EVANGELINE AND THE BIG BEAR
Evening lay red in the west as Marmie stood in the doorway and called to
Rose and Ruth to come into supper. They were planting seeds in their own
little garden-patch, and were as grimy as roots, both of them.
Rose had been devoting her energies to radishes and lettuce. Ruth to
pansies and sweet alyssum, for it seemed to her that a vegetable bed
ought to have a border of flowers.
“Like having flowers on the dinner-table,” she remarked, as she strewed
the tiny seeds. “And they’ll go right on blooming long after your
radishes have been eaten up,” she added.
“Yes, but by that time we’ll have planted peas, and then corn, and then
tomatoes and then eggplants—this is going to be one round of good things
to eat,” Rose returned with gusto. “What fun planting is! It’s just as
magic as getting turned into a swan or a fox or any of those real
things ... all right, we’re c-o-o-ming....” This last in answer to
Marmie, whose voice had at last reached the girl’s inner consciousness.
So they gathered up their tools and ran in to wash up before sitting
down to supper.
“You little grubs,” said Marmie, “you don’t really need to get into the
ground yourselves when you plant. Hurry and dig yourselves out, because
Dad wants me to ride to the south ranch with him after supper. He’s got
to look over the fences.”
“But it’ll be dark, Marmie.”
“There’s a full moon, youngster.”
“Can’t we go too, please, please?”
“Not this time, dears. We’ll be rather late getting back, and I want you
to get to bed good and early. But soon we’ll fix up a picnic, when the
weather grows more settled. I think we are going to have a very early
spring this year ... why, it’s more like the end of April than the end
of March right now.”
After they had waved their parents out of sight, the two girls turned
back into the house a trifle forlornly.
“Dear me, I wish we were big enough to do just what we wanted to do,”
grumbled Rose. “Grown-up people don’t consider enough how we young ones
suffer when they don’t let us do things.”
They went glumly into the living room and sat down, trying to think of
something to do. But the thought of the ponies loping out there in the
moonlight with Dad and Marmie drove other ideas away.
Suddenly Ruth looked up eagerly.
“Oh, Rose, I do wish the fairy would come,” she exclaimed. “Then we
wouldn’t mind being left behind.”
“That’s true. Suppose we wish for her.”
“A wish is as good as a smile,” remarked the voice of Honeysqueak. “I’ve
been sitting right here some time, but such a pair of scowling faces
frightened all the words away—I couldn’t get hold of one.”
“We weren’t cross, dear fairy,” explained Rose, “just sort of
despairing.”
“Well, it’s no use my shaking my head, because you can’t see me,” said
the fairy. “But....”
And her voice sounded just as though she were shaking it.
So Rose and Ruth both laughed rather shamefacedly, and then the fairy
laughed too and the air cleared like magic.
“And now that life seems worth while again, my dears, suppose we go off
on a little trip of our own?”
Nothing could be better than that, and when Ruth begged that they might
visit Evangeline this time, Rose thought it a splendid suggestion, and
the fairy agreed.
“There isn’t a lovelier place anywhere than Grand Pré,” she told them,
“nor a sweeter girl than Evangeline. So come along, quick, quick,
quick!”
And in less time than you’d take to get out of your chair, the sisters
found themselves in Acadie, of a lovely June afternoon.
They were strolling along a white and curving road shaded by trees. On
either hand the meadows spread, deep in grass, reaching to the blue,
calm waters of the Basin of Midas on one side, on the other to the
misty-topped mountains, dark with forest. Ahead of them lay the lovely
village, with its white, thatch-roofed cottages and big church. Flax in
bloom made broad patches of blue, a clearer, lighter blue than the
sea-water, but just as beautiful. It was a smiling, lovely scene.
Coming to meet them, with a basket on her arm, was a girl of their own
age dressed in a blue frock with full white sleeves and opening at the
throat over a white yoke. A white cap with broad lappets topped her
shining brown hair. She was as winsome a sight as ever the sun shone on,
with a sweet and laughing face and a body as lissom as the swaying grain
just ripening in the fields.
Rose and Ruth were dressed in the same way, and they turned their heads
with delight to make their caps wave the white wings that so pleasantly
shaded their necks.
“Here you are, and late too,” cried Evangeline. “I had hoped to meet you
nearer the village. Come, we’ll return to the farm, and then my father
has given permission for us to take the big, kind Alphonse and picnic on
Blomidon. Will that not be a fine holiday? And on a day so fair!”
[Illustration:
SO GABRIEL CLIMBED IN BETWEEN RUTH AND EVANGELINE, AND THE LITTLE
PARTY HASTENED ON TOWARD THE CAPE
]
“We only got here this minute,” said Rose. “How sweet you look,
Evangeline! We are so glad to meet you. Ruth said she always loved you
better than any other heroine in ... in ...” Rose couldn’t quite
remember what she had intended saying, so she ended with a skip of joy,
and the statement that a picnic on Blomidon was a wonderful idea, and
who was Alphonse?
“Alphonse is the dog. Father will let me go anywhere with him, so big
and strong and wise he is, and so brave and gentle. Do you like dogs?”
Of course they did, and all three of them chatting at once, they trudged
merrily along the road toward the farm, roomy and generous, with big
barns stretching round three sides of a square, with dove-cotes and
hen-houses and kennels, and the wide-eaved gracious house in front,
facing the sea.
As they pushed open the white gate of the house-place, a hearty-looking
white-haired man called to them from an open window.
“Welcome, mes petites. Evangeline, offer thy friends some milk and a
slice of bread and cheese, and then be off with you all, for I do not
want you to be late getting home.”
A table stood under a great, shady sycamore by the door, with chairs
about it, and here Evangeline spread a simple meal of bread and cheese
and berries, with a huge pitcher of creamy milk. Bees murmured all about
them, butterflies flitted past, and the clear air seemed to shimmer
above the meadows and orchards and over the gleaming sea.
“I think this is the loveliest place in the whole world,” decided Ruth,
sighing with content. “Oh, are we going to drive?” for in the yard two
men were harnessing a pretty sorrel horse to a wagon with two seats,
singing as they did so.
“Indeed we are. My father has business on beyond among the hills, and he
will drive us close to the forest to spend the afternoon, and stop for
us on the way back. It would be too far to walk.”
What fun it was, climbing so joyously into the wagon, with Father
Bellefontaine helping them settle down, and putting in the baskets of
dainty cakes and the bottle of fruit-juice and the basket of great red
strawberries on which they were to feast under the murmuring pines, that
sang an echo to the stirring waves, endless as time. And that drive!
First they went through the quaint village where every one knew them,
and waved or called a greeting. Evangeline was a favourite with young
and old alike, that was evident. Such a clean, bright little village,
with orchards almost up to the cottage doors, these cottages so pretty
with dormer windows and huge beams of wood criss-crossing the white or
tinted plaster of their walls. Brilliant little gardens bloomed before
many, and vines scrambled up most. Children played everywhere, and once,
coming down a side street, Rose caught a glimpse of the pleasant-faced
old priest, surrounded by a group of youngsters, who were grasping at
his hands and his flowing black robe, while he smiled down upon them.
Then came the spreading meadows, protected from the sea by dikes on
which willows grew in long rows. And then the hills, covered with trees.
Their way led far out on the cape, and the song of the sea was always in
their ears, while its blue shone between trees or stretched far as they
topped some slight rise. Father Bellefontaine pointed out sights of
interest here and there. They passed the smithy and were hailed by Basil
Lajeunnes who worked there amid a shower of sparks to the merry ring of
iron on iron. A slender youth ran out to exchange a word with them as
they stopped a moment—Basil’s son, young Gabriel, and Evangeline smiled
at him, but said nothing.
“If there were room in the wagon we should like to take you too,
Gabriel,” said the farmer. “But like enough one boy with so many maids
would be too bashful, ... eh, Basil?” and he laughed toward his friend,
who had come to the door of the smithy and stood smiling.
Gabriel laughed too. “If there were room I would surely forget my
bashfulness,” he answered, his eyes dancing.
“Then in with you,” cried Farmer Bellefontaine, “and you two behind make
room somehow. I shall be glad enough to have Gabriel with these maids in
the forest, for all Alphonse is here.”
So Gabriel climbed in between Ruth and Evangeline, and the little party
hastened on toward the cape, Alphonse leaping and barking around the
wagon and horse as though he enjoyed it all every bit as much as the
rest.
“Be wise children and do not wander too deep into the forest,” warned
Evangeline’s father as he left the young people in the shadow of the
mighty pines, baskets and all, and drove off about his business. “I
shall be back by sunset.”
They had little trouble taking the baskets farther in among the trees,
where a spring bubbled up between moss-covered stones, to wander away in
a clear streamlet. The air was redolent of the fragrance of the needles,
and the shadows and sun played all sorts of fantastic games with each
other as the wind stirred the boughs so high above the children’s heads.
They took off shoes and stockings and paddled in the clear water, and
chased each other laughing over the brown needles, silky soft to their
bare feet. They sang and laughed, and Gabriel showed them a new game
with a ball he had brought. Then came the picnic, and they ate every
morsel, including a cold chicken, whose bones alone they threw to
Alphonse. He was so clever catching them that they couldn’t praise him
enough, nor he be done wagging his tail.
Then Gabriel told them there was a wonderful view of the bay to be had
from a nearby hilltop, and offered to lead them there. They packed up
the baskets neatly, put on their shoes and stockings, and then started
away, Alphonse in the lead, sniffing the breeze and dashing after
squirrels, which chattered at him mockingly from a branch just beyond
reach.
They had not gone very far before they came to another path branching
from the one they had been following. Gabriel was not sure which way to
take, so he asked them to wait at the junction while he explored a bit.
Off he went, while Alphonse lay down beside the girls, whose hands were
full of flowers plucked on the walk.
Evangeline told them of her life on the farm, and of the festival soon
to occur, a Saint’s day when all the village turned out to dance and
play games, dressed in its best. She was to have a new gown, her father
had promised her.
Suddenly, as they talked, Alphonse sprang up with a deep growl, his hair
bristling all over him, his eyes flashing. Startled, the girls sprang to
their feet, but there was nothing to be seen.
“I wish Gabriel were back,” exclaimed Evangeline. “What can be wrong,
that Alphonse acts so strangely?”
Still growling hoarsely, Alphonse began to crawl up the path which had
not been taken by Gabriel. Then with a loud bark, he sprang forward and
disappeared.
Catching each other by the hand, their hearts thumping, the three girls
stared after him.
There was another sharp bark, then an angry whine, and Alphonse
reappeared, running, frightened but fierce. Behind him a huge brown
shadow rolled, a shadow that resolved itself into a great hairy beast in
no time at all.
“A bear!”
They all gasped the words. Alphonse, seeing them, turned again and faced
the huge creature, snarling like a wolf. The bear paused and reared up
on its hind legs.
Then, in the dim greenness behind, a small head showed. A cub.
“Hasten!” whispered Evangeline, her voice shaking. “Up the path toward
Gabriel while the dog holds her back.”
Rose and Ruth felt the most peculiar sensation in their knees as they
turned to follow Evangeline. Through Rose’s head flashed a remembered
description: “and his knees were like water.” That was it. But this did
not keep them from flying like scared rabbits up the path under the
shadowy trees. Behind them a hoarse roar burst out, mixed with
indescribable growling, snarling and whining. Ruth glanced back to see
dog and bear rolling on the ground together.
At this moment, Gabriel, breathless, reached them. He had heard the
sounds as he was returning, and knew something must be wrong.
Quickly he put himself between the girls and the bear. He had drawn a
short, broad and sharp knife from his belt, and clutched this tightly.
“Have a care, dear Gabriel,” whispered Evangeline. “It is a horrible
great brute and there is a cub with it.”
He nodded. The bear was still rolling on the ground with the dog, but
now she rose, snorting and shaking her head. Her small eyes gleamed as
she saw the little group crouched together, Gabriel some paces in front.
Growling again, she strode forward with a rolling movement.
An icy chill shook the three girls. She was going to attack.
Gabriel glanced back over his shoulder. His face was pale but steady.
“Run,” he commanded. “I can keep her back ... hurry....”
They did not stir. Rose and Ruth felt that nothing could make them move
away from whatever was to come; Evangeline stood, her little hands
clenched and pressed against her breast, her eyes on Gabriel and the
advancing beast.
The dog had once more gathered himself up, and now came again to the
attack. Just as the bear reared up before Gabriel, its great paws
waving, Alphonse sprang. The bear swerved, sinking to all fours, and the
dog’s teeth gripped its pointed nose.
At the same moment Gabriel closed in, knife ready. All the girls saw was
a whir of brown, a flash of steel, the white spot on Alphonse’s throat
he held on grimly; Gabriel thrust the knife deep into the great
creature’s neck, close behind the ear.
With an almost human groan the animal swung its heavy paw at the boy,
and felled him to the ground. The knife dropped from his hand, rattling
on the path.
Rose heard a scream—it was Evangeline—and she saw the girl spring
forward to help her playmate and comrade. But Rose herself was quicker.
With Gabriel’s fall she had plunged at the knife, snatched it up, and
now, brushing Evangeline aside, she made a lunge at the bear, which had
rolled over on both boy and dog. Her knife sank into the beast’s head,
at the base of the brain. But the stroke was not needed ... the bear was
already dead.
“It’s dead,” gasped Rose, and Ruth, sobbing, was beside her, struggling
to drag the carcass off the boy, who lay still. Evangeline, on her knees
murmuring prayers, had caught his hand in hers.
By frantic efforts the three succeeded in getting Gabriel free. Blood
trickled from his left shoulder, but in an instant his eyes opened. He
had had the breath knocked out of him, and it took only a few minutes to
bring him around.
All the girls were crying, in an excited way, and quite unconsciously.
Gabriel sat staring at the huge brown body. Suddenly he exclaimed:
“And Alphonse!”
Poor Alphonse. He had given his life for his mistress. He was crushed
under his enemy. They got him free tenderly, but it was hopeless. There
was no more wagging of the responsive tail, no cheery bark, no joyful
gambolling life in the kindly dog. Evangeline patted him, the tears
running down her cheeks.
“He died a hero’s death,” said Gabriel, gravely. “We will carry him back
down the trail and see that he is given fit burial.”
“But you, your arm, Gabriel,” asked Evangeline suddenly. “It is
wounded.”
“Nothing much, a scratch. My mother will dress it as soon as we reach
home.”
But the girls would not have that, and bound the wound up as well as
might be with Evangeline’s kerchief. While they were at this work an odd
whining made itself noticeable.
“Oh, look,” whispered Ruth. “It’s the cub.”
And so it was, for the little creature had slowly drawn nearer to its
dead mother, and now was nosing over her, whining in a surprised, pained
manner, and pawing at her with its small feet. Reaching the bleeding
wound in her throat it stopped suddenly, lifted its head high in the
air, and began crying.
“Poor little beast,” said Rose. “Let’s take it back with us, Gabriel. It
will make a nice pet.”
Gabriel took off his leather belt and fastened it around the cub’s neck,
handing the other end of the strap to Rose and Ruth. He and Evangeline
then took up the dead Alphonse between them, and the cavalcade set off
down the path, slowly enough. It was difficult work, but at last, with
many rests, and some frantic demonstrations from the terrified cub, they
got back to the spot where Farmer Bellefontaine had left them early that
afternoon. It seemed an hundred years ago!
There he was, anxiously pacing about, looking now in this direction, now
in the other, for the sun was setting, and he began to fear something
had happened. When he saw the queer procession coming toward him he
stared in astonishment, and then called out sharply:
“What is this? What have you been about?”
His astonishment grew when the story was told him, and it looked as
though he too would faint, so white he grew, thinking of his beloved
child in such danger.
Evangeline told him of Rose’s bravery, and he embraced her, laughing,
but with tears in his eyes.
“What an affair, what an affair! And never again shall you get out of
your old father’s sight, child. But my boy, what a stroke that was of
thine!”
“It was plain luck,” returned Gabriel. “I struck blindly, and the blade
must somehow have reached the brain. Then poor Alphonse helped me. He
hung to the beast’s muzzle to the very end.”
Well, it had to be told over again on the way home, with the small cub
in the lunch basket, and when they reached Gabriel’s home, there was
more excitement. All the village crowded round, the barber came to bind
up Gabriel’s wound, his father stood by beaming, his mother wept and
called on heaven in thanksgiving, and every one had something to say.
Several of the youths of the place determined to go out the first thing
in the morning to bring in the old she-bear, and it was plain to see
that they envied Gabriel his adventure. Rose too came in for a deal of
congratulation and hand-shaking and even kisses, for Evangeline was
quick to tell of her courage, and to praise the swiftness of the help
she offered.
“In an instant she had the knife up, and then—it was wonderful, so
strong, so steady,” and she illustrated the stroke. Rose was
embarrassed, but Ruth looked on with shining eyes.
Then all bade Gabriel farewell, each giving him a kiss. The cub squealed
in the basket, the horse started off gaily, everybody waved and
hurrahed—it was like a story ... the moon shone softly over the broad
meadows, the wind sighed, the village dogs barked....
Or no. It was their own dogs barking! They were back at home, and when
they looked at the clock they decided it was time for them to hop right
off to bed.
“But that was a splendid adventure,” said Ruth, “and you were a wonder,
Rose. We must tell Marmie.”
“If we can only remember. But we never do when she’s here, Ruth,”
returned Rose, puzzling again over the freakish forgetfulness that came
to them whenever they tried to recall for the benefit of others any of
their many trips through the Magic Gate.