had been

translated, besides some by Dr. Sherlock on the same subject. At Mrs.

Veal's request, Mrs. Bargrave brought Drelincourt's discourses down from

upstairs, and handed it to her friend, who spoke so earnestly of the

consolations to be found in it that Mrs. Bargrave was deeply touched.

But when Mrs. Veal assured her that 'in a short time her afflictions

would leave her,' Mrs. Bargrave broke down and wept bitterly.

'Are you going away and leaving your brother without anyone to look

after him?' asked Mrs. Bargrave as soon as she could speak.

'Oh no! my sister and her husband had just come down from town to see

me, so it will be all right,' answered Mrs. Veal.

'But why did you arrange to leave just as they arrived?' again inquired

Mrs. Bargrave. 'Surely they will be vexed?'

'It could not be helped,' replied Mrs. Veal shortly, and said no more on

the subject.

After this, the conversation, which continued for nearly two hours, was

chiefly carried on by Mrs. Veal, whose language might have been envied

by the most learned doctors of the day. But during the course of it Mrs.

Bargrave was startled to notice Mrs. Veal draw her hand several times

across her eyes (as she had done on her entrance), and at length she

put the question, 'Mrs. Bargrave, don't you think I look much the worse

for my fits?'

'No,' answered Mrs. Bargrave, 'I think you look as well as ever I saw

you.'

'I want you to write a letter for me to my brother,' then said Mrs.

Veal, 'and tell him to whom he is to give my rings, and that he is to

take two gold pieces out of a purse that is in my cabinet, and send them

to my cousin Watson.' Cousin Watson was the wife of a Captain Watson who

lived in Canterbury. As there seemed no reason that Mrs. Veal should not

write the letter herself, the request appeared rather odd to Mrs.

Bargrave, especially as then and afterwards it was the custom for people

to leave rings to their friends in their wills. These rings contained

little skulls in white enamel, and the initials in gold of the dead.

Mrs. Bargrave wondered if her friend was indeed about to suffer from one

of her attacks. So she hastily placed herself in a chair close by her,

that she might be ready to catch Mrs. Veal if she should fall, and, to

divert her visitor's thoughts, took hold of her sleeve, and began to

admire the pattern.

'The silk has been cleaned,' replied Mrs. Veal, 'and newly made up,' and

then she dropped the subject and went back to her letter.

'Why not write it yourself?' asked Mrs. Bargrave. 'Your brother may

think it an impertinence in me.'

'No,' said Mrs. Veal; 'it may seem an impertinence in you now, but you

will discover more reason for it hereafter;' so to satisfy her, Mrs.

Bargrave fetched pen and ink and was about to begin when Mrs. Veal

stopped her.

'Not now,' she said; 'wait till I am gone; but you must be sure to do

it,' and began to inquire for Mrs. Bargrave's little girl, Molly, who

was not in the house.

'If you have a mind to see her, I will fetch her home,' answered the

mother, and hastily ran over to the neighbour's where the child was.

When she returned, Mrs. Veal was standing outside the street door,

opposite the market (which was crowded, the day being Saturday and

market day), waiting to say good-bye to her.

'Why are you in such a hurry?' inquired Mrs. Bargrave.

'It is time for me to go,' answered Mrs. Veal, 'though I may not start

on my journey till Monday. Perhaps I may see you at my cousin Watson's

before I depart whither I am hastening.' Then she once more spoke of the

letter Mrs. Bargrave was to write, and bade her farewell, walking

through the market-place, till a turning concealed her from view.

It was now nearly two o'clock.

* * * * *

The following day Mrs. Bargrave had a sore throat, and did not go out,

but on Monday she sent a messenger to Captain Watson's to inquire if

Mrs. Veal was there. This much astonished the Watsons, who returned an

answer that Mrs. Veal had never been to the house, neither was she

expected. Mrs. Bargrave felt sure that some mistake had been made, and,

ill though she was, put on her hood and walked to the Watsons' (whom she

did not know) to find out the truth of the matter.

Mrs. Watson, who was at home, declared herself unable to understand

_why_ Mrs. Bargrave should imagine that Mrs. Veal should be in their

house. She had never been in town, Mrs. Watson was persuaded, as if she

had, she would certainly have called on them. It was to no purpose that

Mrs. Bargrave assured the good lady that Mrs. Veal had spent two hours

with her on the previous Saturday; Mrs. Watson simply refused to believe

it.

In the midst of the discussion Captain Watson came in and announced that

on the previous Friday--September 7, 1705--at noon, Mrs. Veal had died

of exhaustion, after one of her fits; and that even at that moment the

big painted board with the family coat of arms--called by Captain Watson

an 'escutcheon' and by us a 'hatchment'--was being painted in

Canterbury. When finished, it would be taken to Dover and hung up in

front of the Veals' house. Mrs. Bargrave found the Captain's story

impossible to believe, and she went off immediately to the undertaker's

shop, where the 'escutcheon' was shown her. Not knowing what to think,

she next hastened back to the Watsons, and told the whole tale of Mrs.

Veal's visit, describing every particular of her appearance and silk

habit, which Mrs. Veal had specially mentioned was scoured. On hearing

this, Mrs. Watson cried out excitedly, 'Then you must indeed have seen

her, as I helped her myself to make it up, and nobody but she and I knew

that it was scoured.'

* * * * *

In this way the Watsons' doubts of the appearance of Mrs. Veal were set

at rest, and the story was soon 'blazed' all about the town by the lady,

while the Captain took two of his friends to Mrs. Bargrave in order that

they might listen to her own account of the strange circumstance, which

she gave in exactly the same words as before. Very soon her house was

besieged by all sorts of people interested in the story, who saw that

Mrs. Bargrave was a straightforward, cheerful person, not at all likely

to have invented such a surprising tale.

Amongst those who visited Mrs. Bargrave was the lady whose account was

published by Defoe in 1706. Their houses were near together, and they

had known each other well for many years. It is she who tells us of

various little facts which go far to prove the truth of Mrs. Veal's

apparition: how it was discovered that the sister and brother-in-law to

whom Mrs. Veal referred really _had_ travelled from London to Dover in

order to pay their family a visit but only arrived just as Mrs. Veal was

dying; how the servant next door, hanging out clothes in the garden, had

heard Mrs. Bargrave talking to someone for above an hour at the very

time Mrs. Veal was said to be with her; and how immediately after Mrs.

Veal had departed, Mrs. Bargrave had hurried in to the lady next door,

and told her that an old friend she feared she had lost sight of had

been to see her, and related their conversation.

But Mrs. Veal's brother in Dover was very angry when he heard what was

being said in Canterbury, and declared he should go and call on Mrs.

Bargrave, who seemed to be making a great deal out of nothing. As to the

little legacies which Mrs. Bargrave had mentioned in her letter that

Mrs. Veal wished him to give to her friends, why, he had asked his

sister on her death-bed--for she was conscious for the last four hours

of her life--whether there was anything she desired to dispose of, and

she had answered no. But, in spite of Mr. Veal's wrath, everyone

believed in Mrs. Bargrave's tale, for they believed in Mrs. Bargrave

herself. She had nothing to gain by inventing such a story, and was

ready to answer all questions put to her in a plain, straightforward

way.

'I asked her,' said the lady from whom Defoe obtained his account, 'if

she was sure she felt the gown; she answered, "If my senses are to be

relied on, I am sure of it."'

'I asked her if she had heard a sound when Mrs. Veal clapped her hand

upon her knee; she said she did not remember that she did, but added:

"She appeared to be as much a substance as I did, who talked with her;

and I may be as soon persuaded that your apparition is talking to me now

as that I did not really see her, for I was under no manner of fear; I

received her as a friend and parted with her as such. I would not," she

concluded "give one farthing to make anyone believe it, for I have no

interest in it."'

From Defoe's day to this many people have read the tale, and several

have held it to be a pure invention of the novelist. But some have taken

the trouble to search out the history of the persons mentioned in it,

and have found that they at any rate were real, and living in Dover and

in Canterbury at the very dates required by the story. In the reign of

Charles I. a Bargrave had been Dean of Canterbury, and a Richard

Bargrave married a widow in the church of St. Alphege in 1700. There had

been also Veals connected with Canterbury, which is curious, and we find

that a son of William Veal was baptised in St. Mary's, Dover, in August

1707. Now, as Mrs. Veal kept her brother's house when they moved into

Dover, he must have married after his sister's death on September 7,

1705. And if we turn over the Parish Register of that very year, we

shall see the burial of a 'Mrs. Veal' on September 10.

The Watsons are also to be found in Canterbury, and an 'old Mr. Breton'

in Dover, who was known to have given Mrs. Veal L10 a year.

Of course it does not follow from this that, because the characters of

the tale published by Defoe only ten months after Mrs. Veal's death were

actually alive in the very places where he said we should find them,

Mrs. Veal's ghost did really appear to Mrs. Bargrave. But if not, why

drag in all these people to no purpose? They could all have contradicted

him, but the only person who did so was Mr. Veal himself, and he alone

had a motive in disbelieving the appearance of his sister, as he may not

have wished to hand over the rings which she had bequeathed to her

friends, or to diminish the contents of the purse of gold he was driven

to admit that she possessed.

Once more, it is perfectly certain that Mrs. Bargrave told and stood by

her story, for in May 1714 a gentleman went to see her and cross-examine

her. Mrs. Bargrave said that she did not know the editor of her story,

but that it was quite correct except in three or four small points; for

instance, that she and Mrs. Veal had talked about the persecution of

Dissenters in the time of Charles II. was omitted in the printed

version. The gentleman then made the corrections by his copy of the

book, and added a long note in Latin about his visit to Mrs. Bargrave on

May 21, 1714.

This copy of the book Mr. Aitken found in the British Museum; so,

whether we believe Mrs. Bargrave's story or not, she undoubtedly told

it, and it was not invented by Defoe.

The facts were discovered by Mr. G. A. Aitken, who published them in his

edition of Defoe's tales. He does not seem to have known that in an old

book, Dr. Welby's 'Signs before Death,' there is another version, with

curious information about Mistress Veal's broken engagement with

Major-General Sibourg, killed in the battle of Mons; and about the

kinship of the mother of Mrs. Veal with the family of the Earl of

Clarendon, which induced Queen Anne, moved by Archbishop Tillotson, to

give Mr. Veal his place in the Customs. We also learn that Mrs.

Bargrave's cold on the Sunday was caused by the conduct of her husband,

who came home intoxicated, found her excited by her interview with Mrs.

Veal, and saying, 'Molly, you are hot, you want to be cooled,' led her

into the garden, where she passed the night.

_THE CHIEF'S DAUGHTER_

Raven's wife had died, and as he felt very lonely he soon determined to

marry a second, but it was not very easy to find a girl to suit him, for

she was obliged to be of noble birth as the other had been. And to add

to the difficulties, a mischief-maker called Tsagwan was also seeking a

wife of the same kind, and wherever Raven went Tsagwan flew after him,

and told untrue stories about Raven, so that fathers refused to give him

their daughters. At last Raven discovered this and went straight to the

chief of the town.

'I know what has happened,' said he. 'And you will suffer for it. If I

had married your daughter, you would have had a great name in the world,

but now your daughter will marry someone whom no one ever heard of, and

if they speak of you among men it will be as The-Chief-with-no-name.'

When he heard this the chief trembled, for he knew it would be shameful.

So Raven left him and continued his journey till he reached the house of

an old man who lived alone.

'Do you know the young daughter of the chief who lives not far from

here?' he asked.

'Yes, I know her.'

'Well, why don't you marry her?'

'Oh, it is quite impossible that I should marry her, so I don't see the

good of trying.'

'Don't be so faint-hearted,' said Raven, 'I will give you a medicine

which will cause her to fall in love with you.'

'But I have no slaves, and she will expect slaves,' said the old man.

'Oh no, she won't,' answered Raven, 'she will take a liking to you and

no one will be able to help it. She will marry you, and her father will

lose half his property.'

And Raven kept his word and his medicine made the old man look young

again, and Raven bestowed feathers on him to put in his hair, and a robe

of marten skin to throw over his shoulders. When he was dressed the man

looked very handsome and was greatly pleased with himself. But his face

fell when Raven said to him:

'Remember you are not going to be like this always; it is only for a day

or two.'

Then the man got into his skin canoe and paddled over to where the girl

lived, and he did not go to ask her father's consent but sought her out

when she was alone, and she fell in love with him although she had

refused to listen to many other men besides Raven, and this was Raven's

revenge.

'Yes, I will marry you,' she said, 'and I will go with you, even if my

father kills me for it.'

So she married him, and after that her father and mother were told of

it. But the chief, instead of being unkind to his daughter, gave her

rich fur robes; 'for,' said he, 'if she is already married there is no

use in my being angry; and besides, her husband is a handsome fellow and

is plainly of high birth.' And he and the husband talked together of his

daughter's suitors and especially of the man who had been cruel to his

first wife, but the husband did not know that the chief meant Raven.

* * * * *

The new husband was anxious to get back to his own home, as he was

afraid that his fine clothes might drop off him on the way. Therefore he

lost no time in saying, 'My father told me I was to return at once in my

canoe; let us hasten, but do not you, my wife, take any furs with you

except those you want to keep you warm on the journey, for I have more

than enough in my house.' The wife obeyed him, and only took with her a

marten skin and a fox robe.

Now the girl lay in the canoe with her eyes shut, and she lay there for

a long while till she thought that they must be near home. Then she sat

up and looked out, and caught sight of her husband's face, which looked

quite different from when she had seen it before. For now it was full of

wrinkles, and the hair was thin and grey. And at the sight her heart

beat so fast it seemed as if it would jump out of her body, and she

cried very bitterly, because she was frightened and angry.

As soon as the canoe ran upon the beach she sat upon the rocks weeping

while the old man went from house to house throughout the village,

begging them to take her in, as she was a high-born girl and he had no

place that was fit for her. But they would not, and at last his sister,

who was still older than he, came down to the beach and took the girl

back to her house, which was dirty and shabby. The girl went, but she

was very miserable, and every day the people stopped as they were

passing, and mocked at her and her husband.

* * * * *

Curious to say, the chief and his sons had been quite deceived by the

fine clothes of the daughter's husband, and resolved to make him

presents suited to his rank. Therefore one day the people of the village

beheld a procession of canoes paddling over the sea, one filled with

furs, another containing the father and brothers of the girl, and a

third, in which sat the slaves with green feathers in their hair, taken

from the heads of drakes. The old man saw them likewise, and called to

some boys to come and help him clean up the house. But they only

answered, 'Clean up yourself, for you are dirty enough.'

'Well, at least carry up the strangers' goods; they are now landing,'

said he, but the boys replied as they had done before, 'Carry them

yourself.' In the end, it was the strangers who carried them and put

them down where they could; and they noticed that the old man's sister

was crying, and the strangers felt sorry for her.

The old man soon found that he would get no help from anybody, for they

were all angry with him for having married a chief's daughter. If he

asked them to lend him a basket for his guests to eat off, they told him

to use his own; if he begged them to fetch water, they bade him get it

himself, and even when he took a very dirty old basket to fill at the

stream, as he stooped down the water moved a little further away and

then a little further still, as if it also had a spite at him. Indeed,

it did this so often that at last he found himself in the mountains,

where it vanished into a house. Once more he followed it and beheld a

very old woman sitting inside.

'What is the matter?' said she. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'

'You can do a great deal for me if you only will,' answered he. 'I am

very poor and have married a noble wife, whose father and brothers have

come to visit me. I have nothing to give them, and my neighbours will

not help.'

'Is that all?' she said.

'Yes, all! Is it not enough?' But the old woman only smoothed his hair

with her hand, and in a moment it was thick and black as it had been in

his youth, and his rags became handsome garments. Even the very basket

changed into a beautiful new one.

'Go and dip the basket into the spring that is in the corner,' said she,

and when he drew it up it was full of water and of shells.

The man made all the haste he could down the mountain, but nobody

recognised him except his wife, and those who had seen him when he went

to marry her. He refreshed them all with water and gave them handfuls of

the shells, which they prized greatly, in return for the slaves and furs

his father-in-law had presented to him, for it is the custom of that

tribe that, if a man receives a gift from a father-in-law, he shall pay

it back with something of much greater value. And he soon grew so rich

that the people made him chief of the town.

Now that happened which was bound to happen. The people who had mocked

him when he was poor were ready to bow down to him when he was rich,

while he and his wife grew harder and prouder every day. They built

themselves a large house where they gave magnificent feasts, but they

passed most of their time on the roof of the house, watching all that

went on below.

[Illustration: WHAT BEAUTIFUL BIRDS! I SHOULD LIKE TO MARRY ONE OF

THEM!]

One fine spring evening they were sitting there as usual, when a flock

of swans flew across the sky from the south-east. 'What beautiful birds!

I should like to marry one of them!' exclaimed the wife, as the swans

gradually disappeared in the distance. Of course she did not mean

anything, any more than when she repeated the same words on seeing the

sand-cranes overhead, or the brants which presently came past. But the

brants did not know this, and as soon as they heard her they flew down

and carried her off on their wings. Her husband ran after them but he

never reached them, only now and then she let fall some of the loose

clothes that covered her. By and bye--for they found she was heavier

than they expected--the brants let the woman fall too. Luckily they were

then over the sandy beach so she was not hurt, but she was quite naked

and even her hair had been rubbed off. She got up and walked quickly,

crying as she went, to some trees which had large leaves, and these she

twisted together till she had made a kind of apron. Then she wandered

along the beach not knowing where she was going, and thinking sadly of

her home and her husband, till she came to a house with an old woman

sitting in it. The sight gladdened her heart, and she entered and held

out the head of a red snapper which she had picked up on the shore,

saying, 'Let us cook this red snapper head for dinner.'

'Yes, let us cook it,' answered the old woman, and after they had eaten

it she bade the chief's wife go back to the beach and try to find

something else. This time the girl brought in a fish called a sculpin,

and it was cooked also; but while they were eating it the chief's wife

heard the noise of boys shouting, though she could see no one.

'Take the tray with the food out to that hole,' said the old woman, and

as the chief's wife did so she beheld many hands sticking up out of the

ground. She placed the tray in the hands, and waited as it disappeared.

In a moment it rose to the surface again, with two fine fox skins on it,

which she carried back to the old woman.

'Make yourself some robes out of them,' said she, and the girl did so.

When she was dressed, the old woman spoke to her again, and said:

'Your father and mother live in a salmon creek, a little way along the

beach. It might be well for you to go and pay them a visit.' So the girl

went, and after a time she saw her father out in a canoe spearing

salmon, and her mother was with him. The girl ran quickly down to the

water's edge in order to meet them, but when her father saw her he cried

out:

'Here comes a fox; where are my bow and arrows?' And his daughter heard

him and ran as fast as she could to the woods.

After a while she stopped running, for she knew she was safe, and then

she made her way to the old woman.

'Why are you crying? Did you not see your father?'

'Yes, and he took me for a fox.'

'Why, what else do you think you are?' asked the old woman in surprise.

'But return at once to your father who will want to kill you; and be

sure you let him do it.'

'Very well, I will do your bidding,' answered the girl, though the order

seemed strange to her.

The next day the girl went down to the beach and saw her father fishing

still closer to the shore.

'Why, here is that big fox again,' cried he, and she did not move, but

waited while he fitted an arrow to his bow and shot her in the heart.

Then his wife got out of the canoe and began to skin the fox, and as she

did so she found something on its foreleg which made her start.

'Surely that is my daughter's bracelet,' said she. 'Yet that is not

possible!' And she continued her work. By and by she came to the throat,

and there lay a necklace. 'Surely that is my daughter's necklace,' she

repeated, and then she called to her husband, saying:

'I found our daughter's necklace and bracelet in this skin. Something

that we know not of must have turned her into a fox.' And they both

cried, for they remembered how the fox had run to meet them instead of

going away.

But Indians are learned in things of which other people are ignorant,

and they quickly set to work and laid the fox's body on a mat, and

covered it with bags of eagle's down which every tribe has ready to use,

and over all they placed a mat, weeping as they did so. After that they

fasted and cleaned up their houses, and the girl's relations fasted

likewise and cleaned up their houses. For many days they did this, and

at length, at midnight, the father and mother felt their house shaking

beneath them, and heard a noise coming from the room where the body lay.

Taking a burning stick, the mother hastened to the room, and found her

daughter in her own shape, having become a doctor or shaman. Happy

indeed were they to behold her thus; but, curious to say, the girl's

husband at that moment lost all his wealth and was as poor as ever.

[_Tlingit Myths._]

_THE BOYHOOD OF A PAINTER_

If we are to believe the proverb, a 'Jack of all Trades is master of

none,' and it is mostly true. But here and there even in our own day, we

meet with some gifted person who seems to be able to do anything he

desires, and during the periods of history when men--and boys--were left

more to themselves and allowed to follow their own bent, these geniuses

were much less rare than at present.

Now during the last half of the fifteenth century and the first half of

the sixteenth there lived in Italy a group of men who were in the

highest possible degree Jacks of all Trades, or could have been so if

they had chosen. They are known to us principally as painters, but the

people amongst whom they lived very soon became aware that more than one

of them could arrange you a water supply which would turn your mill

wheel if there was no stream handy, or build you a palace if you were a

rich citizen and wanted one, or help you to fortify your walls if you

were the Lord of Milan or Florence or Ferrara; or fashion you a gold

brooch as a present for your wife, if that was what you were seeking. As

for making you a statue of yourself on horseback, to adorn the great

square of the city over which you ruled--why, it was as easy to do that

as to paint your portrait!

* * * * *

Chief among these 'Universal Geniuses,' as we should call them, was one

Leonardo, son of the Florentine notary or lawyer, Piero da Vinci. He was

born in the year 1452 not far from Florence and near the river Arno, and

was declared by everyone to be one of the most beautiful children that

ever was seen. As soon as he could crawl, he would scramble away (if

his mother was busy and not thinking about him) to a place in the garden

where there was always a heap of mud after a shower of rain, and sit

happily on the ground pinching the mud into some sort of shape, which as

he grew older, took more and more the form of something he knew. When

his mother missed him and came in search of him, he would utter screams

of disgust. Then the only way to quiet him was to play to him on the

lute; for throughout his life Leonardo loved music, and at one time even

had serious thoughts of being a professional musician.

Ser Piero was very proud of his astonishing little son, and the boy was

still very young when his father decided that he must be taught by the

best masters that could be found for him. Leonardo was quite willing.

Lessons were no trouble to him and he speedily took away the breath of

all his teachers by the amazing quickness with which he grasped

everything. It did not matter if the subject was arithmetic, or the

principles of music, or the study of geometry; it was enough for the boy

to hear a thing once for him to understand and remember, and he

constantly asked his master such difficult questions and expressed

doubts so hard to explain, that the poor man was thankful indeed when

school hours were ended.

But whatever lessons he might be doing, Leonardo spent most of his spare

time in drawing and in modelling figures in clay, as he had done from

his babyhood. His father watched him for a time in silence, wondering

within himself which of the boy's many talents ought to be made the

occupation of his life, and at length he decided to take Leonardo to his

friend Andrea del Verrocchio, and consult him on the matter. Verrocchio,

like his pupil, was a painter, a geometrician, a sculptor, a goldsmith

and a musician, but had at last settled down as a sculptor, and only now

and then amused himself with other arts. When father and son entered his

studio or workshop, Piero gave Leonardo some clay, and bade him model

anything he fancied. The boy sat down on the floor, and soon finished a

tiny statuette which might have been the work of Verrocchio himself, so

true to life was the figure. The sculptor was delighted, and declared

that Leonardo must come to him, and that he was very sure the pupil

would shortly know as much as the master.

* * * * *

But though he had the gift of genius, Leonardo took as much trouble with

his work as if he had just been an ordinary child, with his whole future

life depending on his industry. And as some of you are perhaps fond of

drawing, you may like to hear how one of the greatest artists in the

world set about his pictures. First he took a handful of clay and poked

it and pinched it until he had got his figure exactly as he wanted it to

be. Then he dipped pieces of soft material in plaster, and arranged them

in folds over the naked figure. Often the stuff was too stiff and would

not go in the proper lines, but long ago Leonardo had learned that no

man could be an artist of any kind unless he was possessed of endless

patience, and he would sit for hours over his figure, taking the drapery

off and trying it afresh, till at length it assumed exactly the right

shape. As soon as he had a model precisely to his mind, he would stretch

a bit of very fine cambric or linen, that was old and soft, upon a

board, and on this--or sometimes on paper--he would copy his figure in

pencil. As he grew older, Verrocchio would teach him how you could raise

heavy weights by the help of levers or cranes, how to draw up water from

immense depths, or how to tunnel through mountains--for the Italians

have always been famous for their skill as engineers. But it was the boy

Leonardo, and not the man Verrocchio, who invented the plan of so

altering the course of the river Arno that a canal might be cut between

the cities of Florence and Pisa. Leonardo did not live to see this done,

but two hundred years after his death a pupil of the astronomer Galileo

executed it after his scheme, for the Medici ruler of Florence. He was

very anxious also to raise the Church of San Giovanni and to rest it on

stone 'steps,' as he called them, and showed the Signory or governing

citizens of Florence how it could be done. And, says his chronicler, so

persuasive was his tongue and so good seemed his reasons that while he

was speaking he moved them to belief in his words, although out of his

presence they all well knew it was impossible.

_Was_ it? one wonders now.

Many stories, of course, were told of him during these years--for the

Florentines were not slow to find out the genius who dwelt among

them--and here is one that is very characteristic of the boy. Verrocchio

was working on a picture of the baptism of our Lord by St. John, and he

entrusted the painting of the Angel standing by to his pupil. When it

was finished the master came and looked at it, and remained silently

gazing at the figure. He was too true an artist not to feel at once that

he and Leonardo had changed places, and that the boy's Angel was worth

more than all the rest of the picture. The chronicler tells us that he

was so wounded at this discovery that he never touched paint any more,

but though it is always rather hard to find ourselves thrown into the

shade, probably Verrocchio's renunciation of painting lay deeper than

mere envy. Why should he do badly what another could do perfectly? The

boy's genius was greater than his: let his master be the first to admit

it.

Leonardo's father, Ser Piero, had gone to his country house to escape

the heats of a Florentine summer. He was resting one evening in his

garden when a servant appeared, saying that one of his farmers desired

to speak with him. Ser Piero gave orders that the man should be brought

to him, as he knew him well, and they had often fished together.

'Well, what now, Francisco?' he asked, as the farmer came up bowing, and

bearing in his hands a wooden shield. The man explained that he had cut

down a fig tree near his house, because it was old and bore no fruit,

and had himself cut the shield he was carrying out of the wood, and had

brought it to his lord, humbly hoping that Ser Piero might have the

goodness to get it painted with some design, for he wished to hang it up

in his kitchen, as a remembrance of the old tree.

'Very willingly will I do so,' answered Ser Piero, and when next he went

to Florence he sought out his son and handed him the shield, merely

telling him to paint something on it. Leonardo happened to be busy at

the moment, but as soon as he had time to examine the piece of wood he

found it was rough and ill made, and would need much attention before

it would be possible to paint it. The first thing he did was to hold the

shield before the fire till the fibres were softened and the crookedness

could be straightened out. The surface was then planed and made smooth,

and covered with gypsum.

So far he had not thought what the picture should be, but now he began

to consider this important matter, and as he pondered a look of mischief

danced in his eyes.

'I know! That will do!' he said to himself. 'The person who owns it,

whoever he is, shall be as frightened as if he saw the head of Medusa;

only, instead of being turned to stone, he will most likely run away!'

And still smiling, Leonardo left the workshop and went to his room,

taking the shield in a cloth. Then he went out into the fields and

hunted about till he had collected a quantity of strange creatures,

hedgehogs, lizards, tadpoles, locusts, snakes and many others, for he

knew as much about what is called 'Natural History' as he did about

everything else, and could tell exactly where these animals could be

found.

As soon as he had collected enough he carried them back and locked them

safely up in a kind of lumber room, where nobody was allowed to enter

but himself. He then sat down and began to place them so as to cause

them to form one horrible monster, with eyes and legs everywhere. It was

a long time before he could make anything horrid enough to please him;

again and again he undid his work, and tried to combine his creatures

differently, but at last something so terrible stared him in the face

that he almost felt frightened.

'That is all right, I think,' he said with a laugh. 'The monster is

ready, but I must find a background fitting for him.'

Taking the shield, he painted on it a black and narrow cavern. At its

mouth stood the creature without form; all eyes, all legs, all mouths.

Flames poured from it on every side, and a cloud of vapour rose upwards

from its many nostrils. After days of hard labour, during which the

animals died and filled the room with a smell from which even a boy

might well be expected to shrink, Leonardo visited his father and

told him he had finished the shield which he hoped would please him, and

that he might have it whenever he liked. Ser Piero was at the time

engaged in superintending his harvest, but when he was free he set off

to see his son. Leonardo himself answered his knock, and, showing his

father into another room, begged him to wait for a few minutes while he

put away his work. Then he rushed back to the studio, darkened the

window a little, and carefully chose a position for the easel on which

the shield was standing.

[Illustration: LEONARDO FRIGHTENS HIS FATHER WITH THE MONSTER PAINTED ON

HIS SHIELD.]

'Will you come in now, father?' he said holding open the door, but no

sooner was Ser Piero within the room than he turned to fly, so terrible

was the object that met his gaze.

'It will do, I see,' remarked Leonardo, catching him by the arm. 'I

wanted to make something so dreadful that men would shiver with fear at

the sight of it. Take it away, I pray you, and do with it as you will.

But stay, I had better wrap it first in a cloth, lest it should frighten

people out of their wits as you go along.'

Ser Piero took it, and departed without a word to his son; he really

felt quite shaken from the shock he had had, and he determined that so

wonderful a painting should never fall into the hands of a peasant. So

he went to a shop where he found a shield the same size as the other,

bearing the device of a heart pierced by an arrow, and when next he went

into the country he bade the farmer come up to the house to receive it.

'Oh Excellency! how beautiful! how can I ever thank you for your

goodness?' cried the man in delight when, after his long waiting, the

shield was at last delivered to him.

'I thought you would be pleased,' answered Ser Piero, smiling to himself

as he pictured what would have been the face of the man before him, had

he been given Leonardo's monster. But this he kept for some time and

then sold to a merchant for a hundred ducats, who in his turn parted

with it to the Duke of Milan for three times the price.

In this way Leonardo da Vinci grew to manhood, gaining friends as he

went by his beauty and his talents, and keeping them by his sweetness of

temper and his generosity. He loved all animals, especially horses, and

could never see a caged bird without trying to buy it, in order to set

it free.

The kings and popes of those days were always eager to attract artists

to their courts, and vied with each other in trying to outbid rivals,

and when he was very young Leonardo received a commission from the King

of Portugal to draw a design for some hangings to be copied in silk in

Flanders. He painted an immense number of portraits, some to please

himself and others ordered by his friends, and decorated, either with

painting or sculpture, a great many churches and other buildings. Two of

his pictures, at any rate, you may perhaps know from engravings of

them--the portrait of Francesco del Giocondo's wife, bought by Francis

the First and lately stolen from the Louvre, and the Last Supper,

painted for the Dominican monks in Milan, and now almost ruined by the

damp.

Leonardo was forty-one when he was invited to go to Milan by the

celebrated Lodovico Sforza, uncle to the reigning duke. Knowing that

Lodovico--il Moro, as he was called--had a passion for music, the

painter constructed with his own hands a silver instrument, shaped like

a horse's head, to which he sang tunes invented by himself, to words

made up as he went along. This delighted Lodovico and also his wife, the

young daughter of the Duke of Ferrara, who had been brought up amongst

musicians and poets. Those were gay days at Milan, when all did their

best to produce some form of beauty and everybody's 'best' was so very

good. But dark days were soon to follow, and in a great measure they

were the work of Lodovico himself.

The French, on one excuse or another, were trying hard to get a footing

in Italy; Louis XII. even laid claim to the Duchy of Milan. Then came

his cousin and successor Francis I., whom (in the hope of gaining his

favour) Lodovico particularly wished to honour.

'What can you invent, Messer Leonardo?' Lodovico asked the painter. 'I

want something no one has ever seen before; the king must be tired of

grand shows, and he can get them at home. Of course we shall be obliged

to give him a splendid reception for the sake of our own credit, but I

should like something besides, which he can remember.'

So Messer Leonardo thought and thought, and the end of his thinking was

that when the King of France entered Milan, a lion, life size, advanced

to meet him, and touched the king's breast with his own. By means of a

spring the lion's breast opened and from it fell sheaves of white

lilies, the emblem of France.

Then too the other Italian princes wished to employ him and to make use

of his varied talents. One of the Borgias sent him round the various

cities over which he ruled, to inspect their fortifications, and to see

what new engineering works were needed to withstand the constant sieges

and the wars of state with state. Naturally the cardinals would not

remain behindhand, especially those of the Medici family, Leonardo's own

countrymen, and hearing that his kinsman Giuliano had induced the artist

to travel to Rome in his train, Leo X. sent for him and after a long

talk on many subjects expressed a desire to know if the painter was able

to make figures that would fly. The idea delighted Leonardo, and he

instantly set about some experiments. After many failures he at length

succeeded in producing a kind of paste out of wax, and while it was

still half melted he modelled some little horses and dogs and lions,

scooping out the wax till only a very thin outer covering was left, all

the rest being hollow. Into the figures he managed to blow some air, and

as long as the air was in them they flew about to the joy and surprise

of everyone, but when it was all exhausted the horses and dogs and lions

came tumbling on the floor, one on top of another. Another day, when the

talk had turned on feats of strength, somebody inquired whether what he

had been told was true, that Leonardo was stronger than any man in

Florence.

'Here I am; try me,' answered the painter.

'We will,' they all cried, and sent a servant for a horseshoe, and for

an iron ring such as was used for doorknockers.

'Now see if you can bend these,' they said, and Leonardo took them and

bent them as easily as Samson broke the ropes of the Philistines.

The last few years of his life Leonardo passed in France, where Francis

I. was now king. Many of his pictures were already there, and there were

others which Francis desired him to paint. But the artist was tired and

ill, and made all sorts of excuses to avoid beginning his work. At last

he told the king, who frequently came to visit him, that it was time he

left the things of this world and turned his thoughts to the other which

he would soon enter. His words were repeated sorrowfully among his

friends, and though they fain would have denied their truth, yet they

could not. So in May 1519 he died, leaving behind him a memory that will

live while painting endures. But he was mourned, not only on account of

his many talents and splendid works of all sorts, but for the beauty of

his face, which lasted till his death, his merry words that lightened

the burden of those who were sad, and his kindness and generosity to all

who stood in need of help and comfort.

_THE ADVENTURES OF A SPANISH NUN_

If you had visited the convent of St. Sebastian in the Spanish town of

the same name at the end of the sixteenth century, you would have found

there a merry, naughty, clever little girl called Catalina de Erauso,

the torment and delight of all the nuns. Catalina had been sent to the

convent when she was quite a baby, because her father, like many other

gentlemen in the Spain of those days, was too poor to provide for his

daughters as well as his sons. And in general the girls were happy

enough in the life into which they had been thrust without any will of

their own, and were allowed a certain amount of pleasure and could see

their relations from time to time.

The Senor de Erauso, Catalina's father, had fixed on this particular

convent out of the many he had for choice, because his sister-in-law was

the Mother Superior. Like the rest of the nuns she was very fond of the

child who was so ready with her tongue, so clever with her hands, so

quick to forgive an injury done her, if only the offender would say she

was sorry! Some day, no doubt, Catalina would take her place as abbess,

and her aunt felt that under her rule all would go well, for unruly as

the child often was, she had the gift of winning love from everybody.

But if she had only known, Catalina had not the smallest intention of

spending her days in the convent overlooking the Bay of Biscay. From her

father and brothers she heard stories of the wars which had quite lately

been raging in France between the Catholics and Huguenots; how a few

years earlier several of her own kinsmen had gone down in the great

storm which had sunk so many of the ships of the huge Armada, sent to

conquer England. Something, too, she picked up of the wonders of the

lands beyond the ocean, discovered a hundred years ago by Christopher

Columbus. All this and much more, Catalina stored in her head, and,

though she said nothing even to her closest friends, soon began to play

in her mind at 'escaping from the convent.'

At first she was only in fun, and enjoyed, as many of us do, making up

stories about herself. Then gradually the idea of taking part in the big

world beyond the gates became too precious to set aside, and at last it

so possessed her, that she only waited for the chance of carrying it

out.

This happened when she was fifteen--a tall, strong, handsome girl full

of energy and courage, and quick to decide whatever question came before

her.

* * * * *

One day the nuns assembled as usual for vespers or evening prayers, and

just as they were all going into chapel the Superior discovered that she

had left her psalm-book upstairs, locked in her writing-table. Summoning

Catalina, she handed her a key, and bade her unlock the drawer in which

the book was kept, and bring it to her as fast as possible. The girl ran

upstairs, but when she saw lying in the locked drawer, not only the

book, but the key of the convent gate, it darted into her mind that now,

if ever, was her opportunity to quit the convent. Yet even at that

moment, she did not let her excitement get the better of her. She

snatched up some loose money from the drawer and a small work-case that

lay on a table and hid it in her dress, and without stopping a moment

ran down to the great door of the convent, which she unlocked. She next

rejoined her aunt who was waiting for her, and asked if she might go

straight to bed, as she had a bad headache.

In this manner she secured to herself a good start, as no one would

think about her for hours to come. She passed through the door

carefully, locking it after her, and crept cautiously along by the wall

till she reached a chestnut wood on the outskirts of the town. Here she

flung herself down on a heap of dry leaves and slept till sunrise.

This, fortunately for her, was very early, as she had much to do before

she continued her journey. Her dress would have told any passer-by that

she was a nun, or at least that she had come from a convent, and that

was the last thing they must ever guess! Slipping off therefore her

white petticoat, Catalina began at once to turn it into trousers such as

men then wore, and in three or four hours had finished a pair which, if

not exactly fashionable, would pass unnoticed. She next managed to

change her long robe into a cloak, and satisfied that she would do well

enough, the girl started on a walk to a town not far off, where she had

resolved to try and find shelter with an elderly cousin.

It took her two days to arrive at his house, and all that time she had

nothing but wild fruits and berries to live on. Of course she did not

tell the cousin who she was, but merely asked if he would give

hospitality to a traveller for a short time, which the kind old man was

glad to do. Here Catalina rested after the fatigues she had undergone,

but life in the town house was far more dull than life in the convent,

and the girl had not run away for _that_! So in a few days she was again

missing, and a handful of dollars also. Not very many, but just enough

to take her on her way.

* * * * *

We meet Catalina next in the famous city of Valladolid, where King

Philip III. was holding his court. Here she found things much more to

her taste, and like what she had pictured. Men were walking through the

streets in huge felt hats, with flowing cloaks over their fine clothes.

Coaches drawn by mules jolted along and inside she caught a glimpse of

ringleted heads and small bodies lost under hooped petticoats. There

were soldiers, too, in abundance and bands playing music--the first

Catalina had ever heard outside the convent chapel. It so delighted her

that she stopped to listen, and at that moment some idle men began to

laugh at her clumsy garments, and even threw stones at her. This was

more than any Spanish girl could bear, even if she _had_ been brought up

in a convent. _She_ could--and did--throw stones too, with a better aim

than theirs, and very soon blood from cut heads was streaming on the

roads. But the Spanish police who hurried to the spot on hearing the

cries of the wounded men, did not stop to inquire into the rights of the

quarrel, and would have straightway flung Catalina into prison, had not

a young officer who had been watching the fight from his windows

hastened to interfere, and insisted that the stranger should be

released.

'You are a brave boy,' he said, 'and if you like to be my page, I will

gladly take you into my house.'

Catalina was grateful for the offer and remained there for three months,

feeling very proud of herself in her page's dress of dark-blue velvet.

She would have stayed with the young don for much longer, had she not

been frightened out of her wits one night at dusk by the appearance, in

the dark little ante-room where she sat, of her own father.

He did not know her, of course; how should he? But all the same, he had

come to tell of her escape to Catalina's master, who was in a sort of

way lord of the convent. Waiting in the ante-room, the girl heard all

their conversation, and in dread lest she should fall into the hands of

the Church and be sent back to St. Sebastian she resolved to run off

before there was any risk of her being traced.

Now at that time a fleet was being fitted out for Peru, and was to sail

from a seaport in the South. The scraps of talk on the subject which she

had overheard in the house of the young don had fired her with the wish

to go with the army in search of adventures. At the time there seemed

little chance of her doing so, but while crossing the dark streets of

Valladolid in her flight, the idea occurred to her that if she could

manage to get on board one of the ships, she would be out of reach of

capture. It was a long way to travel--almost the whole length of

Spain--but by joining first one party and then another, Catalina at last

found herself in the port of San Lucar. All volunteers were welcome, and

convent-bred though she was, Catalina soon managed to pick up a good

deal of seamanship, while her clever hands and her strength combined

made her quickly useful. Even with fair winds it was months before they

reached the coast of Peru for which they were bound, and when they

were almost there, their troubles began. A frightful storm arose that

blew the fleet in all directions, and the vessel in which Catalina was

serving was flung on a coral reef. The sea was running high, and the

ship had a deep hole in her side, and all on board knew that twenty-four

hours at farthest would see her sucked beneath the water.

[Illustration: CATALINA RESCUED BY THE YOUNG OFFICER.]

At the prospect of this awful doom the sailors grew frantic, and

hastened to lower the long-boat and scramble into it. The captain alone

refused to leave the ship, and Catalina refused to leave him. Instead,

she hurriedly lashed a few spars together so as to form a raft which,

even if it would not support the weight of both, would at least give

them something to cling to while they swam ashore. As she was working at

the raft with all her might, a vivid flash of lightning showed an

enormous wave breaking over the distant boat and sweeping away the crew,

who disappeared for ever.

* * * * *

A fit of despondency had seized on the captain, and it was in vain that

the girl tried to put some of her own spirit into him. At length she

realised that she had only herself to depend on, and left him alone. As

soon as the raft was ready, she went down to his cabin and broke open a

box of gold, out of which she took a handful of coins, tying them up in

a pillow-case and fastening them securely to the raft, for she dare not

put them on her own person lest the weight should sink her when once she

found herself in the sea.

The moment Catalina appeared again on deck, she saw that the ship was

sinking fast, and that no time was to be lost. She lowered the raft and,

calling to the captain to follow her, plunged into the sea. He obeyed

her, but did not give the vessel a sufficiently wide berth, and, falling

against a jutting spar, was struck senseless and sucked under the

vessel. Catalina had managed better. She contrived to get on the raft

and was gently washed on shore by the rising tide, though she was too

much exhausted by all she had gone through to have been able to swim

there for herself.

For a while she lay upon the sand almost unconscious, but the hot sun

which appeared suddenly above the horizon warmed her body and dried her

clothes, and awoke her usual energy. She soon sat up and looked about

her, but the prospect was not cheering; a desolate track stretched away

north and south, and she did not know on which side stood the town of

Paita whither the fleet had been bound. However, she reflected she would

never find it by sitting still, and got up and climbed a rock to enable

her to see farther. Great was her joy at beholding that the raft, with

the money on it, had stuck in a cleft some way off along the beach, and

after she had placed the coins in her own pockets she perceived a barrel

of ship's biscuits at a little distance. To be sure, the biscuits were

half soaked with sea water, but even so they tasted quite nice to a

starving girl.

* * * * *

A walk of three days brought her to Paita, where she bought some fresh

clothes and obtained a situation as clerk to a merchant. But she did not

keep this very long, as she incurred the jealousy of a young man who

owed money to her employer. He picked a violent quarrel with Catalina,

who had to fight a duel with him. Without intending to kill him, her

sword passed through his body, with the result that she soon found

herself in the hands of the police. By a mixture of cunning and good

fortune, Catalina managed to escape from the prison in which she was

confined, and making her way through the narrow streets to the harbour,

she got into a small boat moored there and hoisted a sail. She was

afraid to use the oars as she had no means of muffling them. The wind

was behind her and she was quickly swept far out to sea,--in what

direction she had not the least idea. For hours she saw nothing, and was

wondering if she had escaped so many dangers only to die of hunger and

thirst, when towards sunset she beheld a ship coming straight across her

path. With her heart in her mouth she waved her handkerchief, though it

seemed hardly possible that so small a thing should be visible in that

vast expanse of sea. But it was, and the ship lay to, waiting for the

boat to be blown up to her, which happened just after the sun had set

beneath the horizon, and the short twilight of the tropics was over.

Then it occurred to Catalina that if the name of her boat was seen she

might be traced as having come from Paita, and be given up for murder.

So standing up she rocked it gently from side to side till it was filled

with water, then giving it a final kick to make sure it would sink,

snatched at the rope which was dangling down the ship's side, and was

hauled on board.

The vessel was on her way to Chili and was filled with recruits for the

war then raging with the Indians, and Catalina of course at once

declared her wish to throw in her lot with them. When at length they

arrived at the port for which they were bound, a cavalry officer came to

inspect the newly enlisted soldiers before they were landed, and

Catalina was startled to hear him addressed by her own name. It was,

though he was quite unaware of it, her eldest brother, who had last seen

her when she was three years old. Yet, though from first to last he

never guessed the truth, he took an immediate fancy to 'Pedro Diaz'--for

so Catalina called herself--and, as soon as he heard that Pedro was a

native of his own province of Biscaya, greeted him kindly and placed him

in his own regiment. But much as she longed to tell him who she was, she

dared not do so, for who could tell, if it were once known that she was

a woman and had run away from a convent, what the consequences might be?

* * * * *

Years passed away and Catalina--or 'Pedro Diaz'--had distinguished

herself on many occasions as a cavalry officer. Then a terrible thing

occurred. A lieutenant in her own regiment came to her and begged her to

be his 'second' in a duel to be fought at eleven that night under the

walls of a monastery. Catalina, though ready enough with her own sword

if her hot temper was roused, had no fancy for duelling, and somehow

felt more than usually unwilling to be mixed up with this affair.

However, the young man begged her so earnestly not to refuse his request

that at last she consented. When the moment arrived it was so dark that

the two 'principals' were forced to tie white handkerchiefs round their

arms, in order to see where to attack; and as they were afraid of

arousing the attention of the monks, hardly a word was spoken. The

signal was given by the other second, and the duel began--a duel 'to the

death.' After a sharp struggle both principals fell to the ground,

wounded mortally, and according to the code of honour, which lasted

nearly a hundred years longer, it was necessary for the seconds to fight

in order to avenge them. To Catalina, who had no quarrel with any one,

this custom was hateful, and she tried only to defend herself without

touching her adversary. But in the dark her foot slipped and the point

of her sword entered his side.

'Villain! You have killed me!' he cried. They were his last words, and

the voice that uttered them was the voice of Catalina's brother!

Too much horrified to stir, the poor woman remained glued to the spot,

till she found herself suddenly seized by the monks who had been

awakened by the clash of weapons and by de Erauso's dying shriek. The

glare of their torches revealed that out of the four men who had met on

the ground half an hour earlier only one survived, and that one was too

crushed by the dreadful fate which had befallen her to be able to give

any explanation. The monks kept her safely in their chapel for a few

days, and then, when her mind and body had partly recovered from the

shock, they provided her with a horse and a knapsack filled with food,

and bade her farewell. But where to go she knew not. After the awful

thing that had happened she could never return to her regiment.

* * * * *

After three days' riding she came suddenly upon two soldiers who had

deserted from the Spanish army, and were almost starving. As soon as

Catalina had shared her food with them and they felt revived, they all

agreed that their best plan was to climb over the great mountain chain

of the Andes, which runs the whole length of South America, and once on

the other side they would be safe and free to go where they would.

They little knew what they were undertaking. Many of the peaks are over

20,000 feet high, and are covered with perpetual snow. There was rarely

to be found any material for a fire, and if by any chance they _did_

come on a few sticks, they were ignorant of the Indians' secret of

kindling a flame. Soon, even the wild berries of the lower regions were

left behind; there was nothing for them to eat, and very shortly it

became evident that the day of the deserters was done.

By this time they were among masses of rocks which stood out in black

groups from the snow, and for an instant hope rose again in their hearts

at the sight of a man leaning against a tall pillar of stone, with a gun

in his hand. There was something to shoot then in this fearful white

solitude! An eagle perhaps, or, better still, a bear; and with a cry of

joy to her companions, Catalina hastened on to greet the stranger. At

the news, fresh life seemed to pour into their veins and they stumbled

after her as fast as their weakness would allow. They were a little

surprised that the man never appeared to see or hear them as they

approached, but imagined that the snow had deadened the sound of their

footsteps. Was he asleep? In that position? It was not likely! Certainly

there was something very odd about him, and Catalina, striding on before

the two soldiers, touched him on the shoulder. With a clatter the gun

fell to the ground beside him, but he himself did not stir. Then the

frightful truth burst upon her. The man was frozen to death!

After this there was no more hope for the two deserters. One sank into

the snow first, the other staggered a few yards farther, and upon both

came the frozen sleep that knows no waking and which, it is said, is

painless.

* * * * *

So Catalina was left to pursue her way alone, wondering all the while

how soon _her_ strength also would fail her, and _her_ bones be left to

whiten with the rest. There was something more dreadful to her in the

solitude and stillness of the mountains than there ever had been in the

solitude of the sea, on the lonely coast of Peru. Yet she went on

blindly, almost unconsciously, till she was awakened from her

half-paralysed state by the sight of a belt of olive trees lying below

her. Where there were trees, there was probably water; possibly, even

men! And down she went, stumbling over stones, sliding along the edge of

precipices, till she fell, senseless from exhaustion, under their

shadow.

It was hours before she came to herself again, and she might have slept

on still longer, had not the sound of horses' hoofs aroused her. The

wood was thick and the horsemen might have passed without noticing the

figure in the tall grass, had not a ray of sunshine suddenly struck on

some silver lace of Catalina's uniform. Jumping instantly to the ground,

they examined her closely and guessed at the reasons of her plight.

Taking out a skin bottle, one poured brandy down her throat--though it

was no light matter to force her teeth open--and another rubbed her

temples. After she had shown signs of life they placed her on a horse,

supporting her in the saddle, for she was still too weak and dazed to

sit upright.

It was a long time--or it seemed so to Catalina--before the little

company drew up at the door of a large house, and a girl ran out to see

how it was that the servants who had been sent by her mother to the

nearest town should have returned so soon. The poor wanderer received

from both ladies the kindest welcome; and food, a warm bed, and rest

soon set her to rights, and of course nobody dreamed that she was

anything but the soldier she appeared. For a while Catalina was thankful

to remain where she was, basking in the sun and enjoying the company of

the Senora and her daughter.

It was the first time since she left Valladolid that she had ever been

inside a home.

Yet, grateful as she was for all the kindness shown her, Catalina felt

she could not remain for ever a guest of the widowed Senora; and she was

glad when the lady proposed that they should all visit a large town

lying to the south, for purposes of business. 'And,' Catalina thought to

herself, 'it will be easy for me, when I am once there, to invent some

excuse for bidding them farewell. I cannot pass my life in a hammock

under trees, thankful though I am for the rest which has been given me.'

But she did not guess that the 'excuse' she wanted was to be obtained

only at the risk of her own neck.

Wandering about the town, she fell in with some Portuguese, and as she

was fond of cards she was readily persuaded by them to sit down and

gamble. Very soon, her suspicions were roused that they were not playing

fair, and she watched them more closely.

'Yes; I was sure of it,' she thought, and grew so angry that she would

have liked to challenge the whole twelve on the spot. Luckily, she

contrived with great difficulty to restrain herself, and resolved only

to fight the man who had won most of her money.

When this person left the gambling saloon, Catalina kept him in sight,

but did not attempt to speak to him till she saw him stop before one of

the houses in a dark street. Then she quickened her steps, and, tapping

him on the shoulder, remarked: 'Senor, you are a robber.'

'It is possible,' answered the Portuguese, turning coolly; 'but I don't

care about being told so,' and drew his sword.

Catalina drew hers, and, after a quick sharp fight, dealt him a mortal

blow. As he fell, she looked round hastily, fearing that some of his

friends might be at hand to avenge him, but all was silent. Satisfied

that nobody was watching her, she tried the door, which opened

instantly, and dragged the body into the passage. This done she went

back to the Senora's house, and getting into bed slept soundly, only

awakening the following morning to find her room filled with police.

Catalina never knew exactly how her fight with the dead man had been

discovered, and as she was instantly put in prison to await her trial,

perhaps it did not much matter. False witnesses were easily found who

trumped up a story of vengeance, and it was useless for Catalina to

swear that she had never seen the Portuguese gentleman till that

evening, and knew nothing at all about him. The fact that the dead man

was a native of the place, while she was a stranger, told heavily

against her, and sentence was passed that she should be hanged in the

public square in eight days' time.

Wearing her lieutenant's uniform from which she steadily declined to be

parted, Catalina walked firmly up the ladder to the gallows on the

appointed day. The executioner was new to his work, and bungled the

noose which he had to place round Catalina's neck.

'Here, let _me_ do it,' she said at last; 'it is plain _you_ have never

been at sea.' But all the same, the man's clumsiness had saved her, for

before he could pull the knot, an order arrived from the Governor of the

State to postpone the execution till fresh inquiries could be made. In

the end the truth came out, and Catalina was set free, but was advised

by the Governor not to remain in that part of the country for the

present.

The advice was felt to be good by them all, but as Catalina had no money

the good Senora again came to the rescue, and gave her enough to buy a

horse and to take her to a large town, where she might find something to

do. When at length Catalina reached the city, which bore the name of Paz

or 'Peace,' some soldiers who were lounging in the streets stood up, and

stared so hard at her beautiful black horse that Catalina began to

suspect that something was the matter. The soldiers said nothing

whatever to _her_, but one of them, catching sight of a gentleman a few

paces off, ran up to him and whispered something. The mayor, for such he

was, walked up to Catalina, who inquired if she could be of service to

him.

'These men,' said he, 'declare that the horse you are riding was stolen

from them.'

Catalina did not answer directly, but, leaping to the ground, flung the

loose saddle-cloth over the horse's head. 'I bought it and paid for it

in La Plata,' she replied; 'but if, your worship, these men _really_ own

the horse, they will be able to tell you _which_ is its blind eye.'

'The left,' cried one.

'No; the right,' exclaimed the other.

'Well, it must be _one_ of the two, mustn't it, your worship?' asked

she.

'No, no! we remember now,' they replied, consulting each other by a

glance and a sign; 'it is the left, of course.'

[Illustration: HAD IT NOT BEEN FOR THE INTERFERENCE OF THE BISHOP

HIMSELF, IT WOULD HAVE GONE HARDLY WITH CATALINA]

'Are you sure?' she asked again. 'Yes--quite sure; certain.'

Upon that Catalina whisked off the saddle-cloth, and said gaily to the

mayor:

'Now, your worship, if you will take the trouble to look, you will see

that the horse has nothing the matter with either eye!'

Then she bowed and rode away to look for a dinner.

* * * * *

Catalina's last adventure in South America was a wild ride to the town

of Cuzco, carrying on her saddle a lady whose half-mad husband was

seeking to murder her. He was following fast behind, and his horse was

laden with no double burden, so that in every way he had the advantage.

But Catalina was a better rider, and had some start, so, in spite of a

wound in her horse's flank, she won the day and placed the lady in

safety in a convent. The husband, arriving just in time to see his

victim escape him, at once unsheathed his sword, and inflicted some

severe wounds on Catalina. Indeed, had it not been for the interference

of the bishop himself, it would have gone hardly with her.

But when, half fainting from loss of blood, she was carried into the

palace and a doctor was summoned, she knew that the moment she had

dreaded had come, and that she must now confess that, in spite of all

her exploits and all her daring, she was only a woman. Always prompt to

make up her mind, she asked for an interview with the bishop, who

listened to her tale with amazement and sympathy. By his advice she

entered a convent till he could write to Spain and to the Pope, and

obtain forgiveness for having thrown off her nun's habit, nearly twenty

years before. As soon as could be expected, though not till after many

months, the answer came: Catalina was to be sent back to Spain.

* * * * *

It was at the end of November 1624 that the ship entered the harbour of

Cadiz, and saw a gilded barge approaching, rowed by men in royal livery.

Who could it be intended for? There was no one on board either great or

famous! At least so they thought, but it appears they were wrong, for

there was _one_ person whose adventures had thrilled the hearts of both

king and people, and that was Catalina herself. As she left the barge

and mounted the steps she beheld the famous Minister Olivarez waiting to

receive her, and crowds thronged the streets through which she passed on

her way to the palace.

Here she was requested to tell her story to the court, and as some

reward for her courage in battle and for her loyalty to the crown, a

pension for life was settled upon her. Poor Catalina felt very strange

in the stiff uncomfortable dress of a Spanish lady, and far more than

her honours and her pension did she value the permission of the Pope

(whom she visited at Rome a few months later) to wear on all occasions

the uniform of a cavalry officer, together with a sword and spurs.

For ten years Catalina remained in Spain, leading a quiet life, and

feeling, if the truth be told, terribly dull. She was forty-three when

she heard that an expedition to South America was again being fitted

out, and she lost no time in joining the army. Oh, how happy she was to

be back in the old life, where, even in the slow voyages of those times,

a stirring adventure might befall you at any hour of the day or night!

They sailed first to the Gulf of Mexico and stopped in the port of Vera

Cruz, where the officers arranged to go on shore and have a grand dinner

at the best inn in the place. Catalina was of course to go with them,

and jumped into the boat with the rest, laughing and talking in the

highest spirits as if twenty years had rolled from her. In a quarter of

an hour they reached the inn, but as they gathered round the table,

someone inquired: 'Where is Catalina?'

'Catalina? Isn't she here?' was the answer. 'Certainly she was in the

boat, for she sat by me!'

'Well, but where has she gone?' Ah! that no one knew--and what is more,

no one ever _did_ know!