A NEW FRIEND
"It's morning!" And Anne sat up and looked about with surprised eyes.
Little flecks of sunshine came through the sheltering branches of the
tall pine, squirrels ran up and down its trunk, and there were chirpings
and calls of birds among the near-by trees. "And I'm not half-way to the
top," continued Anne, shaking off the feeling of drowsiness, and
springing up from the soft moss. She picked up her bundle and "Martha
Stoddard" and started on. "'Tis about the time that Aunt Martha and
Uncle Enos are eating porridge," she thought longingly, and then
remembered that on the hillside, not far from the top, there was a
spring of cool water, and she hurried on. She could hear the little
tinkling sound of the water before she came in sight of the tiny stream
which ran down the slope from the bubbling spring; and laying down her
doll and the bundle she ran forward, eager for a drink. She knelt down
and drank, and then turned to pick up her belongings, but the bundle and
doll had disappeared. Anne looked about as if she could not believe her
eyes. "They must be here!" she exclaimed aloud, and at that moment
"Martha Stoddard" peered at her astonished owner from behind a tree. The
little wooden doll appeared to walk. Then it bowed very low, and
vanished. Anne ran to the tree, but Martha was not there; but the doll's
head could be seen behind a small bush, almost within Anne's reach; but
now Anne stopped, remembering that dolls, even dolls like Martha, could
not play hide-and-seek. She felt bewildered, and, although Martha bowed
and even tried to dance, Anne did not approach a step nearer. She could
see that a small brown hand was keeping a tight grasp on Martha, and as
she watched this hand a brown face peered out at her over Martha's
head--the brown smiling face of an Indian girl, probably several years
older than Anne. After looking at Anne for a few seconds she came out
from behind the cluster of bushes. "She's as tall as Rose Freeman," was
Anne's first thought.
"Where is my bundle?" she demanded, for although the Indian girl held
Martha Stoddard in plain sight the bundle was not visible.
The Indian girl shook her head smilingly, and Anne repeated, "Bundle!
Bundle!" and then exclaimed, "Oh, dear, she doesn't know what I say."
The girl now came a step or two nearer, holding out the doll for Anne to
take. Her hair was very black and thick, and braided in one heavy plait.
There was a band of bright feathers about her head, and she wore a loose
tunic of finely dressed deerskin which came to her knees, and was
without sleeves. Her arms and feet were bare, and as she stood smiling
at Anne she made a very pretty picture.
Anne reached out her hand for the doll, and as she did so the Indian
girl grasped it firmly, but in so gentle a manner that Anne did not draw
back. The girl drew her along, smiling and saying strange sounding words
in her own language, of which Anne could understand but one--"Mashpee."
This was the name of a tribe of Cape Cod Indians who owned land, and who
were always kind and friendly toward the white settlers; Anne was quite
sure that the girl was telling her that she belonged to that nation.
The Indian girl circled around the big tree near the spring, and there
lay--spread out on the moss--Anne's pretty blue cape, her white muslin
dress, and her shoes and stockings and the bright coral beads. The
Indian girl knelt down and picking up the beads fastened them about her
own neck; she then threw the cape over her own shoulders, and, picking
up the shoes and stockings, placed them in front of Anne, and put the
muslin dress beside them.
It needed no words to explain this; she had selected what she wanted
from the bundle and Anne could have the things that the Indian girl did
not want.
Anne's face must have expressed what she felt, for the smile faded from
her companion's lips, and the dark eyes grew unfriendly. She snatched
the doll from Anne, and turned as if to run away.
"Nakanit!"
Both the girls gave a little jump, for they had been too much engrossed
in each other to notice that an Indian squaw had come along the path,
and had stopped a short distance from them. As she spoke the Indian girl
started toward her, and began to talk rapidly. Anne stood waiting, and
wondering what would happen now, and heartily wished herself safely back
in the Stoddards' snug little house.
As the Indian woman listened Anne could see that she was angry and when
Nakanit, for that was the Indian girl's name, had finished the squaw
snatched the cape from the girl's shoulders, and, pointing to the beads,
evidently bade her unfasten them. As the Indian girl obeyed the squaw
gave her a sharp slap on the cheek, and Nakanit, without a look toward
Anne, fled into the forest.
"Here, white child," said the woman, "here are your things. What are you
doing so far from the settlement?"
"I am going to Brewster," replied Anne.
The Indian woman eyed her sharply.
"You have run away from your mother and father," she said sharply.
"My mother is dead, and my father is at sea," Anne replied, feeling her
face growing red under the sharp eyes of the squaw, and a little ashamed
that she did not own that she was running away from Aunt Martha
Stoddard. But she felt that Aunt Martha had been very unfair toward her.
The Indian woman's face softened. "And you journey alone to find
friends in Brewster?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed; I am to go to Rose Freeman, and ride with her and her
father in their chaise to Boston, and wait at their house for my
father."
The squaw nodded. The name of Freeman was known to her, and though a
sixty mile journey seemed a long way for so small a girl as Anne, the
woman only wondered at the unkindness of the white women in letting a
child go alone.
"Come," she said, and Anne, gathering up her shoes and stockings and the
rumpled white dress, followed her.
The squaw turned from the path and, as she walked swiftly on, gave
several low calls which to Anne sounded like the notes of a bird. The
last call was answered, and a moment later Nakanit appeared beside them.
For a long time they went on in silence, and at last the squaw stopped
suddenly.
"Oh!" exclaimed Anne, for directly in front of them was a wigwam, so
cunningly built in behind a growth of small spruce trees that unless one
knew of its whereabouts it might be easily passed by. The Indian girl
laughed at Anne's exclamation, and nodded at her in a friendly manner.
"Go in," said the squaw. "Did no woman give you food to eat on your
journey?"
Anne shook her head.
"Umph!" grunted the squaw, and turned toward Nakanit, evidently telling
her to bring Anne something to eat.
The Indian girl opened a basket that stood near the wigwam door and took
out some thin cakes made of corn meal, and handed them to Anne. Anne ate
them hungrily; they tasted very sweet and good, and, when she had eaten
the last one, she turned toward the squaw who sat beside her, and said:
"Thank you very much. The cakes were good."
The squaw nodded gravely. Anne looked round the wigwam with curious
eyes. It was evident that Nakanit and her mother were nearly ready for a
journey. The two baskets were near the door, the roll of blankets beside
them, well tied up with stout thongs of deerskin, and the little brush
wigwam had nothing else in it.
The Indian girl stood with her dark eyes fixed on Anne, and the squaw
talked rapidly for a few moments, evidently giving the girl information
or directions; then she lifted the smaller of the two baskets, and
fastened its deerskin strap over Nakanit's shoulders. The roll of
blankets and the other basket she carried herself.
"Follow," she said to Anne; "we journey toward Wellfleet and you can go
with us."
Anne's face brightened, and she began to feel that her troubles were
over. She picked up her own bundle and followed the squaw and the Indian
girl out through the woods and across a meadow where a few cattle were
feeding.
"This must be Truro," Anne thought to herself as she trudged silently on
beside her new friends.
It grew very warm and there was no shade, and Anne began to feel tired,
but neither Nakanit nor her mother seemed to notice the heat. It was
past noon before they made any stop, and as Anne, who was some distance
behind her companions, saw the squaw turn toward a little wooded hill
and begin to lower the basket from her shoulders, she gave a long tired
sigh of relief. Nakanit heard and turned toward her, and reached out her
free hand to take Anne's bundle. But Anne shook her head, and tightened
her hold on it. This seemed to anger the Indian girl, and with a surly
word she gave Anne a push, sending her over into a clump of wild rose
bushes. As Anne reached out to save herself the thorns scratched her
hands and arms and she cried out. The squaw turned, and, as she had not
seen the push, thought that Anne had stumbled, and began to laugh at her
and to mock her cries. This delighted Nakanit, who joined in so loudly
that Anne stopped in terrified amazement, and scrambled out as well as
she could. Her feet ached, and she could hardly walk, but she went on
behind Nakanit into the pleasant shade of the woods, and here her
companions set down their baskets, and threw themselves down to rest.
Anne looked at them a little fearfully; they had not spoken one word to
her since leaving the wigwam.
The squaw opened the basket and gave each of the girls some of the corn
bread, which they devoured hungrily. "There are berries over there," she
said briefly, pointing toward the slope, "and water."
Nakanit was already running toward the slope, but Anne did not move; she
was still hungry and very thirsty, but too tired to walk, and as she
lay on the soft grass she began to dread the moment when the squaw might
start on again. It was not long before Nakanit returned. She brought
with her a cunningly made basket of oak leaves pinned together with
twigs, and heaped full of blueberries; the squaw shook her head as
Nakanit offered her the berries, and pointed toward Anne. Nakanit
obeyed, but somewhat sulkily, for she had meant to help Anne with the
bundle, and was still angry at Anne's refusal.
"How good they taste," exclaimed Anne as she helped herself to a
handful, and she smiled up gratefully at Nakanit. The Indian girl's face
brightened, and she smiled back, and sitting down beside Anne held the
basket forward for her to take more. When the berries were finished
Nakanit again disappeared.
After several hours' rest the squaw started on again, and Anne followed
after wondering where Nakanit was. In a short time they came down to a
sandy beach.
"Why, look! There's Nakanit!" exclaimed Anne, pointing toward the water,
where a bark canoe floated near the shore with Nakanit in it, holding
her paddle ready to send the craft to whatever point on the beach her
mother might direct.
The squaw called, and with a twist of the paddle the girl sent the canoe
to the shore. The squaw lifted in the baskets, the roll of blankets and
Anne's bundle. "Sit there, and be quiet," she said, and Anne stepped in
very carefully and sat down on the bottom of the canoe.
It was now late in the afternoon. The water was very calm, and as
Nakanit and her mother dipped their paddles and sent the canoe swiftly
along, Anne looked back toward the wooded shore and was very glad that
she was not plodding along over the fields and hills. It was much cooler
on the water, and the little girl wondered if her Aunt Martha missed her
at all. "But perhaps she is glad that I ran away," thought Anne, for she
was sure that she had not given either Amanda or Mrs. Stoddard any
reason to be unkind or to blame her. "Rose Freeman will be glad I came;
I know she will," was her comforting thought.
[Illustration: "SIT THERE AND BE QUIET"]
The Indians did not speak save for an occasional word of direction from
the squaw. The sun had set when they turned the canoe toward the shore.
Nakanit pulled the canoe upon the sand beyond reach of the tide, and
the squaw led the way to a little opening among the trees, and there
Anne was surprised to find another wigwam, very much like the one they
had left that morning. The squaw spread the blankets, gave the girls the
corn cakes with strips of dried fish for their supper, and they had
water from a near-by brook.
Anne was soon fast asleep, quite forgetful of her strange surroundings
and of the friends in Province Town.
Meanwhile those friends had now nearly given up the hope of finding her.
Amanda Cary's jealousy had vanished the moment she heard of Anne's
disappearance.
"I do not know what I shall do with the child," Mrs. Cary said
anxiously, when Amanda cried herself to sleep on the night after Anne
left home, and when, on the next morning, she began sobbing bitterly at
the mention of her playmate's name.
"Amanda's ashamed; that's what's the matter with her," declared Amos
boldly.
Amanda's sobs stopped, and she looked at her brother with startled eyes.
What would become of her, she wondered, if the Stoddards should ever
find out that she, Amanda, was the one to blame; that Anne had not
deserved any punishment.
"Amos, don't plague your sister," said Mrs. Cary. "You know she loves
Anne, even if the girl did slap her. Amanda has a good heart, and she
does not hold resentment," and Mrs. Cary looked at Amanda with loving
eyes.
At her mother's words Amanda began to cry again. She thought to herself
that she could never tell the truth, never. "Everybody will hate me if I
do," she thought, and then, remembering Anne and hearing her father say
on the second day after her disappearance that there was now little hope
of finding the runaway, she felt that she must tell Mrs. Stoddard.
"I'll wager I could find Anne," said Amos as he and Amanda sat on the
door-step. "She's started for Brewster."
"Oh, Amos!" Amanda's voice was full of delight. "I shouldn't wonder if
she had."
"But Captain Stoddard says he followed the Truro path and no sign of
her; and other people say that wolves would get her if she started to
walk."
Amanda's face had brightened at Amos's assertion that he knew he could
find Anne, and now she asked eagerly:
"What makes you think you could find her, Amos?"
"You won't tell?" and Amos looked at his sister sharply.
"I promise, hope to die, I won't," answered Amanda.
"Well, I'll tell you. I think she started for Truro, and will go by the
meadows and over the hill instead of the regular path. I know the way
I'd go, and I know I could find her; but father just shakes his head and
won't let me try."
"Amos, you go," said Amanda. "Promise you'll go. I'll tell you something
if you won't ever tell. It's something awful!"
"I won't tell," said the boy.
"I made Anne run away! Yes, I did. I was angry when she told me about
going to Boston again, and going in a chaise, and I pushed her----"
"And then you came home and told mother that yarn!" interrupted Amos;
"and mother went and told Mrs. Stoddard, and so Anne got punished and
didn't know what for. You're a nice sister to have!" and the boy's face
expressed his disgust.
"But, Amos, I didn't s'pose Anne would run away," pleaded Amanda.
"Hmph!" muttered Amos. "Well, she has, and whatever happens to her will
be your fault."
"O-ooh--dear," wailed the little girl. "What shall I do?"
"Nothing," answered Amos relentlessly; "only of course now I've got to
find her."
"And you won't ever tell about me," pleaded Amanda.
"I'd be ashamed to let anybody know I had a sister like you," answered
Amos.
"Amos, you're real good," responded Amanda, somewhat to her brother's
surprise. "When will you start?"
"Right off," declared the boy. "I'll put a jug of water and something to
eat in my boat, and I'll go round to Truro--Anne must have got that
far--and I'll keep on until I find her and tell her how ashamed I am of
you."
"And say I'm sorry, Amos; promise to tell her I'm sorry," pleaded
Amanda.
"Lots of use being sorry," said the boy. "When they miss me you can
tell them just where I've gone and that I'll be home Saturday night,
anyway, or let them hear from me if I don't come."
"I do believe you'll find her, Amos," declared Amanda.
"Sure!" answered the boy.