a beautiful part of the country. He was not only poor, but inexpert in
procuring food for his family, and his children were all too young to
give him assistance. Although poor, he was a man of a kind and
contented disposition. He was always thankful to the Great Spirit for
everything he received. The same disposition was inherited by his
eldest son, who had now arrived at the proper age to undertake the
ceremony of the Ke-ig-uish-im-o-win, or fast, to see what kind of a
spirit would be his guide and guardian through life. Wunzh, for this
was his name, had been an obedient boy from his infancy, and was of a
pensive, thoughtful, and mild disposition, so that he was beloved by
the whole family. As soon as the first indications of spring appeared,
they built him the customary little lodge at a retired spot, some
distance from their own, where he would not be disturbed during this
solemn rite. In the meantime he prepared himself, and immediately went
into it, and commenced his fast. The first few days he amused himself,
in the mornings, by walking in the woods and over the mountains,
examining the early plants and flowers, and in this way prepared
himself to enjoy his sleep, and at the same time stored his mind with
pleasant ideas for his dreams. While he rambled through the woods, he
felt a strong desire to know how the plants, herbs, and berries grew
without any aid from man, and why it was that some species were good
to eat and others possessed medicinal or poisonous juices. He recalled
these thoughts to mind after he became too languid to walk about, and
had confined himself strictly to the lodge; he wished he could dream
of something that would prove a benefit to his father and family, and
to all others. "True!" he thought, "the Great Spirit made all things,
and it is to him that we owe our lives. But could he not make it
easier for us to get our food than by hunting animals and taking fish?
I must try to find out this in my visions."
[Footnote 27: From "The Myth of Hiawatha."]
On the third day he became weak and faint, and kept his bed. He
fancied, while thus lying, that he saw a handsome young man coming
down from the sky and advancing toward him. He was richly and gayly
dressed, having on a great many garments of green and yellow colours,
but differing in their deeper or lighter shades. He had a plume of
waving feathers on his head, and all his motions were graceful.
"I am sent to you, my friend," said the celestial visitor, "by that
Great Spirit who made all things in the sky and on the earth. He has
seen and knows your motives in fasting. He sees that it is from a kind
and benevolent wish to do good to your people, and to procure a
benefit for them, and that you do not seek for strength in war or the
praise of warriors. I am sent to instruct you, and show you how you
can do your kindred good." He then told the young man to arise, and
prepare to wrestle with him, as it was only by this means that he
could hope to succeed in his wishes. Wunzh knew he was weak from
fasting, but he felt his courage rising in his heart, and immediately
got up, determined to die rather than fail. He commenced the trial,
and after a protracted effort was almost exhausted when the beautiful
stranger said, "My friend, it is enough for once; I will come again to
try you"; and, smiling on him, he ascended in the air in the same
direction from which he came. The next day the celestial visitor
reappeared at the same hour and renewed the trial. Wunzh felt that his
strength was even less than the day before, but the courage of his
mind seemed to increase in proportion as his body became weaker.
Seeing this, the stranger again spoke to him in the same words he used
before, adding, "To-morrow will be your last trial. Be strong, my
friend, for this is the only way you can overcome me, and obtain the
boon you seek." On the third day he again appeared at the same time
and renewed the struggle. The poor youth was very faint in body, but
grew stronger in mind at every contest, and was determined to prevail
or perish in the attempt. He exerted his utmost powers, and after the
contest had been continued the usual time, the stranger ceased his
efforts and declared himself conquered. For the first time he entered
the lodge, and sitting down beside the youth, he began to deliver his
instructions to him, telling him in what manner he should proceed to
take advantage of his victory.
"You have won your desires of the Great Spirit," said the stranger.
"You have wrestled manfully. To-morrow will be the seventh day of your
fasting, your father will give you food to strengthen you, and as it
is the last day of trial, you will prevail. I know this, and now tell
you what you must do to benefit your family and your tribe.
To-morrow," he repeated, "I shall meet you and wrestle with you for
the last time; and, as soon as you have prevailed against me, you will
strip off my garments and throw me down, clean the earth of roots and
weeds, make it soft, and bury me in the spot. When you have done this,
leave my body in the earth, and do not disturb it, but come
occasionally to visit the place, to see whether I have come to life,
and be careful never to let the grass or weeds grow on my grave. Once
a month cover me with fresh earth. If you follow my instructions, you
will accomplish your object of doing good to your fellow-creatures by
teaching them the knowledge I now teach you." He then shook him by the
hand and disappeared.
In the morning the youth's father came with some slight refreshments,
saying, "My son, you have fasted long enough. If the Great Spirit will
favour you, he will do it now. It is seven days since you have tasted
food, and you must not sacrifice your life. The Master of Life does
not require that." "My father," replied the youth, "wait till the sun
goes down. I have a particular reason for extending my fast to that
hour." "Very well," said the old man. "I shall wait till the hour
arrives, and you feel inclined to eat."
At the usual hour of the day the sky visitor returned, and the trial
of strength was renewed. Although the youth had not availed himself of
his father's offer of food, he felt that new strength had been given
to him, and that exertion had renewed his strength and fortified his
courage. He grasped his angelic antagonist with supernatural strength,
threw him down, took from him his beautiful garments and plume, and
finding him dead, immediately buried him on the spot, taking all the
precautions he had been told of, and being very confident, at the same
time, that his friend would again come to life. He then returned to
his father's lodge, and partook sparingly of the meal that had been
prepared for him. But he never for a moment forgot the grave of his
friend. He carefully visited it throughout the spring, and weeded out
the grass, and kept the ground in a soft and pliant state. Very soon
he saw the tops of the green plumes coming through the ground; and the
more careful he was to obey his instructions in keeping the ground in
order, the faster they grew. He was, however, careful to conceal the
exploit from his father. Days and weeks had passed in this way. The
summer was now drawing toward a close, when one day, after a long
absence in hunting, Wunzh invited his father to follow him to the
quiet and lonesome spot of his former fast. The lodge had been
removed, and the weeds kept from growing on the circle where it stood,
but in its place stood a tall and graceful plant, with bright coloured
silken hair, surmounted with nodding plumes and stately leaves, and
golden clusters on each side. "It is my friend," shouted the lad; "it
is the friend of all mankind. It is _Mondawmin_. We need no longer
rely on hunting alone; for, as long as this gift is cherished and
taken care of, the ground itself will give us a living." He then
pulled an ear. "See, my father," said he, "this is what I fasted for.
The Great Spirit has listened to my voice, and sent us something new,
and henceforth our people will not alone depend upon the chase or upon
the waters."
He then communicated to his father the instructions given him by the
stranger. He told him that the broad husks must be torn away, as he
had pulled off the garments in his wrestling; and having done this,
directed him how the ear must be held before the fire till the outer
skin became brown, while all the milk was retained in the grain. The
whole family then united in feast on the newly grown ears, expressing
gratitude to the Merciful Spirit who gave it. So corn came into the
world.
A MYSTERY IN THE KITCHEN[28]
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
The boy who has a sister and the girl who has a brother are
the ones who will best like this story of the spirited
twins, Jessie and Jack. Jessie wanted to take music lessons
and Jack tried mining in Colorado.
Something very mysterious was going on in the Jarvis kitchen. The
table was covered with all sorts of good things--eggs and butter and
raisins and citron and spices; and Jessie, with her sleeves rolled up
and a white apron on, was bustling about, measuring and weighing and
chopping and beating and mixing those various ingredients in a most
bewildering way.
[Footnote 28: From "Kristy's Surprise Party," Houghton, Mifflin Co.]
Moreover, though she was evidently working for dear life, her face was
full of smiles; in fact, she seemed to have trouble to keep from
laughing outright, while Betty, the cook, who was washing potatoes at
the sink, fairly giggled with glee every few minutes, as if the sight
of Miss Jessie working in the kitchen was the drollest thing in the
world.
It was one of the pleasantest sights that big, sunny kitchen had seen
for many a day, and the only thing that appeared mysterious about it
was that the two workers acted strangely like conspirators. If they
laughed--as they did on the slightest provocation--it was very soft
and at once smothered. Jessie went often to the door leading into the
hall, and listened; and if there came a knock on the floor, she
snatched off her apron, hastily wiped her hands, rolled down her
sleeves, asked Betty if there was any flour on her, and then hurried
away into another part of the house, trying to look cool and quiet, as
if she had not been doing anything.
On returning from one of these excursions, as she rolled up her
sleeves again, she said:
"Betty, we must open the other window if it is cold. Mamma thought she
smelled roast turkey!"
Betty burst into a laugh which she smothered in her apron. Jessie
covered her mouth and laughed, too, but the window was opened to make
a draught and carry out the delicious odours, which, it must be
confessed, did fill that kitchen so full that no wonder they crept
through the cracks, and the keyholes, and hung about Jessie's dress as
she went through the hall, in a way to make one's mouth water.
"What did ye tell her?" asked Betty, as soon as she could speak.
"Oh, I told her I thought potpie smelled a good deal like turkey,"
said Jessie, and again both laughed. "Wasn't it lucky we had potpie
to-day? I don't know what I should have said if we hadn't."
Well, it was not long after that when Jessie lined a baking-dish with
nice-looking crust, filled it with tempting looking chicken legs and
wings and breasts and backs and a bowlful of broth, laid a white
blanket of crust over all, tucked it in snugly around the edge, cut
some holes in the top, and shoved it into the oven just after Betty
drew out a dripping pan in which reposed, in all the glory of rich
brown skin, a beautiful turkey. Mrs. Jarvis couldn't have had any nose
at all if she didn't smell that. It filled the kitchen full of nice
smells, and Betty hurried it into the pantry, where the window was
open to cool.
Then Jessie returned to the spices and fruits she had been working
over so long, and a few minutes later she poured a rich, dark mass
into a tin pudding-dish, tied the cover on tight, and slipped it into
a large kettle of boiling water on the stove.
"There!" she said, "I hope that'll be good."
"I know it will," said Betty confidently. "That's y'r ma's best
receipt."
"Yes, but I never made it before," said Jessie doubtfully.
"Oh, I know it'll be all right, 'n' I'll watch it close," said Betty;
"'n' now you go'n sit with y'r ma. I want that table to git dinner."
"But I'm going to wash all these things," said Jessie.
"You go long! I'd ruther do that myself. 'Twon't take me no time,"
said Betty.
Jessie hesitated. "But you have enough to do, Betty."
"I tell you I want to do it," the girl insisted.
"Oh, I know!" said Jessie; "you like to help about it. Well, you may;
and I'm much obliged to you, besides." And after a last look at the
fine turkey cooling his heels (if he had any) in the pantry, Jessie
went into the other part of the house.
When dinner time arrived and papa came from town, there duly appeared
on the table the potpie before mentioned, and various other things
pleasant to eat, but nothing was seen of the turkey so carefully
roasted nor of the chicken pie, nor of the pudding that caused the
young cook so much anxiety. Nothing was said about them, either, and
it was not Thanksgiving nor Christmas, though it was only a few days
before the former.
It was certainly odd, and stranger things happened that night. In the
first place, Jessie sat up in her room and wrote a letter; and then,
after her mother was in bed and everything still, she stole down the
back stairs with a candle, quietly, as though she was doing some
mischief. Betty, who came down to help her, brought a box in from the
woodshed; and the two plotters, very silently, with many listenings at
the door to see if any one was stirring, packed that box full of good
things.
In it the turkey, wrapped in a snowy napkin, found a bed, the chicken
pie and the plum pudding--beautiful looking as Betty said it would
be--bore him company; and numerous small things, jam jars, fruits,
etc., etc., filled the box to its very top. Then the cover, provided
with screws so that no hammering need be done, was fastened on.
"Now you go to bed, Miss Jessie," whispered Betty. "I'll wait."
"No, you must be tired," said Jessie. "I'd just as lief."
"But I'd ruther," said Betty shortly--"'n' I'm going to; it won't be
long now."
So Jessie crept quietly upstairs, and before long there was a low rap
on the kitchen door. Betty opened it, and there stood a man.
"Ready?" said he.
"Yes," answered Betty; "but don't speak loud; Miss Jarvis has sharp
ears, 'n' we don't want her disturbed. Here's the card to mark it by,"
and she produced a card from the table.
The man put it in his pocket, shouldered the box, and Betty shut the
door.
Not one of those good things ever went into the Jarvis dining-room!
The next morning things went on just as usual in the house. The
kitchen door was left open and Mrs. Jarvis was welcome to smell any of
the appetizing odours that wafted out into her room. Jessie resumed
her study, and especially her practice, for she hoped some day to be a
great musician. She waited on her mother and took charge of the
housekeeping, so much as was necessary with the well-tried servant at
the head of the kitchen. And though she had but sixteen years over her
bright brown head, she proved herself to be what in that little New
England town was called "capable."
But that box of goodies! Let us see where it went.
It was Thanksgiving morning in a rough-looking little mining
settlement in Colorado. In a shanty rougher and more comfortless than
the rest were two persons: one, a man of thirty, was deeply engaged in
cleaning and oiling a gun which lay in pieces about him on the rough
bench where he sat; the other, a youth of sixteen, was trying to make
a fire burn in the primitive-looking affair that did duty as a stove.
Both wore coarse miner's suits, and picks and other things about the
room told that their business was to dig for the yellow dust we are
all so greedy to have.
Evidently luck had not been good, for the whole place appeared run
down, and the two looked absolutely hungry.
It was Thanksgiving morning, as I said, but no thankfulness shone in
the two pale, thin faces. Both were sad, and the younger one almost
hopeless.
"Jack," said the elder, pausing in his operations, "mind you give that
old hen a good boil, or we won't be able to eat it."
"It'll be better'n nothing, anyway, I suppose," said Jack gloomily.
"Not much. 'Specially if you don't get the taste of sage brush out of
it. Lucky I happened to get that shot at her, anyway," he went on,
"I've seen worse dinners--even Thanksgiving dinners--than a sage hen."
"I haven't," said Jack shortly; for the mention of Thanksgiving had
brought up before him with startling vividness the picture of a bright
dining-room in a certain town far away, a table loaded with good
things, and surrounded by smiling faces, and the contrast was almost
more than he could bear.
"Well, don't be down on your luck, boy, so long as you can get a good
fat hen to eat, if she does happen to be too fond of seasoning before
she's dead!" replied the other cheerfully; "we haven't struck it yet,
but it's always darkest just before dawn, you know. We may be
millionaires before this time to-morrow."
"We may," answered Jack; but he didn't look as if he had much hope of
it.
A few hours later the occupants of the cabin sat down to their
Thanksgiving dinner. It consisted of the hen aforesaid, cut in pieces
and boiled--looking very queer, too--served in the kettle in which the
operation had been performed. The table was at one end of the bench,
the table service two jackknives and two iron spoons--absolutely
nothing else.
The elder sat on the bench, the younger drew up a keg that had held
powder, and the dinner was about to begin.
But that hen was destined never to be eaten, for just at that moment
the door was pushed open in the rude way of the country, a box set
down on the floor, and a rough voice announced:
"A box for Mr. Jack Jones."
Jack started up.
"For me, there must be a mistake! Nobody knows--" He stopped, for he
had not mentioned that his name was assumed.
"Likely not!" said the man, with a knowing look, "but folks has a
mighty queer way of findin' out," and he shut the door and left.
Jack stood staring at the box as if he had lost his wits. It could not
be from home, for no one knew where he went when he stole out of the
house one night six months ago, and ran away to seek his fortune. Not
a line had he ever written--not even when very ill, as he had been;
not even when without a roof to cover his head, as he had been more
than once; not even when he had not eaten for two days, as also, alas,
had been his experience.
He had deliberately run away, because--how trivial it looked to him
now, and how childish seemed his conduct--because he thought his
father too hard on him; would not allow him enough liberty; wanted to
dictate to this man of sixteen; he intended to show him that he could
get on alone.
Poor Jack, the only comfort he had been able to extract from his hard
lot these many months of wandering, of work, of suffering such as he
had never dreamed of--his only comfort was that his tender mother
didn't know, his only sister would no more be worried by his grumbling
and complaints, and his father would be convinced now that he wasn't a
baby. Small comfort, too, to balance the hardships that had fallen to
his lot since the money he had drawn from the savings bank--his little
all--was used up.
"Why don't you open it?" The gruff but not unkind voice of his
roommate, whom he called Tom, aroused him. "Maybe there's something in
it better'n sage hen," trying to raise a smile.
But no smile followed. Mechanically Jack sought the tools to open it,
and in a few moments the cover was off.
It _was_ from home! On the very top was a letter addressed to Jack
Jarvis in a hand that he well knew.
He hastily stuffed it into his pocket unopened. The layers of paper
were removed, and as each one was thrown off, something new appeared.
Not a word was spoken, but the kettle of sage hen was silently put on
the floor by Tom as the bench began to fill up. A jar of cranberry
sauce, another of orange marmalade, oranges and apples, a plum
pudding, a chicken pie, and lastly, in its white linen wrapper, the
turkey we saw browning in that far-off New England kitchen.
As one by one these things were lifted out and placed on the bench a
deep silence reigned in the cabin. Jack had choked at sight of the
letter, and memories of days far different from these checked even
Tom's usually lively tongue. A strange unpacking it was; how different
from the joyful packing at dead of night with those two laughing girl
faces bending over it!
When all was done, and the silence grew painful, Jack blurted out:
"Help yourself," and bustled about, busily gathering up the papers and
folding them, and stuffing them back in the box, as though he were the
most particular housekeeper in the world. But if Jack couldn't eat,
something, too, ailed Tom. He said simply:
"Don't feel hungry. Believe I'll go out and see what I can find," and
shouldering his gun, now cleaned and put together, he quickly went out
and shut the door.
Jack sat down on the keg and looked at the things which so vividly
brought home, and his happy life there, before him. He did not feel
hungry, either. He sat and stared for some time. Then he remembered
his letter. He drew it from his pocket and opened it. It was very
thick; and when he pulled it out of the envelope the first thing he
saw was the smiling face of his sister Jessie, his twin sister, his
playmate and comrade, his confidante from the cradle. The loss of her
ever-willing sympathy had been almost more to him than all the rest of
his troubles.
This was another shock that brought something to his eyes that made
him see the others through a mist. There were the pictures of his
mother, whose gentle voice he could almost hear, and of his father,
whose gray hairs and sad face he suddenly remembered were partly his
work.
At last he read the letter. It began:
DEAR JACK:--I've just found out where you are, and I'm so
glad. I send you this Thanksgiving dinner. It was too bad
for you to go off so. You don't know how dreadful it was for
mamma; she was sick a long time, and we were scared to death
about her, but she's better now; she can sit up most all
day.
Oh, Jack! Father _cried_! I'm sure he did, and he almost ran
out of the room, and didn't say anything to anybody all day.
But I was determined I'd find you. I shan't tell you how I
did it, but Uncle John helped me, and now, Jack, he says he
wants just such a fellow as you to learn his business, and
he'll make you a very good offer. And, Jack, that's my
turkey--my Winnie--and nobody but Betty knows anything about
this box and this letter. I send you all my money out of the
savings bank (I didn't tell _anybody_ that), and I _want_
you to come home. You'll find the money under the
cranberries. I thought it would be safe there, and I knew
you'd eat them all, you're so fond of cranberries. I didn't
tell anybody because I want to surprise them, and besides,
let them think you came home because you got ready. It's
nobody's business where you got the money anyway.
Now do come right home, Jack. You can get here in a week's
time, I know.
Your affectionate sister,
JESSIE.
Jack laid the letter down with a rush of new feelings and thoughts
that overwhelmed him. He sat there for hours; he knew nothing of time.
He had mechanically turned the cranberry jar upside down and taken
from the bottom, carefully wrapped in white paper, fifty dollars.
A pang went through him. Well did he know what that money represented
to his sister; by how many sacrifices she had been saving it for a
year or two, with the single purpose of taking the lessons from a
great master that were to fit her to teach, to take an independent
position in the world, to relieve her father, who had lost a large
slice of his comfortable income, and who was growing old and sad under
his burden. She had often talked it over with Jack.
Now she had generously given up the whole to him, all her hopes and
dreams of independence; and he--he who should have been the support of
his sister, the right arm of his father--he had basely deserted.
These thoughts and many more surged through his mind that long
afternoon, and when Tom returned as the shadows were growing long, he
sat exactly as he had been left.
On Tom's entrance he roused himself. There was a new light in his eye.
"Come, Tom," he said, "dinner's waiting. You must be hungry by this
time."
"I am that," said Tom, who had been through his own mental struggles
meanwhile.
The two sat down once more to their Thanksgiving dinner, and this time
they managed to eat, though Jack choked whenever he thought of tasting
a bit of Jessie's pet turkey, Winnie; and much as he liked turkey, and
a home turkey at that, he could not touch it.
After the meal, when the provisions were stored away in the cupboard
(a soap box) much too small for such a supply, it had grown quite
dark, and the two, still disinclined to talk, went to their beds--if
the rough bunks they occupied may be dignified by that name.
But not to sleep--at least not Jack, who tumbled and tossed all night
and got up in the morning with an energy and life he had not shown for
weeks.
After breakfast Tom shouldered his pick and said:
"I'll go on, Jack, while you clear up." Yet he felt in his heart he
should never see Jack again; for there was a homestruck look in his
face that the man of experience in the ways of runaway boys knew well.
He was not surprised that Jack did not join him, nor that when he
returned at night to the cabin he found him gone and a note pinned up
on the door: