TEACHER AND PUPIL
The group looked at Wade Ruggles in breathless amazement. He had
invited them to the bar to join in celebrating his release from
thralldom; all had filled their glasses and he had raised his own to
his lips, though several noticed that there was only a small amount of
liquid in the tumbler. Then, when every glass was upraised and there
was a general gurgling, he had turned his glass upside down and
spilled every drop on the floor.
Before anyone could think of suitable terms in which to express his
emotions, Wade said, with a smile that rather added than detracted
from his seriousness:
"Pards, never again does a drop of that stuff go down my throat! I've
suffered hell, but I've come out of the flames, and the one that
fetched me through is the little gal which lays asleep in the next
room."
He did not attempt to deliver a temperance lecture to his friends, nor
did they trifle with him. They questioned him closely as to how he had
reached this extraordinary decision, and he gave a vivid and truthful
account of his experience. It made several of the men thoughtful, but
most of them felt dubious about his persistence in the new path he had
laid out for himself.
"You know, boys, whether I've got a will of my own," he quietly
replied; "just wait and see how this thing comes out."
It was noticed that Parson Brush was the most interested inquirer,
and, though he had comparatively little to say, he left the Bower
unusually early. He had begun his system of instruction with Nellie
Dawson, and reported that she was making remarkably good progress. Had
the contrary been the fact, it may be doubted whether it would have
been safe for him to proclaim it.
And now the scene changes. It is the close of a radiant summer day in
the Sierras. Far down in the canyon-like chasm between the mountainous
spurs, nestled the little mining settlement, which had been christened
but a short time before, New Constantinople. Here and there tiny
wounds had been gouged into the ribs of the mountain walls, and the
miners were pecking away with pick and shovel, deepening the hurts in
their quest for the yellow atoms or dark ore which had been the means
of bringing every man thousands of miles to the spot.
Far up toward the clouds were the towering, craggy peaks, with many a
rent and yawn and table-land and lesser elevation, until, as if to
check the climbing ambition of the prodigious monster, nature had
flung an immense blanket of snow, whose ragged and torn edges lapped
far down the sides of the crests. Ages ago the chilling blanket was
tucked around the mountain tops, there to remain through the long
stretch of centuries to follow.
Down the valley, at the bottom of the winding canyon, the air
palpitated with the fervor of the torrid zone. He who attempted to
plod forward panted and perspired, but a little way up the mountain
side, the cool breath crept downward from the regions of perpetual ice
and snow, through the balsamic pines and cedars, with a revivifying
power that was grateful to all who felt its life-giving embrace.
The sun hovered in a sky of unclouded azure. It shot its arrows into
the gullies, ravines and gorges, but made no impression on the frozen
covering far up in cloudland itself. Long pointed ravelings on the
lower edge of the mantle showed where some of the snow had turned to
water, which changed again to ice, when the sun dipped below the
horizon.
The miners were pigmies as they toiled in the sides of the towering
mountain walls, where they had toiled for many a day. On the lip of a
projecting crag, half a mile above were three other pigmies, who
neither toiled nor spun. Viewed through a glass, it was seen that they
wore stained feathers in their black hair dangling about their
shoulders, with the blankets wrapped round their forms descending to
their moccasined feet. They were watching in grim silence these proofs
of the invasion of their homes by the children of another race, and
mayhap were conjuring some scheme for driving them back into the great
sea across which they had sailed to occupy the new land.
One of the Indians was a chieftain. He had come in violent contact
with these hated creatures and he bore on his person the scars of such
meeting. All carried bows and arrows, though others of their tribe had
learned the use of the deadly firearms, which has played such havoc
with the American race.
Suddenly the chief uttered an exclamation. Then drawing an arrow from
the quiver over his shoulder, he fitted it to the string of his long
bow, and pointing downward toward the group of miners, launched the
shaft. Except for the power of gravity, it would have been a foolhardy
effort, but guided by the wisp of feather twisted around the reed, the
missile spun far outward over the canyon, and dived through the vast
reach of space, as if it were endowed with life and determined to seek
out and pierce the intruders. The black eyes of the three warriors
followed the arrow until it was only a flickering speck, far below
them; but, before that moment arrived, they saw that it was speeding
wide of the mark. When at last, the sharp point struck the flinty
rock, and the missile doubled over upon itself and dropped harmlessly
to the bottom of the canyon, it was at such a distance from the miners,
that they knew nothing of it. They never looked up, nor were they
aware of the futile anger of the red men, who seeing how useless was
everything of that nature, turned about and soon passed from view.
The incident was typical of the futility of the red man struggling
against his inevitable doom at the hands of his white brother.
Half way between the bottom of the canyon and the lower fringe of the
vast mantle of snow, a waterfall tumbled over the edge of a rock, and
with many a twist and eddy found its way to the small stream, which
rippled along the bottom of the gorge, until its winding course
carried it beyond sight. Now and then a rift of wind blew aside some
of the foam, like a wisp of snow, and brought the murmur more clearly
to the ear of the listener, shutting out for the time, the faint
hollow roar that was wafted from the region of pines and cedars. It
was a picture of lonely grandeur and desolation, made all the more
impressive by the tiny bits of life, showing in the few spots along
the mountain wall.
[Illustration: THE TEACHER HAD MARKED ON THE DARK FACE OF THE ROCK WITH A
SPECIES OF CHALK ALL THE LETTERS OF THE ALPHABET.--PAGE 71.]
At the rear of the row of cabins, and elevated perhaps fifty feet
above, was the comparatively smooth face of a rock, several square
rods in extent. At the base was abundant footing for two persons,
Parson Brush and Nellie Dawson. The teacher had marked on the dark
face of the rock with a species of chalk, all the letters large and
small of the alphabet. They were well drawn, for the parson, like
others in the settlement, was a man of education, though his many
years of roughing it had greatly rusted his book knowledge.
Standing to one side of his artistic work, like a teacher of the olden
time, the parson, with a long, trimmed branch in his hand, pointed at
the different letters in turn and patiently waited for his little
pupil to pronounce their names.
It never would have done to make the child keep her feet like an
ordinary mortal. With great labor, three of the miners had carried a
stone of considerable size to the spot, which served her as a seat,
while receiving instruction. It is true that she never sat still for
more than three minutes at a time, but that was enough to establish
the indispensable necessity of a chair.
"You are doing very well, my dear," said the parson, encouragingly;
"you have received only a few lessons, but have mastered the alphabet.
I notice that the 'd's' and 'b's' and 'h's' and 'q's' puzzle you a
little now and then, but you have got them straight, and it is now
time that we took a lesson in spelling."
"Oh, I can't do that, Mr. Brush," protested the queen, rising from
the chair, adjusting her skirts and sitting down again; "I never can
spell."
"What is it to spell?"
"I don't know; what is it?"
"I can best answer your question by showing you. Have you ever seen a
cat?"
"Do you mean a pussy?"
"Yes; some folks call it that."
"Oh, yes; when we came from where we used to live,--I guess it must
have been three or four hundred years ago, we brought my pussy along.
Her name was Nellie, the same as mine."
"What became of her?"
"She died," was the sorrowful reply; "I guess she was homesick."
"That was too bad. Now will you tell me what letter that is?"
"Why, Mr. Brush, don't you know?"
"Yes, but I wish to find out whether you know."
"It is C; anybody knows that."
"And this one?"
"A."
"That is right; now this one?"
"T; I hope you will remember, Mr. Brush, because I don't like to tell
you so often."
The teacher continued to drill her, skipping about and pointing at the
letters so rapidly in turn that he was kept bowing and straightening
up like a jumping-jack. Then, allowing her to rest, he pronounced the
letters in their regular order, giving them the sounds proper to the
word itself. Nellie, who was watching closely and listening, suddenly
exclaimed with glowing face:
"Why, that's 'cat'!"
"Of course; now can you say the letters without looking at them?"
After one or two trials she did it successfully.
"There! you have learned to spell 'cat.' You see how easy it is."
"Does that spell 'pussy' too?"
"No,--only 'cat.' After a time you will be able to spell big words."
"Let me try something else, Mr. Brush."
The next word tackled was 'dog,' which was soon mastered. When this
was accomplished, the teacher paused for a moment. He was trying to
think of another word of three letters, but oddly enough could not
readily do so.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is another. Now give me the name of that
letter,"
"D."
"And that?"
"A."
"And that?"
"M."
"Now say them quickly, 'd-a-m;' what is the word?"
"Why, it's 'dam'; O, Mr. Brush, I heard you say that is a bad word."
The teacher was thunderstruck and stammered:
"I didn't think of that, but there are two kinds of 'dam' and this one
is not a bad word. It means a bank of earth or stones or wood, that is
put up to stop the flow of water."