Yan was silenced, but not satisfied. It seemed discourteous to throw

the sticks away--so soon, anyway; besides, he had curiosity to know

just what they were and how they acted.

V

Caleb

A mile farther was the shanty of Caleb Clark, a mere squatter now on a

farm once his own. As the boys drew near, a tall, round-shouldered man

with a long white beard was seen carrying in an armful of wood.

"Ye see the Billy Goat?" said Sam.

Yan sniffed as he gasped the "why" of the nickname.

"I guess you better do the talking; Caleb ain't so easy handled as the

witch, and he's just as sour on Da."

So Yan went forward rather cautiously and knocked at the open door of

the shanty. A deep-voiced Dog broke into a loud bay, the long beard

appeared, and its owner said, "Wall?"

"Are you Mr. Clark?"

"Yep." Then, "Lie down, Turk," to a black-and-tan Hound that came

growling out.

"I came--I--we wanted to ask some questions--if you don't mind."

"What might yer name be?"

"Yan."

"An' who is this?"

"He's my chum, Sam."

"I'm Sam Horn," said Sam, with some truth, for he was Samuel

Horn Raften, but with sufficient deception to make Yan feel very

uncomfortable.

"And where are ye from?"

"Bonnerton," said Yan.

"To-day?" was the rejoinder, with a tone of doubt.

"Well, no," Yan began; but Sam, who had tried to keep out of notice

for fear of recognition, saw that his ingenuous companion was being

quickly pumped and placed, and now interposed: "You see, Mr. Clark, we

are camped in the woods and we want to make a teepee to live in. We

have the stuff an' was told that you knew all about the making."

"Who told ye?"

"The old witch at the bend of the creek."

"Where are ye livin' now?"

"Well," said Sam, hastening again to forestall Yan, whose simple

directness he feared, "to tell the truth, we made a wigwam of bark in

the woods below here, but it wasn't a success."

"Whose woods?"

"Oh, about a mile below on the creek."

"Hm! That must be Raften's or Burns's woods."

"I guess it is," said Sam.

"_An' you look uncommon like Sam Raften_. You consarned young

whelp, to come here lyin' an' tryin' to pull the wool over my eyes.

Get out o' this now, or I'll boot ye."

[Illustration: "Get out o' this now, or I'll boot ye."]

Yan turned very red. He thought of the scripture text, "Be sure your

sin will find you out," and he stepped back. Sam stuck his tongue in

his cheek and followed. But he was his father's son. He turned and

said:

"Now see here, Mr. Clark, fair and square; we come here to ask a

simple question about the woods. You are the only man that knows or we

wouldn't 'a' bothered you. I knowed you had it in for Da, so I tried

to fool you, and it didn't go. I wish now I had just come out square

and said, 'I'm Sam Raften; will you tell me somethin' I want to know,

or won't you?' I didn't know you hed anything agin me or me friend

that's camping with me."

There is a strong bond of sympathy between all Woodcrafters. The mere

fact that a man wants to go his way is a claim on a Woodcrafter's

notice. Old Caleb, though soured by trouble and hot-tempered, had a

kind heart; he resisted for a moment the first impulse to slam the

door in their faces; then as he listened he fell into the tempter's

snare, for it was baited with the subtlest of flatteries. He said to

Yan:

"Is your name Raften?"

"No, sir."

"Air ye owt o' kin?"

"No, sir."

"I don't want no truck with a Raften, but what do ye want to know?"

"We built a wigwam of bark, but it's no good, but now we have a big

canvas cover an' want to know how to make a teepee."

"A teepee. H-m--" said the old man reflectively.

"They say you've lived in them," ventured Yan.

"Hm--'bout forty year; but it's one thing to wear a suit of clothes

and another thing to make one. Seems to me it was about like this,"

and he took up a burnt stick and a piece of grocer's paper. "No--now

hold on. Yes, I remember now; I seen a bunch of squaws make one oncet.

"First they sewed the skins together. No, first thar was a lot o'

prayin'; ye kin suit yerselves 'bout that--then they sewed the skins

together an" pegged it down flat on the prairie (B D H I, Cut No. 1).

Then put in a peg at the middle of one side (A). Then with a burnt

stick an' a coord--yes, there must 'a' been a coord--they drawed a

half circle--so (B C D). Then they cut that off, an' out o' the pieces

they make two flaps like that (H L M J and K N O I), an' sews 'em on

to P E and G Q. Them's smoke-flaps to make the smoke draw. Thar's a

upside down pocket in the top side corner o' each smoke-flap--so--for

the top of each pole, and there is rows o' holes down--so (M B and N

D, Cut No. 2)--on each side fur the lacin' pins. Then at the top of

that pint (A, Cut 1) ye fasten a short lash-rope.

[Illustration: CUT I.--PATTERN FOR A SIMPLE 10-FOOT TEEPEE]

[Illustration: CUT II.--THE COMPLETE TEEPEE COVER--UNORNAMENTED]

"Le's see, now. I reckon thar's about ten poles for a ten-foot lodge,

with two more for the smoke-flaps. Now, when ye set her up ye tie

three poles together--so--an' set 'em up first, then lean the other

poles around, except one, an' lash them by carrying the rope around a

few times. Now tie the top o' the cover to the top o' the last pole by

the short lash-rope, hist the pole into place--that hists the cover,

too, ye see--an' ye swing it round with the smoke-poles an' fasten the

two edges together with the wooden pins. The two long poles put in the

smoke-flap pockets works the vent to suit the wind."

[Illustration: 1st set up tripod]

In his conversation Caleb had ignored Sam and talked to Yan, but

the son of his father was not so easily abashed. He foresaw several

practical difficulties and did not hesitate to ask for light.

"What keeps it from blowin' down?" he asked.

"Wall," said Caleb, still addressing Yan, "the long rope that binds

the poles is carried down under, and fastened tight to a stake that

serves for anchor, 'sides the edge of the cover is pegged to the

ground all around."

"How do you make the smoke draw?" was his next.

[Illustration: 2nd set up and bind other six poles]

"Ye swing the flaps by changing the poles till they is quartering down

the wind. That draws best."

"How do you close the door?"

"Wall, some jest lets the edges sag together, but the best teepees has

a door made of the same stuff as the cover put tight on a saplin'

frame an' swung from a lacin' pin."

[Illustration: 3rd set up tenth pole with teepee cover fastened to it

by lash rope]

[Illustration: SIOUX TEEPEE]

This seemed to cover the ground, so carefully folding the dirty paper

with the plan, Yan put it in his pocket, said "Thank you" and went

off. To the "Good-day" of the boys Caleb made no reply, but turned as

they left and asked, "Whar ye camped?"

"On the knoll by the creek in Raften's swamp."

"H-m, maybe I'll come an' see ye."

"All right," Sam called out; "follow the blazed trail from the brush

fence."

"Why, Sam," said Yan, as soon as they were out of hearing, "there

isn't any blazed trail; why did you say that?"

"Oh, I thought it sounded well," was the calm answer, "an' it's easy

to have the blazes there as soon as we want to, an' a blame sight

sooner than he's likely to use them."

VI

The Making of the Teepee

Raften sniffed in amusement when he heard that the boys had really

gone to Caleb and got what they wanted. Nothing pleased him more than

to find his son a successful schemer.

"Old Caleb wasn't so dead sure about the teepee, as near as I sized

him up," observed Sam.

"I guess we've got enough to go ahead on," said Yan, "an' tain't a

hanging matter if we do make a mistake."

The cover was spread out again flat and smooth on the barn floor, and

stones and a few nails put in the sides to hold it.

The first thing that struck them was that it was a rough and tattered

old rag.

And Sam remarked: "I see now why Da said we could have it. I reckon

we'll have to patch it before we cut out the teepee."

"No," said Yan, assuming control, as he was apt to do in matters

pertaining to the woods; "we better draw our plans first so as not to

patch any part that's going to be cut off afterward."

"Great head! But I'm afraid them patches won't be awful ornamental."

"They're all right," was the reply. "Indians' teepees are often

patched where bullets and arrows have gone through."

"Well, I'm glad I wa'n't living inside during them hostilities," and

Sam exposed a dozen or more holes.

"Oh, get off there and give me that cord."

"Look out," said Sam; "that's my festered knee. It's near as bad

to-day as it was when we called on the witch."

Yan was measuring. "Let's see. We can cut off all those rags and still

make a twelve-foot teepee. Twelve foot high--that will be twenty-four

feet across the bottom of the stuff. Fine! That's just the thing. Now

I'll mark her off."

"Hold on, there," protested his friend; "you can't do that with chalk.

Caleb said the Injuns used a burnt stick. You hain't got no right to

use chalk. 'You might as well hire a carpenter.'"

"Oh, you go on. You hunt for a burnt stick, and if you don't find one

bring me the shears instead."

Thus, with many consultations of Caleb's draft, the cutting-out

was done--really a very simple matter. Then the patching was to be

considered.

Pack-thread, needles and _very l-o-n-g_ stitches were used, but

the work went slowly on. All the spare time of one day was given to

patching. Sam, of course, kept up a patter of characteristic remarks

to the piece he was sewing. Yan sewed in serious silence. At first

Sam's were put on better, but Yan learned fast and at length did by

far the better sewing.

[Illustration: Decoration of Black Bull's Teepee: (Two Examples of

Doors)]

[Illustration: THUNDER BULL'S TEEPEE]

Notes on Making Teepee:

The slimmer the poles are at the top where they cross the smaller

the opening in the canvas and the less danger of rain coming in.

In regions where there is much rain it is well to cut the projecting

poles very short and put over them a "storm cap," "bull boat" or

"shield" made of canvas on a rod bent in a three-foot circle. This

device was used by the Mandans over the smoke-hole of their lodges

during the heavy rains.

That night the boys were showing their handiwork to the hired hands.

Si Lee, a middle-aged man with a vast waistband, after looking on

with ill-concealed but good-natured scorn, said:

"Why didn't ye put the patches inside?"

"Didn't think of it," was Yan's answer.

"Coz we're goin' to live inside, an' need the room," said Sam.

"Why did ye make ten stitches in going round that hole; ye could just

as easy have done it in four," and Si sniffed as he pointed to great,

ungainly stitches an inch long. "I call that waste labour."

"Now see here," blurted Sam, "if you don't like our work let's see you

do it better. There's lots to do yet."

"Where?"

"Oh, ask Yan. He's bossin' the job. Old Caleb wouldn't let me in. It

just broke my heart. I sobbed all the way home, didn't I, Yan?

"There's the smoke-flaps to stitch on and hem, and the pocket at

the top of the flaps--and--I--suppose," Yan added, as a feeler,

"it--would--be--better--if--hemmed--all--around."

"Now, I tell ye what I'll do. If you boys'll go to the 'Corner'

to-night and get my boots that the cobbler's fixing, I'll sew on the

smoke-flaps."

"I'll take that offer," said Yan; "and say, Si, it doesn't really

matter which is the outside. You can turn the cover so the patches

will be in."

The boys got the money to pay for the boots, and after supper they set

out on foot for the "Corner," two miles away.

"He's a queer duck," and Sam jerked his thumb back to show that he

meant Si Lee; "sounds like a Chinese laundry. I guess that's the only

thing he isn't. He can do any mortal thing but get on in life. He's

been a soldier an' a undertaker an' a cook He plays a fiddle he made

himself; it's a rotten bad one, but it's away ahead of his playing. He

stuffs birds--that Owl in the parlour is his doin'; he tempers razors,

kin doctor a horse or fix up a watch, an' he does it in about the same

way, too; bleeds a horse no matter what ails it, an' takes another

wheel out o' the watch every times he cleans it. He took Larry de

Neuville's old clock apart to clean once--said he knew all about

it--an' when he put it together again he had wheels enough left over

for a new clock.

"He's too smart an' not smart enough. There ain't anything on earth

he can't do a little, an' there ain't a blessed thing that he can do

right up first-class, but thank goodness sewing canvas is his long

suit. You see he was a sailor for three years--longest time he ever

kept a job, fur which he really ain't to blame, since it was a whaler

on a three-years' cruise."

VII

The Calm Evening

It was a calm June evening, the time of the second daily outburst of

bird song, the day's aftermath. The singers seemed to be in unusual

numbers as well. Nearly every good perch had some little bird that

seemed near bursting with joy and yet trying to avert that dire

catastrophe.

As the boys went down the road by the outer fence of their own orchard

a Hawk came sailing over, silencing as he came the singing within a

given radius. Many of the singers hid, but a Meadow Lark that had been

whistling on a stake in the open was now vainly seeking shelter in the

broad field. The Hawk was speeding his way. The Lark dodged and put on

all power to reach the orchard, but the Hawk was after him now--was

gaining--in another moment would have clutched the terrified

musician, but out of the Apple trees there dashed a small

black-and-white bird--the Kingbird. With a loud harsh twitter--his

war-cry--repeated again and again, with his little gray head-feathers

raised to show the blood-and-flame-coloured undercrest--his war

colours--he darted straight at the great robber.

"Clicker-a-clicker," he fairly screamed, and made for the huge Hawk,

ten times his size.

"Clicker-a-clicker!" he shrieked, like a cateran shouting the

"slogan," and down like a black-and-white dart--to strike the Hawk

fairly between the shoulders just as the Meadow Lark dropped in

despair to the bare ground and hid its head from the approaching

stroke of death.

"Clicker-a-clicker"--and the Hawk wheeled in sudden consternation.

"Clicker-a-clicker"--and the dauntless little warrior dropped between

his wings, stabbing and tearing.

The Hawk bucked like a mustang, the Kingbird was thrown, but sprung on

agile pinions above again.

"Clicker-a-clicker," and he struck as before. Large brown feathers

were floating away on the breeze now. The Meadow Lark was forgotten.

The Hawk thought only of escape.

"Clicker-a-clicker," the slogan still was heard. The Hawk was putting

on all speed to get away, but the Kingbird was riding him most of the

time. Several brown feathers floated down, the Hawk dwindled in the

distance to a Sparrow and the Kingbird to a fly dancing on his back.

The Hawk made a final plunge into a thicket, and the king came home

again, uttering the shrill war-cry once or twice, probably to let the

queen know that he was coming back, for she flew to a high branch of

the Apple tree where she could greet the returning hero. He came with

an occasional "clicker-a-clicker"--then, when near her, he sprung

fifty feet in the air and dashed down, screaming his slogan without

interruption, darting zigzag with the most surprising evolutions and

turns--this way, that way, sideways and downward, dealing the

deadliest blows right and left at an imaginary foe, then soared, and

did it all over again two or three times, just to show how far he was

from being tired, and how much better he could have done it had it

been necessary. Then with a final swoop and a volley of "clickers" he

dashed into the bush to receive the congratulations of the one for

whom it all was meant and the only spectator for whose opinion he

cared in the least.

[Illustration: "Clicker-a-clicker!' he shrieked ... and down like a

dart."]

"Now, ain't that great," said Sam, with evident sincerity and

pleasure. His voice startled Yan and brought him back. He had been

wholly lost in silent admiring wonder of the dauntless little

Kingbird.

A Vesper Sparrow ran along the road before them, flitting a few

feet ahead each time they overtook it and showing the white outer

tail-feathers as it flew.

"A little Graybird," remarked Sam.

"No, that isn't a Graybird; that's a Vesper Sparrow," exclaimed Yan,

in surprise, for he knew he was right.

"Well, _I_ dunno," said Sam, yielding the point.

"I thought you said you knew every bird that flies and all about it"

replied his companion, for the memory of this first day was strong

with him yet.

Sam snorted: "I didn't know you then. I was just loadin' you up so

you'd think I was a wonderful feller, an' you did, too--for awhile."

A Red-headed Woodpecker, carrying a yellow butterfly, flew on a fence

stake ahead of them and peeped around as they drew near. The setting

sun on his bright plumage, the lilac stake and the yellow butterfly,

completed a most gorgeous bit of colour and gave Yan a thrill of joy.

A Meadow Lark on a farther stake, a Bluebird on another, and a Vesper

Bird on a stone, each added his appeal to eye and ear, till Sam

exclaimed:

"Oh, ain't that awful nice?" and Yan was dumb with a sort of saddened

joy.

Birds hate the wind, and this was one of those birdy days that come

only with a dead calm.

They passed a barn with two hundred pairs of Swallows flying and

twittering around, a cut bank of the road had a colony of 1,000 Sand

Martins, a stream had its rattling Kingfishers, and a marsh was the

playground of a multitude of Red-winged Blackbirds.

Yan was lifted up with the joy of the naturalist at seeing so many

beautiful living things. Sam felt it, too; he grew very silent, and

the last half-mile to the "Corner" was passed without a word. The

boots were got. Sam swung them around his neck and the boys set out

for home. The sun was gone, but not the birds, and the spell of the

evening was on them still. A Song Sparrow by the brook and a Robin

high in the Elm were yet pouring out their liquid notes in the

gloaming.

"I wish I could be always here," said Yan, but he started a little

when he remembered how unwilling he had been to come.

There was a long silence as they lingered on the darkening road. Each

was thinking hard.

A loud, startling but soft "Ohoo--O-hoo--O-hoooooo," like the coo of a

giant dove, now sounded about their heads in a tree. They stopped and

Sam whispered, "Owl; big Hoot Owl." Yan's heart leaped with pleasure.

He had read all his life of Owls, and even had seen them alive in

cages, but this was the first time he had ever heard the famous

hooting of the real live wild Owl, and it was a delicious experience.

The night was quite dark now, but there were plenty of sounds that

told of life. A Whippoorwill was chanting in the woods, a hundred

Toads and Frogs creaked and trilled, a strange rolling, laughing cry

on a marshy pond puzzled them both, then a Song Sparrow in the black

night of a dense thicket poured forth its sweet little sunshine song

with all the vigour and joy of its best daytime doing.

They listened attentively for a repetition of the serenade, when a

high-pitched but not loud "_Wa--wa--wa--wa--wa--wa--wa--wa_!"

reached their ears from a grove of heavy timbers.

"Hear that?" exclaimed Sam.

Again it came, a quavering squall, apparently much nearer. It was a

rather shrill sound, quite unbirdy, and Sam whispered:

"Coon--that's the whicker of a Coon. We can come down here some time

when corn's 'in roastin'' an' have a Coon hunt."

"Oh, Sam, wouldn't that be glorious!" said Yan. "How I wish it was

now. I never saw a Coon hunt or any kind of a hunt. Do we have to wait

till 'roasting-ear' time?"

"Oh, yes; it's easier to find them then. You say to your Coons, 'Me

an' me dogs will meet you to-night at the nearest roastin'-ear patch,'

an' sure nuff _they'll_ keep the appointment."

"But they're around now, for we just heard one, _and there's

another_."

A long faint "_Lil--lil--lil--lil--lil--li-looo!_" now sounded

from the trees. It was like the other, but much softer and sweeter.

"There's where you fool yerself," replied Sam, "an' there's where many

a hunter is fooled. That last one's the call of a Screech Owl. You see

it's softer and whistlier than the Coon whicker."

They heard it again and again from the trees. It was a sweet musical

sound, and Yan remembered how squally the Coon call was in comparison,

and yet many hunters never learn the difference.

As they came near the tree whence the Owl called at intervals, a gray

blot went over their heads, shutting out a handful of stars for a

moment as it passed over them, but making no noise. "There he goes,"

whispered Sam. "That's the Screech Owl. Not much of a screech, was

it?" Not long afterward Yan came across a line of Lowell's which says,

"The song of the Screech Owl is the sweetest sound in nature," and

appreciated the absurdity of the name.

"I want to go on a Coon hunt," continued Yan, and the sentence was

just tinged with the deep-laid doggedness that was usually lost in his

courteous manner.

"That settles it," answered the other, for he was learning what that

tone meant. "We'll surely go when you talk that way, for, of coorse,

it _kin_ be done. You see, I know more about animals than birds,"

he continued. "I'm just as likely to be a dentist as a hunter so far

as serious business is concerned, but I'd sure love to be a hunter for

awhile, an' I made Da promise to go with me some time. Maybe we kin

get a Deer by going back ten miles to the Long Swamp. I only wish Da

and Old Caleb hadn't fought, 'cause Caleb sure knows the woods, an'

that old Hound of his has treed more Coons than ye could shake a stick

at in a month o' Sundays."

"Well, if that's the only Coon dog around, I'm going to get him.

You'll see," was the reply.

"I believe you will," answered Sam, in a tone of mixed admiration and

amusement.

It was ten o'clock when they got home, and every one was in bed but

Mr. Raften. The boys turned in at once, but next morning, on going

to the barn, they found that Si had not only sewed on and hemmed the

smoke-flaps, but had resewn the worst of the patches and hemmed the

whole bottom of the teepee cover with a small rope in the hem, so that

they were ready now for the pins and poles.

The cover was taken at once to the camp ground. Yan carried the axe.

When they came to the brush fence over the creek at the edge of the

swamp, he said:

"Sam, I want to blaze that trail for old Caleb. How do you do it?"

"Spot the trees with the axe every few yards."

"This way?" and Yan cut a tree in three places, so as to show three

white spots or blazes.

"No; that's a trapper's blaze for a trap or a 'special blaze', but

a 'road blaze' is one on the front of the tree and one on the

back--so--then ye can run the trail both ways, an' you put them

thicker if it's to be followed at night."

VIII

The Sacred Fire

"Ten strong poles and two long thin ones," said Yan, reading off. These

were soon cut and brought to the camp ground.

"Tie them together the same height as the teepee cover----"

"Tie them? With what?"

"'Rawhide rope,' he said, but he also said 'Make the cover of skins.'

I'm afraid we shall have to use common rope for the present," and Yan

looked a little ashamed of the admission.

"I reckoned so," drawled Sam, "and so I put a coil of quarter-inch in

the cover, but I didn't dare to tell you that up at the barn."

The tripod was firmly lashed with the rope and set up. Nine poles were

duly leaned around in a twelve-foot circle, for a teepee twelve feet

high usually has a twelve-foot base. A final lashing of the ropes held

these, and the last pole was then put up opposite to the door, with

the teepee cover tied to it at the point between the flaps. The ends

of the two smoke-poles carried the cover round. Then the lacing-pins

were needed. Yan tried to make them of Hickory shoots, but the large,

soft pith came just where the point was needed. So Sam said, "You

can't beat White Oak for pins." He cut a block of White Oak, split it

down the middle, then split half of it in the middle again, and so on

till it was small enough to trim and finish with his knife. Meanwhile

Yan took the axe to split another, but found that it ran off to one

side instead of going straight down the grain.

"No good," was Sam's comment. "You must keep _halving_ each time

or it will run out toward the thin pieces. You want to split shingles

all winter to larn that."

Ten pins were made eight inches long and a quarter of an inch thick.

They were used just like dressmakers' stickpins, only the holes had to

be made first, and, of course, they looked better for being regular.

Thus the cover was laced on. The lack of ground-pegs was then seen.

"You make ten Oak pins a foot long and an inch square, Sam. I've a

notion how to fix them." Then Yan cut ten pieces of the rope, each two

feet long, and made a hole about every three feet around the base of

the cover above the rope in the outer seam. He passed one end of each

short rope through this and knotted it to the other end. Thus he had

ten peg-loops, and the teepee was fastened down and looked like a

glorious success.

Now came the grand ceremony of all, the lighting of the first fire.

The boys felt it to be a supreme and almost a religious moment. It is

curious to note that they felt very much as savages do under the same

circumstances--that the setting up of the new teepee and lighting its

first fire is an act of deep significance, and to be done only with

proper regard for its future good luck.

"Better go slow and sure about that fire. It'd be awfully unlucky to

have it fizzle for the first time."

"That's so," replied Yan, with the same sort of superstitious dread.

"Say, Sam, if we could really light it with rubbing-sticks, wouldn't

it be great?"

"Hallo!"

The boys turned, and there was Caleb close to them. He came over and

nodded. "Got yer teepee, I see? Not bad, but what did ye face her to

the west fur?"

"Fronting the creek," explained Yan.

"I forgot to tell ye," said Caleb, "an Injun teepee always fronts the

east; first, that gives the morning sun inside; next, the most wind is

from the west, so the smoke is bound to draw."

"And what if the wind is right due east?" asked Sam, "which it surely

will be when it rains?"

"And when the wind's east," continued Caleb, addressing no one in

particular, and not as though in answer to a question, "ye lap the

flaps across each other tight in front, so," and he crossed his hands

over his chest. "That leaves the east side high and shuts out the

rain; if it don't draw then, ye raise the bottom of the cover under

the door just a little--that always fetches her. An' when you change

her round don't put her in under them trees. Trees is dangerous; in a

storm they draw lightning, an' branches fall from them, an' after rain

they keep on dripping for an hour. Ye need all the sun ye kin get on a

teepee.

"Did you ever see Indians bring fire out of two sticks by rubbing, Mr.

Clark?"

"Oh, yes. Most of the Injuns now carry matches, but in the early days

I seen it done often enough."

"Does it take long? Is it hard?"

"Not so long, and it's easy enough, when ye know how."

"My! I'd rather bring fire out of two sticks than have a ten dollar

bill," said Yan, with enthusiasm that meant much, for one dollar was

his high-water mark of affluence, and this he had reached but once in

his life.

"Oh, I dunno'; that depends," was Sam's more guarded response.

"Can _you_ do it?" asked Yan.

"Wall, yes, if I kin get the right stuff. Ye see, it ain't every wood

that will do it. It's got to be jest right. The Plains Injuns use

Cottonwood root, an' the Mountain Injuns use Sage-brush root. I've

seen the Canadian Injuns use Basswood, Cedar and dry White Pine,

but the Chippewas mostly use Balsam Fir. The easiest way is with a

bow-drill. Have ye any buckskin?"

"No."

"Or a strip o' soft leather?"

"I've got a leather shoe-lace," said Yan.

"Rather slim; but we'll double it an' make it do. A cord will answer,

but it frays out so soon." Caleb took the lace and the axe, then said,

"Find me a stone 'bout the size of an egg, with a little hole into

it--like a socket hole--'bout a quarter inch deep."

The boys went to the creek to seek a stone and Caleb went into the

woods.

They heard him chopping, and presently he came back with a flat piece

of very dry Balsam Fir, a fifteen-inch pin of the same, a stick about

three feet long, slightly bent, some dry Pine punk and some dry Cedar.

The pin was three-quarters of an inch thick and was roughly

eight-sided, "so the lace would grip." It was pointed at both ends. He

fastened the lace to the bent stick like a bow-string, but loosely, so

that when it had one turn around the pin it was quite tight. The flat

piece of Balsam he trimmed down to about half an inch thick. In the

edge of this he now cut a notch one-quarter inch wide and half an inch

deep, then on the top of this fire-board or block, just beyond the

notch, he made with the point of his knife a little pit.

He next scraped and shredded a lot of dry Cedar wood like lint. Then

making a hole half an inch deep in the ground, he laid in that a flat

piece of Pine punk, and across this he set the fire-board. The point

of the pin or drill was put in the pit of the fire-board, which he

held down with one foot; the lace was given one turn on the pin, and

its top went into the hole of the stone the boys brought. The stone

was held firmly in Caleb's left hand.

"Sometimes," he remarked, "when ye can't find a stone, a Pine knot

will do--ye kin make the socket-hole with a knife-point."

Now holding the bow in his right hand, he began to draw it back and

forth with long, steady strokes, causing the pin to whirl round in the

socket. Within a few seconds a brown powder began to run out of the

notch of the fire-board onto the punk. The pit increased in size and

blackened, the powder darkened, and a slight smoke arose from the pit.

Caleb increased the pressure of his left hand a little, and sawed

faster with the right. The smoke steadily increased and the black

powder began to fill the notch. The smoke was rolling in little clouds

from under the pin, and it even seemed to come from the heap of

powder. As soon as he saw that, Caleb dropped the bow and gently

fanned the powder heap. It still smoked. He removed the fire-board,

and lifting the punk, showed the interior of the powder to be one

glowing coal. On this he laid the Cedar tinder and over that a second

piece of punk. Then raising it, he waved it in the air and blew gently

for awhile. It smouldered and then burst into a flame. The other

material was handy, and in a very short time they had a blazing fire

in the middle of the new teepee.

[Illustration: THE RUBBING-STICKS FOR FIRE-MAKING]

All three were pictures of childish delight. The old man's face fairly

beamed with triumph. Had he failed in his experiment he would have

gone off hating those boys, but having made a brilliant success he was

ready to love every one concerned, though they had been nothing more

than interested spectators of his exploit.

[Illustration: RUBBING-STICKS--FOR FIRE-MAKING (See Description Below)]

Two tools and two sticks are needed. The tools are bow and

drill-socket; the sticks are drill and fire-board.

1. The simplest kind of bow--a bent stick with a stout leather thong

fastened at each end. The stick must not spring. It is about 27 inches

long and 5/8 inch thick.

2. A more elaborate bow with a hole at each end for the thong. At the

handle end it goes through a disc of wood. This is to tighten the

thong by pressure of the hand against the disc while using.

3. Simplest kind of drill-socket--a pine or hemlock knot with a

shallow hole or pit in it. _3a_ is under view of same. It is

about 4-1/2 inches long.

4. A more elaborate drill-socket--a pebble cemented with gum in a

wooden holder. _4a_ is under view of same.

5. A very elaborate drill-socket; it is made of tulip wood, carved to

represent the Thunderbird. It has eyes of green felspar cemented in

with resin. On the under side (_5a_) is seen, in the middle, a

soapstone socket let into the wood and fastened with pine gum, and

on the head a hole kept filled with grease, to grease the top of the

drill before use.

6. The drill, 12 to 18 inches long and about 3/4 of an inch thick; it

is roughly 8-sided so the thong will not slip, pointed at each end.

The best wood for the drill is old, dry, brash, but not punky balsam

fir or cotton-wood roots; but basswood, white cedar, red cedar,

tamarack, and sometimes even white pine, will do.

7. Fire-board or block, about 3/4 of an inch thick and any length

handy; _a_ is notch with pit just below shows the pit after once

using and in good trim for a second time; _c_ shows the pit bored

through and useless; the notch is 1/2 inch wide and 3/4 inch deep.

8. Shows the way of using the sticks. The block (_a_) is held

down with one foot, the end of the drill in the pit, the drill-socket

(_c_) is held on top in left hand, one end of the bow (_d_)

is held in the right hand the bow is drawn back and forth.

9. Is a little wooden fire-pan, not essential but convenient; its thin

edge is put under the notch to catch the powder that falls.

IX

The Bows and Arrows

"I don't think much of your artillery," said Yan one day as they were

shooting in the orchard with Sam's "Western outfit." "It's about like

the first one I made when I was young."

"Well, grandpa, let's see your up-to-date make?"

"It'd be about five times as strong, for one thing."

"You couldn't pull it."

"Not the way you hold the arrow! But last winter I got a book about

archery from the library and learned something worth while. You pinch

the arrow that way and you can draw six or eight pounds, maybe, but

you hook your fingers in the string--so--and you can draw five times

as much, and that's the right way to shoot."

"Feels mighty clumsy," said Sam, trying it.

"Of course it does at first, and you have to have a deep notch in the

arrow or you can't do it at all."

"You don't seem to manage any better than I do."

"First time I ever had a chance to try since I read about it. But I

want to make a first-class bow and a lot of arrows. It's not much good

going with _one_."

[Illustration: The Archer's Grip]

"Well, go ahead an' make an outfit if you know how. What's the best

wood? Did the book tell you that?"

"The best wood is Spanish Yew."

"Don't know it."

"An' the next is Oregon Yew."

"Nope."

"Then Lancewood and Osage Orange."

'Try again."

"Well, Red Cedar, Apple tree, Hickory and Elm seem to be the only ones

that grow around here."

"Hain't seen any _Red_ Cedar, but the rest is easy."

"It has to be thoroughly seasoned winter-cut wood, and cut so as to

have heart on one side and sap wood on the other."

"How's that?" and Sam pointed to a lot of half-round Hickory sticks

on the rafters of the log house. "Those have been there a couple of

years."

A good one of five feet long was selected and split and hewn with the

axe till the boys had the two bow staves, five and one-half feet long

and two inches square, with the line of the heart and sap wood down

the middle of each.

Guided by his memory of that precious book and some English long bows

that he had seen in a shop in town, Yan superintended the manufacture.

Sam was apt with tools, and in time they finished two bows, five feet

long and drawing possibly twenty-five pounds each. In the middle they

were one and one-half inches wide and an inch thick (see page 183).

This size they kept for nine inches each way, making an eighteen-inch

middle part that did not bend, but their two limbs were shaved down

and scraped with glass till they bent evenly and were well within the

boys' strength.

The string was the next difficulty. All the ordinary string they could

get around the house proved too weak, never lasting more than two

or three shots, till Si Lee, seeing their trouble, sent them to the

cobbler's for a hank of unbleached linen thread and some shoemaker's

wax. Of this thread he reeled enough for a strong cord tight around

two pegs seven feet apart, then cutting it loose at one end he divided

it equally in three parts, and, after slight waxing, he loosely

plaited them together. At Yan's suggestion he then spliced a loop at

one end, and with a fine waxed thread lashed six inches of the middle

where the arrow fitted, as well as the splice of the loop. This last

enabled them to unstring the bow when not in use (see page 183).

"There," said he, "you won't break that." The finishing touch was

thinly coating the bows with some varnish found among the paint

supplies.

"Makes my old bow look purty sick," remarked Sam, as he held up the

really fine new weapon in contrast with the wretched little hoop that

had embodied his early ideas. "Now what do you know about arrers,

mister?" as he tried his old arrow in the new bow.

"I know that that's no good," was the reply; "an' I can tell you that

it's a deal harder to make an arrow than a bow--that is, a good one."

"That's encouraging, considering the trouble we've had already."

"'Tisn't meant to be, but we ought to have a dozen arrows each."

"How do the Injuns make them?"

"Mostly they get straight sticks of the Arrow-wood; but I haven't seen

any Arrow-wood here, and they're not so awfully straight. You see, an

arrow must be straight or it'll fly crooked. 'Straight as an arrow'

means the thing itself. We can do better than the Indians 'cause we

have better tools. We can split them out of the solid wood."

"What wood? Some bloomin' foreign kind that no White-man never saw nor

heard of before?"

"No sir-ree. There ain't anything better 'n White Pine for target and

Ash or Hickory for hunting arrows. Which are we making?"

"I'm a hunter. Give me huntin' arrows every time. What's needed next?"

"Seasoned Ash twenty-five inches long, split to three-eighths of an

inch thick, hot glue, and turkey-wing feathers."

"I'll get the feathers and let you do the rest," said Sam, producing

a bundle of turkey-wings, laid away as stove-dusters, and then belied

his own statement by getting a block of Ash and splitting it up,

halving it each time till he had a pile of two dozen straight sticks

about three-quarters of an inch thick.

Yan took one and began with his knife to whittle it down to proper

size and shape, but Sam said, "I can do better than that," then took

the lot to the workbench and set to work with a smoothing plane. Yan

looked worried and finally said:

"Injuns didn't have planes."

"Nor jack-knives neither," was the retort.

That was true, and yet somehow Yan's ideal that he hankered after

was the pre-Columbian Indian, the one who had no White-man's help or

tools.

"It seems to me it'd be more Injun to make these with just what we get

in the woods. The Injuns didn't have jack-knives, but they had sharp

flints in the old days."

"Yan, you go ahead with a sharp stone. You'll find lots on the road if

you take off your shoes and walk barefoot--awful sharp; an' I'll go

ahead with the smoothing plane an' see who wins."

Yan was not satisfied, but he contented himself with promising that he

would some day make some arrows of Arrow-wood shoots and now he

would finish at least one with his knife. He did so, but Sam, in the

meantime, made six much better ones with the smoothing plane.

"What about heads?" said he.

"I've been thinking," was the reply. "Of course the Indians used stone

heads fastened on with sinew, but we haven't got the stuff to do that.

Bought heads of iron with a ferrule for the end of the arrow are best,

but we can't get them. Bone heads and horn heads will do. I made some

fine ones once filing bones into the shape, but they were awfully

brittle; and I made some more of big nails cut off and set in with a

lashing of fine wire around the end to stop the wood splitting. Some

Indian arrows have no point but the stick sharpened after it's

scorched to harden it."

[Illustration: SIX SAMPLE ARROWS, SHOWING DIFFERENT FEATHERS]

"That sounds easy enough for me," said Sam; "let's make some of them

that way."

So the arrows were made, six each with nail points filed sharp and

lashed with broom wire. These were called "War arrows," and six each

with fire-hardened wood points for hunting arrows.

"Now for the feathering," and Yan showed Sam how to split the midrib

of a turkey feather and separate the vane.

"Le's see, you want twice twenty-four--that's forty-eight feathers."

"No," said Yan, "that's a poor feathering, two on each. We want three

on each arrow--seventy-two strips in all, and mind you, we want all

three that are on one arrow from the same side of the bird."

"I know. I'll bet it's bad luck to mix sides; arrows doesn't know

which way to turn."

At this moment Si Lee came in. "How are ye gettin' on with the bows?"

"Waitin' for arrows now."

"How do ye put on the feathers?"

DESCRIPTION OF SIX SAMPLE ARROWS SHOWING DIFFERENT FEATHERS

_A_ is a far-flying steel-pointed bobtail, very good in wind.

_B_ is another very good arrow, with a horn point. This went

even better than _A_ if there were no wind. _C_ is an

Omaha war and deer arrow. Both heads and feathers are lashed on

with sinew. The long tufts of down left on the feathers are to

help in finding it again, as they are snow-white and wave in the

breeze. The grooves on the shaft are to make the victim bleed more

freely and be more easily tracked. _D_ is another Omaha

arrow with a peculiar owner's mark of lines carved in the middle,

_E_ is a bone-headed bird shaft made by the Indians of the

Mackenzie River. _F_ is a war arrow made by Geronimo, the

famous Apache chief. Its shaft is three joints of a straight cane.

The tip is of hard wood, and on that is a fine quartz point; all

being lashed together with sinew.

"White-men glue them on, and Injuns lash them on," replied Yan,

quoting from memory from "that book."

"Which is best?"

"Glued on flies better, but lashed on stands the weather better."

"Why not both?"

"Have no sinew."

"Let me show ye a trick. Where's yer glue an' linen thread?"

These were brought, whereupon Si added: "'Pears to me ye oughter put

the feathers on last. Better cut the notch first."

"That's so; we nearly forgot."

"_You_ nearly forgot, you mean. Don't drag _me_ in the mud,"

said Sam, with owlish dignity. A small saw cut, cleaned up and widened

with a penknife, proved the best; a notch one-fourth inch deep was

quickly made in each arrow, and Si set about _both_ glueing

_and_ lashing on the feathers, but using wax-end instead of

sinew.

Yan had marked the place for each feather so that none would strike

the bow in passing (see Cut page 183). He first glued them on,

then made a lashing for half an inch on the projecting ends of the

feather-rib, and another behind, carrying this second lashing back to

the beginning of the notch to guard against the wood splitting. When

he had trimmed all loose ends and rolled the waxed thread well on the

bench with a flat stick, the threads seemed to disappear and leave

simply a smooth black ring.

THE ARCHERY OUTFIT (Not all on scale)

I. The five-foot bow as finished, with sections at the points shown.

II. The bow "braced" or strung.

III. The bow unstrung, showing the loop slipped down.

IV. The loop that is used on the upper end of the bow.

V. The timber hitch always used on the lower end or notch of the bow.

VI. A turkey feather with split midrib, all ready to lash on.

VII. End view of arrow, showing notch and arrangement of three

feathers.

VIII. Part of arrow, showing feathering and lashing.

IX. Sanger hunting arrow with wooden point; 25 inches long.

X. Sanger war arrow with nail point and extra long feathers; it also

is 25 inches long.

XI. Quiver with Indian design; 20 inches long.

XII. The "bracer" or arm guard of heavy leather for left arm, with two

laces to tie it on. It is six inches long.

* * * * *

Thus the arrows were made and set away for the glue to dry.

Next day Yan painted Sam's red and blue, his own red and white, to

distinguish them as well as guard them from the damp. There was now

one more thing, and that was a quiver.

"Do the Injuns have them?" asked Sam, with a keen eye to orthodoxy

when it promised to cut short the hard work.

"Well, I should say so; couldn't live without them."

"All right; hurry up. I'm spoiling for a hunt. What are they made of?"

"Oh, 'most anything."

"Haven't got it."

"You're too fast. But some use Birch bark, some use the skin of an

animal, and some use canvas now when other stuff is scarce."

"That's us. You mind the stuff left off the teepee?"

"Do till we get better." So each made a sort of canvas bag shorter

than the arrows. Yan painted an Indian device on each, and they were

ready.

"Now bring on your Bears," said the older boy, and feeling a sense of

complete armament, they went out.

"See who can hit that tree." Both fired together and missed, but Sam's

arrow struck another tree and split open.

"Guess we'd better get a soft target," he remarked. Then after

discussion they got a large old corn sack full of hay, painted on it

some rings around a bull's eye (a Buffalo's eye, Sam called it) and

set it up at twenty yards.

They were woefully disappointed at first in their shooting. It did

seem a very easy mark, and it was disappointing to have the arrows fly

some feet away to the left.

"Le's get in the barn and shoot at that," suggested Sam.

"We might hit it if we shut the door tight," was the optimistic reply.

As well as needing practice, the boys had to learn several little

rules about Archery. But Yan had some pencil notes from "that book"

and some more in his brain that with much practice gradually taught

him: To stand with his heel centres in line with the target; his right

elbow in line with the arrow; his left hand fixed till the arrow

struck; his right thumb always on the same place on his cheek when he

fired, and the bow plumb.

They soon found that they needed guards for the left arm where the bow

strings struck, and these they made out of the leg of an old boot (see

Cut page 183), and an old glove to protect the fingers of the right

hand when they practised very much. After they learned to obey the

rules without thinking about them, the boys improved quickly and soon

they were able to put all the arrows into the hay sack at twenty

yards, increasing the distance later till they could make fair

shooting at forty yards.

They were not a little surprised to find how much individuality the

arrows had, although meant to be exactly alike.

Sam had one that continued to warp until it was much bent, and the

result was some of the most surprising curves in its flight. This he

called the "Boomerang." Another, with a very small feather, travelled

farther than any of the rest. This was the "Far-killer." His best

arrow, one that he called "Sure-death," was a long-feathered Turkey

shaft with a light head. It was very reliable on a calm day, but

apt to swerve in the wind. Yet another, with a small feather, was

correspondingly reliable on a windy day. This was "Wind-splitter."

The one Yan whittled with the knife was called the "Whittler," and

sometimes the "Joker." It was a perpetual mystery, they never knew

just what it would do next. His particular pet was one with a hollow

around the point, which made a whistling sound when it flew, and was

sometimes called the "Whistler" and sometimes the "Jabberwock,"

"which whiffled through the tulgy wood and burbled as it came."

[Illustration: CORRECT FORM IN SHOOTING The diagram at bottom is to

show the centres of heels in line with target.]

X

The Dam

One hot day early in July they were enjoying themselves in the shallow

bathing-hole of the creek, when Sam observed: "It's getting low. It

goes dry every summer."

This was not pleasing to foresee, and Yan said, "Why can't we make a

dam?"

"A little too much like work."

"Oh, pshaw! That'd be fun and we'd have a swimming-place for all

summer, then. Come on; let's start now."

"Never heard of Injuns doing so much work."

"Well, we'll play Beaver while we do it. Come on, now; here's for

a starter," and Yan carried a big stone to what seemed to him the

narrowest place. Then he brought more, and worked with enthusiasm till

he had a line of stones right across the creek bed.

Sam still sat naked on the bank, his knees to his chin and his arms

around them. The war-paint was running down his chest in blue and red

streaks.

"Come on, here, you lazy freak, and work," cried Yan, and flung a

handful of mud to emphasize the invite.

"My festered knee's broke out again," was the reply.

At length Yan said, "I'm not going to do it all alone," and

straightened up his back.

"Look a-here," was the answer. "I've been thinking. The cattle water

here. The creek runs dry in summer, then the cattle has to go to the

barnyard and drink at the trough--has to be pumped for, and hang round

for hours after hoping some one will give them some oats, instead of

hustling back to the woods to get fat. Now, two big logs across there

would be more'n half the work. I guess we'll ask Da to lend us the

team to put them logs across to make a drinking-pond for the cattle.

Them cattle is awful on my mind. Didn't sleep all night thinking o'

them. I just hate like pizen to see them walking all the way to the

barn in hot weather for a drink--'tain't right." So Sam waited for a

proper chance to "tackle" his father. It did not come that day, but at

breakfast next morning Raften looked straight at Yan across the table,

and evidently thinking hard about something, said:

"Yahn, this yer room is twenty foot by fifteen, how much ilecloth

three foot wide will it call fur?"

"Thirty-three and one-third yards," Yan said at once.

Raften was staggered. Yan's manner was convincing, but to do all that

in his head was the miracle. Various rude tests were applied and the

general opinion prevailed that Yan was right.

The farmer's face beamed with admiration for the first time. "Luk at

that," he said to the table, "luk at that fur eddication. When'll you

be able to do the like?" he said to Sam.

"Never," returned his son, with slow promptness. "Dentists don't have

to figger on ilecloth."

"Say, Yan," said Sam aside, "guess _you_ better tackle Da about

the dam. Kind o' sot up about ye this mornin'; your eddication has

softened him some, an' it'll last till about noon, I jedge. Strike

while the iron is hot."

So after breakfast Yan commenced:

"Mr. Raften, the creek's running dry. We want to make a pond for the

cattle to drink, but we can't make a dam without two big logs across.

Will you let us have the team a few minutes to place the logs?"

"It ain't fur a swimmin'-pond, is it, ye mean?" said Raften, with a

twinkle in his eye.

"It would do for that as well," and Yan blushed.

"Sounds to me like Sam talking through Yan's face," added Raften,

shrewdly taking in the situation. "I'll see fur meself."

Arrived at the camp, he asked: "Now, whayer's yer dam to be? Thar?

That's no good. It's narrer but it'd be runnin' round both ends afore

ye had any water to speak of. Thayer's a better place, a bit wider,

but givin' a good pond. Whayer's yer logs? Thayer? What--my seasoning

timber? Ye can't hev that. That's the sill fur the new barrn; nor

that--it's seasonin' fur gate posts. Thayer's two ye kin hev. I'll

send the team, but don't let me ketch ye stealin' any o' my seasonin'

timber or the fur'll fly."

With true Raften promptness the heavy team came, the two great logs

were duly dragged across and left as Yan requested (four feet apart

for the top of the dam).

The boys now drove in a row of stakes against each log on the inner

side, to form a crib, and were beginning to fill in the space with mud

and stones. They were digging and filling it up level as they went.

Clay was scarce and the work went slowly; the water, of course, rising

as the wall arose, added to the difficulty. But presently Yan said:

"Hold on. New scheme. Let's open her and dig a deep trench on one

side so all the water will go by, then leave a clay wall to it" [the

trench] "and dig a deep hole on the other side of it. That will give

us plenty of stuff for the dam and help to deepen the pond."

Thus they worked. In a week the crib was full of packed clay and

stone. Then came the grand finish--the closing of this sluiceway

through the dam. It was not easy with the full head of water running,

but they worked like beavers and finally got it stopped.

That night there was a heavy shower. Next day when they came near they

heard a dull roar in the woods. They stopped and listened in doubt,

then Yan exclaimed gleefully: "The dam! That's the water running over

the dam."

They both set off with a yell and ran their fastest. As soon as they

came near they saw a great sheet of smooth water where the stony creek

bottom had been and a steady current over the low place left as an

overflow in the middle of the dam.

What a thrill of pleasure that was!

"Last in's a dirty sucker."

"Look out for my bad knee," was the response.

The rest of the race was a mixture of stripping and sprinting and the

boys splashed in together.

Five feet deep in the deep hole, a hundred yards long, and all their

own doing.

"Now, wasn't it worth it?" asked Yan, who had had much difficulty in

keeping Sam steadily at play that looked so very much like work.

"Wonder how that got here? I thought I left that in the teepee?" and

Sam pointed to a log that he used for a seat in the teepee, but now it

was lodged in the overflow.

Yan was a good swimmer, and as they played and splashed, Sam said:

"Now I know who you are. You can't hide it from me no longer. I

suspicioned it when you were working on the dam. You're that tarnal

Redskin they call 'Little Beaver.'"

"I've been watching you," retorted Yan, "and it seems to me I've run up

against that copper-coloured scallawag--'Young-Man-Afraid-of-a-Shovel.'"

[Illustration: The dam was a great success]

"No, you don't," said Sam. "Nor I ain't

'_Bald-Eagle-Settin'-on-a-Rock-with-his-Tail-Hangin'-over-the-Edge,'_

nuther. In fact, I don't keer to be recognized just now. Ain't it a

relief to think the cattle don't have to take that walk any more?"

Sam was evidently trying to turn the subject, but Yan would not be

balked. "I heard Si call you 'Woodpecker' the other day."

"Yep. I got that at school. When I was a kid to hum I heerd Ma talk

about me be-a-u-tiful _golden_ hair, but when I got big enough

to go to school I learned that it was only _red_, an' they called

me the 'Red-headed Woodpecker.' I tried to lick them, but lots of them

could lick me an' rubbed it in wuss. When I seen fightin' didn't

work, I let on to like it, but it was too late then. Mostly it's just

'Woodpecker' for short. I don't know as it ever lost me any sleep."

Half an hour later, as they sat by the fire that Yan made with

rubbing-sticks, he said, "Say, Woodpecker, I want to tell you a

story." Sam grimaced, pulled his ears forward, and made ostentatious

preparations to listen.

"There was once an Indian squaw taken prisoner by some other tribe way

up north. They marched her 500 miles away, but one night she escaped

and set out, not on the home trail, for she knew they would follow

that way and kill her, but to one side. She didn't know the country

and got lost. She had no weapons but a knife, and no food but berries.

Well, she travelled fast for several days till a rainstorm came, then

she felt safe, for she knew her enemies could not trail her now. But

winter was near and she could not get home before it came. So she set

to work right where she was.

"She made a wigwam of Birch bark and a fire with rubbing-sticks, using

the lace of her moccasin for a bow-string. She made snares of the

inner bark of the Willow and of Spruce roots, and deadfalls, too, for

Rabbits. She was starving sometimes, at first, but she ate the buds

and inner bark of Birch trees till she found a place where there were

lots of Rabbits. And when she caught some she used every scrap of

them. She made a fishing-line of the sinews, and a hook of the bones

and teeth lashed together with sinew and Spruce gum.

"She made a cloak of Rabbit skins, sewed with needles of Rabbit bone

and thread of Rabbit sinew, and a lot of dishes of Birch bark sewed

with Spruce roots.

"She put in the whole winter there alone, and when the spring came she

was found by Samuel Hearne, the great traveller. Her precious knife

was worn down, but she was fat and happy and ready to set out for her

own people."

"Well, I say that's mighty inter-est-in'," said Sam--he had listened

attentively--"an' I'd like nothin' better than to try it myself if I

had a gun an' there was lots of game."

"Pooh, who wouldn't?"

"Mighty few--an' there's mighty few who _could_."

"I could."

"What, make everything with just a knife? I'd like to see you make

a teepee," then adding earnestly, "Sam, we've been kind o' playing

Injuns; now let's do it properly. Let's make everything out of what we

find in the woods."

"Guess we'll have to visit the Sanger Witch again. She knows all about

plants."

"We'll be the Sanger Indians. We can both be Chiefs," said Yan, not

wishing to propose himself as Chief or caring to accept Sam as his

superior. "I'm Little Beaver. Now what are you?"

"Bloody-Thundercloud-in-the-Afternoon."

"No, try again. Make it something you can draw, so you can make your

totem, and make it short."

"What's the smartest animal there is?"

"I--I--suppose the Wolverine."

"What! Smarter'n a Fox?"

"The books say so."

"Kin he lick a Beaver?"

"Well, I should say so."

"Well, that's me."

"No, you don't. I'm not going around with a fellow that licks me. It

don't fit you as well as 'Woodpecker,' anyhow. I always get _you_

when I want a nice tree spoiled or pecked into holes," retorted Yan,

magnanimously ignoring the personal reason for the name.

"Tain t as bad as _beavering_," answered Sam

"Beavering" was a word with a history. Axes and timber were the

biggest things in the lives of the Sangerites. Skill with the axe was

the highest accomplishment. The old settlers used to make everything

in the house out of wood, and with the axe for the only tool. It was

even said that some of them used to "edge her up a bit" and shave with

her on Sundays. When a father was setting his son up in life he gave

him simply a good axe. The axe was the grand essential of life and

work, and was supposed to be a whole outfit. Skill with the axe was

general. Every man and boy was more or less expert, and did not know

how expert he was till a real "greeny" came among them. There is a

right way to cut for each kind of grain, and a certain proper way of

felling a tree to throw it in any given direction with the minimum of

labour. All these things are second nature to the Sangerite. A Beaver

is credited with a haphazard way of gnawing round and round a tree

till somehow it tumbles, and when a chopper deviates in the least from

the correct form, the exact right cut in the exact right place, he is

said to be "beavering"; therefore, while "working like a Beaver" is

high praise, "beavering" a tree is a term of unmeasured reproach, and

Sam's final gibe had point and force that none but a Sangerite could

possibly have appreciated.

XI

Yan and the Witch

The Sanger Witch hated the Shanty-man's axe

And wildfire, too, they tell,

But the hate that she had for the Sporting man

Was wuss nor her hate of Hell!

--Cracked Jimmie's Ballad of Sanger.

Yan took his earliest opportunity to revisit the Sanger Witch.

"Better leave me out," advised Sam, when he heard of it. "She'd never

look at you if I went. You look too blame healthy."

So Yan went alone, and he was glad of it. Fond as he was of Sam, his

voluble tongue and ready wit left Yan more or less in the shade, made

him look sober and dull, and what was worse, continually turned the

conversation just as it was approaching some subject that was of

deepest interest to him.

As he was leaving, Sam called out, "Say, Yan, if you want to stay

there to dinner it'll be all right--we'll know why you hain't turned

up." Then he stuck his tongue in his cheek, closed one eye and went to

the barn with his usual expression of inscrutable melancholy.

Yan carried his note-book--he used it more and more, also his

sketching materials. On the road he gathered a handful of flowers and

herbs. His reception by the old woman was very different this time.

"Come in, come in, God bless ye, an' hoo air ye, an' how is yer father

an' mother--come in an' set down, an' how is that spalpeen, Sam

Raften?"

"Sam's all right now," said Yan with a blush.

"All right! Av coorse he's all right. I knowed I'd fix him all right,

an' he knowed it, an' his Ma knowed it when she let him come. Did she

say onything about it?"

"No, Granny, not a word."

"The dhirty hussy! Saved the boy's life in sphite of their robbin' me

an' she ain't human enough to say 'thank ye'--the dhirty hussy!

May God forgive her as I do," said the old woman with evident and

implacable enmity.

"Fwhat hev ye got thayer? Hivin be praised, they can't kill them all

off. They kin cut down the trees, but the flowers comes ivery year, me

little beauties--me little beauties!" Yan spread them out. She picked

up an Arum and went on. "Now, that's Sorry-plant, only some calls it

Injun Turnip, an' I hear the childer call it Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Don't

ye never put the root o' that near yer tongue. It'll sure burn ye like

fire. First thing whin they gits howld av a greeny the bhise throis to

make him boite that same. Shure he niver does it twicet. The Injuns

b'ile the pizen out o' the root an' ates it; shure it's better'n

starvin'."

Golden Seal (_Hydrastis canadensis_), the plant she had used for

Sam's knee, was duly recognized and praised, its wonderful golden

root, "the best goold iver came out av the ground," was described with

its impression of the seal of the Wise King.

"Thim's Mandrakes, an' they're moighty late, an' ye shure got

_thim_ in the woods. Some calls it May Apples, an' more calls it

Kingroot. The Injuns use it fur their bowels, an' it has cured many a

horse of pole evil that I seen meself.

"An' Blue Cohosh, only I call that Spazzum-root. Thayer ain't nothin'

like it fur spazzums--took like tay; only fur that the Injun women

wouldn't live in all their thrubles, but that's something that don't

consarn ye. Luk now, how the laves is all spread out like wan wid

spazzums. Glory be to the Saints and the Blessed Virgin, everything is

done fur us on airth an' plain marked, if we'd only take the thruble

to luk.

"Now luk at thot," said she, clawing over the bundle and picking out a

yellow Cypripedium, "that's Moccasin-plant wid the Injuns, but mercy

on 'em fur bloind, miserable haythens. They don't know nothin' an'

don't want to larn it. That's Umbil, or Sterrick-root. It's powerful

good fur sterricks. Luk at it! See the face av a woman in sterricks

wid her hayer flyin' an' her jaw a-droppin'. I moind the toime Larry's

little gurrl didn't want to go to her 'place' an' hed sterricks. They

jest sent fur me an' I brung along a Sterrick-root. First, I sez, sez

I, 'Get me some b'ilin' wather,' an' I made tay an' give it to her

b'ilin' hot. As share as Oi'm a livin' corpse, the very first spoonful

fetched her all right. Oh, but it's God's own gift, an' it's be His

blessin' we know how to use it. An' it don't do to just go an' dig it

when ye want it. It has to be grubbed when the flower ain't thayer. Ye

see, the strength ain't in both places to oncet. It's ayther in the

flower or in the root, so when the flower is thayer the root's no more

good than an ould straw. Ye hes to Hunt fur it in spring or in fall,

just when the divil himself wouldn't know whayer to find it.

"An' fwhat hev ye thayer? Good land! if it ain't Skunk's Cabbage! Ye

sure come up by the Bend. That's the on'y place whayer that grows."

"Yes," replied Yan; "that's just where I got it. But hold on, Granny,

I want to sketch all those and note down their names and what you say

about them."

"Shure, you'd hev a big book when I wuz through," said the old woman

with pride, as she lit her pipe, striking the match on what would have

been the leg of her pants had she been a man.

"An' shure ye don't need to write down what they're good fur, fur the

good Lord done that Himself long ago. Luk here, now. That's Cohosh,

fur spazzums, an' luks like it; that's Moccasin, fur Highsterricks,

an' luks like it; wall, thar's Skunk-root fur both, an' don't it luk

like the two o' thim thigither?"

Yan feebly agreed, but had much difficulty in seeing what the plant

had in common with the others.

"An' luk here! Thayer ye got Lowbelier, that some calls Injun

tobaccer. Ye found this by the crick, an' it's a little airly--ahead

o' toime. That's the shtuff to make ye throw up when ye want to. Luk,

ain't that lafe the livin' shape of a shtummick?

"Thayer's the Highbelier; it's a high hairb, an' it's moighty foine

fur the bowels when ye drink the dry root.

"Spicewood" [Spicebush, _Lindera benzoin_], "or Fayverbush, them

twigs is great fur tay--that cures shakes and fayver. Shure an' it

shakes ivery toime the wind blows.

"That's Clayvers," she said, picking up a Galium. "Now fwhat wud ye

think that wuz fur to cure?"

"I don't know. What is it?"

"Luk now, an' see how it's wrote in it plain as prent--yes, an' a

sight plainer, fur I can read them an' I can't read a wurrud in a

book. Now fwhat is that loike?" said she, holding up the double

seed-pod.

"A brain and spinal column," said Yan.

"Och, choild, I hev better eyes than ye. Shure them's two kidneys, an'

that's fwhat Clayver tay will cure better'n all the docthers in the

wurruld, an' ye hev to know just how. Ye see, kidney thruble is

a koind o' fayver; it's hatin', so ye make yer Clayver tay in

_cold_ wather; if ye make it o' warrum wather it just makes ye

wuss an' acts loike didly pizen. Thayer's Sweatplant, or Boneset"

[_Eupatorium perfoliatum_], "that's the thing to sweat ye. Wanst

Oi sane a feller jest dyin' o' dry hoide, wuz all hoidebound, an' the

docthers throid an' throid an' couldn't help wan bit, till I guv his

mother some Boneset leaves to make tay, an' he sweat buckets before

he'd more'n smelt av it, an' the docthers thought they done it

theirsilves!" and she cackled gleefully.

"Thayer's Goldthread fur cankermouth, an' Pipsissewa that cures fayver

an' rheumatiz, too. It always grows where folks gits them disayses.

Luk at the flower just blotched red an' white loike fayver

blotches--an' Spearmint, that saves ye if ya pizen yerself with

Spaszum-root, an' shure it grows right next it in the woods!

"Thayer's Wormseed fur wurrums--see the 'ittle wurrum on the leaves"

_[Chenopodium]_ "an' that thayer is Pleurisy root, an' thayer!

well, thayer's the foinest hairb that iver God made to grow--that's

Cure all. Some things cures wan thing and some cures another, but when

ye don't know just what to take, ye make tay o' that root an' ye can't

go wrong. It was an Injun larned me that. The poor miserable baste of

a haythen hed some larnin', an' the minit he showed me I knowed it was

so, fur ivery lafe wuz three in wan an' wan in three, an' had the sign

o' the blessed crass in the middle as plain as that biler settin' on

the stove."

Thus she chattered away, smoking her short pipe, expectorating on the

top of the hot stove, but with true feminine delicacy she was careful

each time to wipe her mouth on the back of her skinny arm.

"An' that's what's called Catnip; sure Oi moind well the day Oi furst

larned about that. It warn't a Injun nor a docther nor a man at all,

at all, that larned me that. It was that ould black Cat, an' may the

saints stand bechuxt me an' his grane eyes! Bejabers, sometimes he

scares me wid his knowin' ways, but I hev nothin' agin him except that

he kills the wee burruds. He koind o' measled all wan winter an' lay

around the stove. Whiniver the dooer was open he'd go an' luk out an'

then come back an' meow an' wheen an' lay down--an' so he kep' on,

gittin' waker an' worser, till the snow wuz gone an' grass come up,

an' still he'd go a-lukin' toward the ayst, especially nights. Then

thayer come up a plant I had never sane, right thayer, an' he'd luk at

it an' luk at it loike he wanted it but didn't dar to. Thar was some

foine trays out thayer in thim days afore the ould baste cut thim

down, an' wan av thim hed a big limb, so--an' another so--an' when the

moon come up full at jest the right time the shaddy made the sign av

the crass an' loighted on me dooer, an' after it was past it didn't

make no crass. Well, bejabers, the full moon come up at last an' she

made the sign of the shaddy crass, an' the ould Cat goes out an'

watches an' watches loike he wanted to an' didn't dar to, till that

crass drapped fayer onto the hairbs, an' Tom he jumped then an' ate

an' ate, an' from that day he was a well Cat; an' that's how Oi larned

Catnip, an' it set me moind aisy, too, fur no Cat that's possesst 'll

iver ate inunder the shaddy av the crass."

Yan was scribbling away, but had given up any attempt to make sketches

or even notes beyond the names of the plants.

"Shure, choild, put them papers wid the names on the hairbs an' save

_them_; that wuz fwhat Docther Carmartin done whin Oi was larnin'

him. Thayer, now, that's it," she added, as Yan took the hint and

began slipping on each stalk a paper label with its name.

"That's a curious broom," said Yan, as his eye fell on the symbol of

order and cleanliness, making strange reflections on itself.

"Yes; sure, that's a Baitche broom. Larry makes 'em."

"Larry?"

"Yes, me bhoy." [Larry was nearly sixty.] "He makes thim of Blue

Baitche."

"How?" asked Yan, picking it up and examining it with intense

interest.

"Whoi, shure, by whittlin'. Larry's a howly terror to whittle, an'

he gets a Blue Baitche sapling 'bout three inches thick an' starts

a-whittlin" long slivers, but laves them on the sthick at wan end till

thayer all round loike that."

"What, like a fire-lighter?"

"Yis, yis, that's it, only bigger, an Blue Baitche is terrible tough.

Then whin he has the sthick down to 'bout an inch thick, he ties all

the slivers the wrong way wid a sthrand o' Litherwood, an' thrims down

the han'el to suit, an' evens up the ind av the broom wid the axe an'

lets it dhry out, an' thayer yer is. Better broom was niver made, an'

there niver wus ony other in th' famb'ly till he married that Kitty

Connor, the lowest av the low, an' it's meself was all agin her, wid

her proide an' her dirthy sthuck-up ways' nothin' but boughten things

wuz good enough fur her, _her_ that niver had a dacint male till

she thrapped moi Larry. Yis, low be it sphoken, but 'thrapped' 's the

wurrud," said the old woman, raising her voice to give emphasis that

told a lurid tale.

At this moment the door opened and in came Biddy, and as she was the

daughter of the unspeakable Kitty the conversation turned.

"An' sure it's glad to see ye I am, an' when are ye comin' down to

reside at our place?" was her greeting to Yan, and while they talked

Granny took advantage of the chance to take a long pull at a bottle

that looked and smelled like Lung-balm.

"Moi, Biddy, yer airly," said Granny.

"Shure, an' now it was late whin I left home, an' the schulmaster says

it's always so walking from ayst to west."

"An' shure it's glad Oi am to say ye, fur Yan will shtop an ate wid

us. It ain't duck an' grane pase, but, thank God, we hev enough an' a

hearty welcome wid ivery boite. Ye say, Biddy makes me dinner ivery

foine day an' Oi get a boite an' a sup for meself other toimes, an'

slapes be me lone furby me Dog an' Cat an' the apples, which thayer

ain't but a handful left, but fwhat thar is is yourn. Help yerself,

choild, an' ate hearty," and she turned down the gray-looking

bedclothes to show the last half-dozen of the same rosy apples.

"Aint you afraid to sleep here alone nights, Granny?"

"Shure fwhat hev Oi to fayre? Thayer niver wuz robbers come but wanst,

an' shure I got theyer last cint aff av them. They come one night an'

broke in, an' settin' up, Oi sez, 'Now fwhat _are_ yez lukin'

fur?'

"'Money,' sez they, fur thayer was talk all round thin that Oi had

sold me cow fur $25.

"'Sure, thin, Oi'll get up an' help ye,' sez Oi, fur divil a cint hev

Oi been able to set me eyes on sense apple harvest.'"

'"We want $25, or we'll kill ye.'

"'Faith, an' if it wuz twenty-five cints Oi couldn't help it,' sez Oi,

'an' it's ready to die Oi am,' sez Oi, 'fur Oi was confessed last wake

an' Oi'm a-sayin' me prayers _this_ minit.'

"Sez the littlest wan, an' he wa'n't so little, nigh as br'ad as that

dooer, 'Hevn't ye sold yer cow?'

"'Ye'll foind her in the barrun,' sez Oi, 'though Oi hate to hev yez

disturb her slapin'. It makes her drame an' that's bad fur the milk.'

"An' next thing them two robbers wuz laffin' at each other fur fools.

Then the little wan sez:

"'Now, Granny, we'll lave ye in pace, if ye'll niver say a wurrud o'

this'--but the other wan seemed kind o' sulky.

"'Sorra a wurrud,' sez Oi, 'an' good frinds we'll be yit,' an' they

wuz makin' fur the dooer to clayer out whin I sez:

"'Howld on! Me friends can't lave me house an' naither boite nor sup;

turn yer backs an' ye plaze, till Oi get on me skirt.' An' whin Oi wuz

up an' dacint an' tould them they could luk, Oi sez, 'It's the foinest

Lung balm in the land ye shall taste,' an' the littlest feller he

starts a-coughin', oh, a turrible cough--it fair scairt me, like a

hoopin' croup--an' the other seemed just mad, and the littlest wan

made fun av him. Oi seen the mean wan wuz left-handed or let on he

wuz, but when he reached out fur the bottle he had on'y three fingers

on his right, an' they both av them had the biggest, blackest,

awfulest lukin' bairds--I'd know them two bairds agin ony place--an'

the littlest had a rag round his head, said he had a toothache, but

shure yer teeth don't ache in the roots o' yer haiyer. Then when they

wuz goin' the littlest wan put a dollar in me hand an' sez, 'It's all

we got bechuxst us, Granny.' 'Godbless ye,' sez Oi, 'an' Oi take it

kindly. It's the first Oi seen sense apple harvest, an' it's a friend

ye hev in me whin ye nade wan,'" and the old woman chuckled over her

victory.

"Granny, do you know what the Indians use for dyeing colours?" asked

Yan, harking back to his main purpose.

"Shure, Yahn, they jest goes to the store an' gets boughten dyes in

packages like we do."

"But before there were boughten dyes, didn't they use things in the

woods?"

"That they did, for shure. Iverything man iver naded the good Lord

made grow fur him in the woods."

"Yes, but what plants?"

"Faix, an' they differ fur different things."

"Yes, but what are they?" Then seeing how general questions failed, he

went at it in detail.

"What do they use for yellow dye on the Porcupine quills--I mean

before the boughten dyes came?"

"Well, shure an' that's a purty yellow flower that grows in the fall

out in the field an' along the fences. The Yaller Weed, I call it,

an' some calls it Goldenrod. They bile the quills in wather with the

flower. Luk! Thar's some wool dyed that way."

"An' the red?" said Yan, scribbling away.

"Faix, an' they had no rale good red. They made a koind o' red o'

berry juice b'iled, an' wanst I seen a turrible nice red an ol' squaw

made b'ilin' the quills fust in yaller awhile an' next awhile in red."

"What berries make the best red, Granny?"

"Well, 'tain't the red wans, as ye moight think. Ye kin make it of

Rosberries or Sumac or Huckleberries an' lots more, but Black Currants

is redder than Red Currants, an' Squaw berries is best av them all."

"What are they like?"

"Shure, an' Oi'll show ye that same hairb," and they wandered around

outside the shanty in vain search. "It's too airly," said Granny, "but

it's round thayer in heaps in August an' is the purtiest red iver

grew. 'An Pokeweed, too, it ain't har'ly flowerin' yit, but in the

fall it hez berries that's so red they're nigh black, an' dyes the

purtiest kind o' a purple."

"What makes blue?"

"Oi niver sane none in the quills. Thayer may be some. The good Lord

made iverything grow in the woods, but I ain't found it an' niver seen

none. Ye kin make a grane av the young shoots av Elder, but it ain't

purty like that," and she pointed to a frightful emerald ribbon that

Biddy wore, "an' a brown of Butternut bark, an' a black av White Oak

chips an' bark. Ye kin make a kind o' grane av two dips, wan of yaller

an wan av black. Ye kin dye black wid Hickory bark, an' orange (bad

scran to it) wid the inner bark of Birch, an' yaller wid the roots

av Hoop Ash, an' a foine scarlet from the bark av the little root av

Dogwood, but there ain't no rale blue in the woods, an' that's what I

tell them orange-an'-blue Prattisons on the 12th o' July, fur what the

Lord didn't make the divil did.

"Ye kin make a koind of blue out o' the Indigo hairb, but 'tain't like

this," pointing to some screaming cobalt, "an' if it ain't in the

woods the good Lord niver meant us to have it. Yis! I tell ye it's

the divil's own colour, that blue-orange an' blue is the divil's own

colours, shure enough, fur brimstone's yaller; an' its blue whin it's

burnin', that I hed from his riv'rince himself--bless him!"

XII.

Dinner with the Witch

Biddy meanwhile had waddled around the room slapping the boards with

her broad bare feet as she prepared their dinner. She was evidently

trying to put on style, for she turned out her toes excessively.

She spoke several times about "the toime when she resoided with yer

mamma," then at length, "Whayer's the tablecloth, Granny?"

"Now, wud ye listen to thot, an' she knowin' that divil a clath hev we

in the wurruld, an' glad enough to hev vittles on the table, let

alone a clath," said Granny, oblivious of the wreck she was making of

Biddy's pride.

"Will ye hay tay or coffee, Yahn?" said Biddy.

"Tea," was Yan's choice.

"Faix, an' Oi'm glad ye said tay, fur Oi ain' seen a pick o' coffee

sense Christmas, an' the tay Oi kin git in the woods, but thayer is

somethin' Oi kin set afore ye that don't grow in the woods," and the

old woman hobbled to a corner shelf, lifted down an old cigar box and

from among matches, tobacco, feathers, tacks, pins, thread and dust

she picked six lumps of cube sugar, formerly white.

"Thayer, shure, an' Oi wuz kapin' this fur whin his riv'rence comes;

wanst a year he's here, God bless him! but that's fower wakes ahid,

an' dear knows fwhat may happen afore thin. Here, an' a hearty

welcome," said she, dropping three of the lumps in Yan's tea. "We'll

kape the rest fur yer second cup. Hev some crame?" and she pushed over

a sticky-handled shaving-mug full of excellent cream. "Biddy, give

Yahn some bread."

The loaf, evidently the only one, was cut up and two or three slices

forced into Yan's plate.

"Mebbe the butther is a little hoigh," exclaimed the hostess, noting

that Yan was sparing of it. "Howld on." She went again to the corner

shelf and got down an old glass jar with scalloped edge and a flat tin

cover. It evidently contained jam. She lifted the cover and exclaimed:

"Well, Oi niver!" Then going to the door she fished out with her

fingers a dead mouse and threw it out, remarking placidly, "Oi've

wondered whayer the little divil wuz. Oi ain't sane him this two

wakes, an' me a-thinkin' it wuz Tom ate him. May Oi be furgiven the

onjustice av it. Consarn them flies! That cover niver did fit." And

again her finger was employed, this time to scrape off an incrustation

of unhappy flies that had died, like Clarence, in their favourite

beverage.

"Thayer, Yan, now ate hearty, all av it, an' welcome. It does me good

to see ye ate--thayer's lots more whayer that come from," though it

was obvious that she had put her all upon the table.

Poor Yan was in trouble. He felt instinctively that the good old soul

was wrecking her week's resources in this lavish hospitality, but he

also felt that she would be deeply hurt if he did not appear to enjoy

everything. The one possibly clean thing was the bread. He devoted

himself to that; it was of poorest quality; one or two hairs looping

in his teeth had been discouraging, but when he bit at a piece of

linen rag with a button on it he was fairly upset. He managed to hide

the rag, but could not conceal his sudden loss of appetite.

"Hev some more av this an' this," and in spite of himself his

plate was piled up with things for him to eat, including a lot of

beautifully boiled potatoes, but unfortunately the hostess carried

them from the pot on the stove in a corner of her ancient and somber

apron, and served him with her skinny paw.

Yan's appetite was wholly gone now, to the grief of his kind

entertainer, "Shure an' she'd fix him up something to stringthen him,"

and Yan had hard work to beg off.

"Would ye like an aig," ventured Biddy.

"Why, yes! oh, yes, please," exclaimed Yan, with almost too much

enthusiasm. He thought, "Well, hens are pure-minded creatures, anyway.

An egg's sure to be clean."

Biddy waddled away to the 'barrun' and soon reappeared with three

eggs.

"B'iled or fried?"

"Boiled," said Yan, aiming to keep to the safe side.

Biddy looked around for a pot.

"Shure, _that's_ b'ilin' now," said Granny, pointing to the great

mass of her undergarments seething in the boiler, and accordingly the

eggs were dropped in there.

Yan fervently prayed that they might not break. As it was, two did

crack open, but he got the other one, and that was virtually his

dinner.

A Purple Blackbird came hopping in the door now.

"Will, now, thayer's Jack. Whayer hev ye been? I thought ye wuz gone

fur good. Shure Oi saved him from a murtherin' gunner," she explained.

"(Bad scran to the baste! I belave he was an Or'ngeman.) But he's all

right now an' comes an' goes like he owned the place. Now, Jack, you

git out av that wather pail," as the beautiful bird leaped into the

half-filled drinking bucket and began to take a bath.

"Now luk at that," she shouted, "ye little rascal, come out o' that

oven," for now the Blackbird had taken advantage of the open door to

scramble into the dark warm oven.

"Thayer he goes to warrum his futs. Oh, ye little rascal! Next thing

ye know some one'll slam the dooer, not knowin' a thing, and fire up,

an' it's roastin' aloive ye'll be. Shure an' it's tempted Oi am to

wring yer purty neck to save yer loife," and she drove him out with

the harshest of words and the gentlest of hands.

Then Yan, with his arms full of labelled plants, set out for home.

"Good-boi, choild, come back agin and say me soon. Bring some more

hairbs. Good-boi, an' bless ye. Oi hope it's no sin to say so, fur Oi

know yer a Prattison an' ye are all on yez goin' to hell, but yer a

foine bhoy. Oi'm tumble sorry yer a Prattison."

When Yan got back to the Raftens' he found the dinner table set for

one, though it was now three in the afternoon.

"Come and get your dinner," said Mrs. Raften in her quiet motherly

way. "I'll put on the steak. It will be ready in five minutes."

"But I've had my dinner with Granny de Neuville."

"Yes, I know!"

"Did she stir yer tea with one front claw an' put jam on yer bread

with the other?" asked Raften, rather coarsely.

"Did she b'ile her pet Blackbird fur yer soup?" said Sam.

Yan turned very red. Evidently all had a good idea of what he had

experienced, but it jarred on him to hear their mockery of the good

old soul.

He replied warmly, "She was just as kind and nice as she could be."

"You had better have a steak now," said Mrs. Raften, in solicitous

doubt.

How tempting was the thought of that juicy brown steak! How his empty

stomach did crave it! But the continued mockery had stirred him. He

would stand up for the warm-hearted old woman who had ungrudgingly

given him the best she had--had given her all--to make a hearty

welcome for a stranger. They should never know how gladly he would

have eaten now, and in loyalty to his recent hostess he added the

first lie of his life:

"No, thank you very much, but really I am not in the least hungry. I

had a fine dinner at Granny de Neuville's."

Then, defying the inner pangs of emptiness, he went about his evening

chores.

XIII

The Hostile Spy

"Wonder where Caleb got that big piece of Birch bark," said Yan; "I'd

like some for dishes."

"Guess I know. He was over to Burns's bush. There's none in ours. We

kin git some."

"Will you ask him?"

"Naw, who cares for an old Birch tree. We'll go an' borrow it when he

ain't lookin'."

Yan hesitated.

Sam took the axe. "We'll call this a war party into the enemy's

country. There's sure 'nuff war that-a-way. He's one of Da's

'_friends.'_"

Yan followed, in doubt still as to the strict honesty of the

proceeding.

Over the line they soon found a good-sized canoe Birch, and were busy

whacking away to get off a long roll, when a tall man and a small boy,

apparently attracted by the chopping, came in sight and made toward

them. Sam called under his breath: "It's old Burns. Let's git."

There was no time to save anything but themselves and the axe. They

ran for the boundary fence, while Burns contented himself with

shouting out threats and denunciations. Not that he cared a straw for

the Birch tree--timber had no value in that country--but unfortunately

Raften had quarrelled with all his immediate neighbours, therefore

Burns did his best to make a fearful crime of the petty depredation.

His valiant son, a somewhat smaller boy than either Yan or Sam, came

near enough to the boundary to hurl opprobrious epithets.

"Red-head--red-head! You red-headed thief! Hol' on till my paw gits

hol' o' you--Raften, the Baften, the rick-strick Straften," and others

equally galling and even more exquisitely refined.

"War party escaped and saved their scalps," and Sam placidly laid the

axe in its usual place.

"Nothing lost but honour," added Yan. "Who's the kid?"

"Oh, that's Guy Burns. I know him. He's a mean little cuss, always

sneaking and peeking. Lies like sixty. Got the prize--a big

scrubbing-brush--for being the dirtiest boy in school. We all voted,

and the teacher gave it to him."

Next day the boys made another war party for Birch bark, but had

hardly begun operations when there was an uproar not far away, and a

voice, evidently of a small boy, mouthing it largely, trying to pass

itself off as a man's voice: "Hi, yer the ---- ----. Yer git off my

---- ---- place ---- ----"

"Le's capture the little cuss, Yan."

"An' burn him at the stake with horrid torture," was the rejoinder.

They set out in his direction, but again the appearance of Burns

changed their war-party onslaught into a rapid retreat.

(More opprobrium.)

During the days that followed the boys were often close to the

boundary, but it happened that Burns was working near and Guy had the

quickest of eyes and ears. The little rat seemed ever on the alert. He

soon showed by his long-distance remarks that he knew all about the

boys' pursuits--had doubtless visited the camp in their absence.

Several times they saw him watching them with intense interest when

they were practising with bow and arrow, but he always retreated to a

safe distance when discovered, and then enjoyed himself breathing out

fire and slaughter.

One day the boys came to the camp at an unusual hour. On going into a

near thicket Yan saw a bare foot under some foliage. "Hallo, what's

this?" He stooped down and found a leg to it and at the end of that

Guy Burns.

Up Guy jumped, yelling "Paw--Paw--PAW!" He ran for his life, the

Indians uttering blood-curdlers on his track. But Yan was a runner,

and Guy's podgy legs, even winged by fear, had no chance. He was

seized and dragged howling back to the camp.

"You let me alone, you Sam Raften--now you let me alone!" There was,

however, a striking lack of opprobrium in his remarks now. (Such

delicacy is highly commendable in the very young.)

"First thing is to secure the prisoner, Yan."

Sam produced a cord.

"Pooh," said Yan. "You've got no style about you. Bring me some

Leatherwood."

This was at hand, and in spite of howls and scuffles, Guy was solemnly

tied to a tree--a green one--because, as Yan pointed out, that would

resist the fire better.

The two Warriors now squatted cross-legged by the fire. The older one

lighted a peace-pipe, and they proceeded to discuss the fate of the

unhappy captive.

"Brother," said Yan, with stately gestures, "it is very pleasant to

hear the howls of this miserable paleface." (It was really getting to

be more than they could endure.)

"Ugh--heap good," said the Woodpecker.

"Ye better let me alone. My Paw'll fix you for this, you dirty

cowards," wailed the prisoner, fast losing control of his tongue.

"Ugh! Take um scalp first, burn him after," and Little Beaver made

some expressive signs.

"Wah--bully--me heap wicked," rejoined the Woodpecker, expectorating

on a stone and beginning to whet his jack-knife.

The keen and suggestive "_weet, weet, weet_" of the knife on the

stone smote on Guy's ears and nerves with appalling effect.

"Brother Woodpecker, the spirit of our tribe calls out for the blood

of the victim--all of it."

"Great Chief Woodpecker, you mean," said Sam, aside. "If you don't

call me Chief, I won't call you Chief, that's all."

The Great Woodpecker and Little Beaver now entered the teepee,

repainted each other's faces, adjusted their head-dresses and stepped

out to the execution.

The Woodpecker re-whetted his knife. It did not need it, but he liked

the sound.

Little Beaver now carried a lot of light firewood and arranged it in

front of the prisoner, but Guy's legs were free and he gave it a kick

which sent it all flying. The two War-chiefs leaped aside. "Ugh! Heap

sassy," said the ferocious Woodpecker. "Tie him legs, oh, Brother

Great Chief Little Beaver!"

A new bark strip tied his legs securely to the tree. Then Chief

Woodpecker approached with his knife and said:

"Great Brother Chief Little Beaver, if we scalp him there is only one

scalp, and _you_ will have nothing to show, except you're content

with the wishbone."

Here was a difficulty, artificial yet real, but Yan suggested:

"Great Brother Chief

Red-headed-Woodpecker-Settin'-on-a-Stump-with-his-Tail-Waggling-over-the

Edge, no scalp him; skin his hull head, then each take half skin."

"Wah! Very good, oh Brother Big-Injun-Chief Great-Little-Beaver-

Chaw-a-Tree-Down."

Then the Woodpecker got a piece of charcoal and proceeded in horrid

gravity to mark out on the tow hair of the prisoner just what he

considered a fair division. Little Beaver objected that he was

entitled to an ear and half of the crown, which is the essential part

of the scalp. The Woodpecker pointed out that fortunately the prisoner

had a cow-lick that was practically a second crown. This ought to do

perfectly well for the younger Chief's share. The charcoal lines were

dusted off for a try-over. Both Chiefs got charcoal now and a new

sketch plan was made on Guy's tow top and corrected till it was

accepted by both.

[Illustration: "Ugh! Heap sassy!"]

The victim had really never lost heart till now. His flow of threats

and epithets had been continuous and somewhat tedious. He had

threatened to tell his "paw" and "the teacher," and all the world, but

finally he threatened to tell Mr. Raften. This was the nearest to a

home thrust of any yet, and in some uneasiness the Woodpecker turned

to Little Beaver and said:

"Brother Chief, do you comprehend the language of the blithering

Paleface? What does he say?"

"Ugh, I know not," was the reply. "Maybe he now singeth a death song

in his own tongue."

Guy was not without pluck. He had kept up heart so far believing that

the boys were "foolin'," but when he felt the awful charcoal line

drawn to divide his scalp satisfactorily between these two inhuman,

painted monsters, and when with a final "_weet, weet, weet_"

of the knife on the stone the implacable Woodpecker approached and

grabbed his tow locks in one hand, then he broke down and wept

bitterly.

"Oh, please don't----Oh, Paw! Oh, Maw! Let me go this time an' I'll

never do it again." What he would not do was not specified, but the

evidence of surrender was complete.

"Hold on, Great Brother Chief," said Little Beaver. "It is the custom

of the tribes to release or even to adopt such prisoners as have shown

notable fortitude."

"Showed fortitude enough for six if it's the same thing as yellin',"

said the Woodpecker, dropping into his own vernacular.

"Let us cut his bonds so that he may escape to his own people."

"Thar'd be more style to it if we left him thar overnight an' found

next mornin' he had escaped somehow by himself," said the older Chief.

The victim noted the improvement in his situation and now promised

amid sobs to get them all the Birch bark they wanted--to do anything,

if they would let him go. He would even steal for them the choicest

products of his father's orchard.

Little Beaver drew his knife and cut bond after bond.

Woodpecker got his bow and arrow, remarking "Ugh, heap fun shoot him

runnin'."

The last bark strip was cut. Guy needed no urging. He ran for the

boundary fence in silence till he got over; then finding himself safe

and unpursued, he rilled the air with threats and execrations. No part

of his statement would do to print here.

After such a harrowing experience most boys would have avoided that

swamp, but Guy knew Sam at school as a good-natured fellow. He began

to think he had been unduly scared. He was impelled by several

motives, a burning curiosity being, perhaps the most important. The

result was that one day when the boys came to camp they saw Guy

sneaking off. It was fun to capture him and drag him back. He was very

sullen, and not so noisy as the other time, evidently less scared.

The Chiefs talked of fire and torture and of ducking him in the pond

without getting much response. Then they began to cross-examine the

prisoner. He gave no answer. Why did he come to the camp? What was he

doing--stealing? etc. He only looked sullen.

"Let's blindfold him and drive a Gyascutus down his back," said Yan in

a hollow voice.

"Good idee," agreed Sam, not knowing any more than the prisoner what a

Gyascutus was. Then he added, "just as well be merciful. It'll put him

out o' pain."

It is the unknown that terrifies. The prisoner's soul was touched

again. His mouth was trembling at the corners. He was breaking down

when Yan followed it up: "Then why don't you tell us what you are

doing here?"

He blubbered out, "I want to play Injun, too."

The boys broke down in another way. They had not had time to paint

their faces, so that their expressions were very clear on this

occasion.

Then Little Beaver arose and addressed the Council.

"Great Chiefs of the Sanger Nation: The last time we tortured and

burned to death this prisoner, he created quite an impression. Never

before has one of our prisoners shown so many different kinds of

gifts. I vote to receive him into the Tribe."

The Woodpecker now arose and spoke:

"O wisest Chief but one in this Tribe, that's all right enough, but

you know that no warrior can join us without first showing that he's

good stuff and clear grit, all wool, and a cut above the average

somehow. It hain't never been so. Now he's got to lick some Warrior of

the Tribe. Kin you do that?"

"Nope."

"Or outrun one or outshoot him or something--or give us all a present.

What kin you do?"

"I kin steal watermillyons, an' I kin see farder 'n any boy in school,

an' I kin sneak to beat all creation. I watched you fellers lots of

times from them bushes. I watched you buildin' that thar dam. _I

swum in it 'fore you did_, an' I uster set an' smoke in your teepee

when you wasn't thar, an' I heerd you talk the time you was fixin' up

to steal our Birch bark."

"Don't seem to me like it all proves much _fortitude_. Have you

got any presents for the oldest head Chief of the tribe?"

"I'll get you all the Birch bark you want. I can't git what you cut,

coz me an' Paw burned that so you couldn't git it, but I'll git you

lots more, an' maybe--I'll steal you a chicken once in awhile."

"His intentions are evidently honourable Let's take him in on

sufferance," said Yan.

"All right," replied the head Chief, "he kin come in, but that don't

spile my claim to that left half of his scalp down to that tuft of

yellow moss on the scruff of his neck where the collar has wore off

the dirt. I'm liable to call for it any time, an' the ear goes with

it."

Guy wanted to treat this as a joke, but Sam's glittering eyes and

inscrutable face were centered hungrily on that "yaller tuft" in a way

that gave him the "creeps" again.

"Say, Yan--I mean Great Little Beaver--you know all about it, what

kind o' stunts did they have to do to get into an Injun tribe,

anyhow?"

"Different tribes do different ways, but the Sun Dance and the Fire

Test are the most respectable and both _terribly hard_."

"Well, what did _you_ do?" queried the Great Woodpecker.

"Both," said Yan grinning, as he remembered his sunburnt arms and

shoulders.

"Quite sure?" said the older Chief in a tone of doubt.

"Yes, sir; and I bore it so well that every one there agreed that

I was the best one in the Tribe," said Little Beaver, omitting to

mention the fact that he was the only one in it. "I was unanimously

named 'Howling Sunrise.'"

"Well, I want to be 'Howling Sunrise,'" piped Guy in his shrill voice.

"You? You don't know whether you can pass at all, you Yaller

Mossback."

"Come, Mossy, which will you do?"

Guy's choice was to be sunburnt to the waist. He was burnt and

freckled already to the shoulders, on arms as well as on neck, and his

miserable cotton shirt so barely turned the sun's rays that he was

elsewhere of a deep yellow tinge with an occasional constellation of

freckles. Accordingly he danced about camp all one day with nothing on

but his pants, and, of course, being so seasoned, he did not burn.

As the sun swung low the Chiefs assembled in Council.

The head Chief looked over the new Warrior, shook his head gravely and

said emphatically: "Too green to burn. Your name is Sapwood."

Protest was in vain. "Sappy," he was and had to be until he won a

better name. The peace pipe was smoked all round and he was proclaimed

third War Chief of the Sanger Indians (the word _War_ inserted by

special request).

He was quite the most harmless member of the band and therefore took

unusual pleasure in posing as the possessor of a perennial thirst for

human heart-blood. War-paint was his delight, and with its aid he was

singularly successful in correcting his round and smiling face into

a savage visage of revolting ferocity. Paint was his hobby and his

pride, but alas! how often it happens one's deepest sorrow is in the

midst of one's greatest joy--the deepest lake is the old crater on top

of the highest mountain. Sappy's eyes were _not_ the sinister

black beads of the wily Red-man, but a washed-out blue. His ragged,

tow-coloured locks he could hide under wisps of horsehair, the paint

itself redeemed his freckled skin, but there was no remedy for the

white eyelashes and the pale, piggy, blue eyes. He kept his sorrow to

himself, however, for he knew that if the others got an inkling of his

feelings on the subject his name would have been promptly changed

to "Dolly" or "Birdy," or some other equally horrible and un-Indian

appellation.

XIV

The Quarrel

"Say, Yan, I saw a Blood-Robin this morning."

"That's a new one," said Yan, in a tone of doubt.

"Well, it's the purtiest bird in the country."

"What? A Humming-bird?"

"Na-aw-w-w. They ain't purty, only small."

"Well, that shows what you know," retorted Yan, "'for these exquisite

winged gems are at once the most diminutive and brilliantly coloured

of the whole feathered race.'" This phrase Yan had read some where and

his overapt memory had seized on it.

"Pshaw!" said Sam. "Sounds like a book, but I'll bet I seen hundreds

of Hummin'-birds round the Trumpet-vine and Bee-balm in the garden,

an' they weren't a millionth part as purty as this. Why, it's just as

red as blood, shines like fire and has black wings. The old Witch says

the Indians call it a War-bird 'cause when it flew along the trail

there was sure going to be war, which is like enough, fur they wuz at

it all the hull time."

"Oh, I know," said Yan. "A Scarlet Tanager. Where did you see it?"

"Why, it came from the trees, then alighted on the highest pole of the

teepee."

"Hope there isn't going to be any war there, Sam. I wish I had one to

stuff."

"Tried to get him for you, sonny, spite of the Rules. Could 'a' done

it, too, with a gun. Had a shy at him with an arrow an' I hain't been

bird or arrow since. 'Twas my best arrow, too--old Sure-Death."

"Will ye give me the arrow if I kin find it?" said Guy.

"Now you bet I won't. What good'd that be to me?"

"Will you give me your chewin' gum?"

"No."

"Will you lend it to me?"

"Yep."

"Well, there's your old arrow," said Guy, pulling it from between the

logs where it had fallen. "I seen it go there an' reckoned I'd lay low

an' watch the progress of events, as Yan says," and Guy whinnied.

Early in the morning the Indians in war-paint went off on a prowl.

They carried their bows and arrows, of course, and were fully alert,

studying the trail at intervals and listening for "signs of the

enemy."

Their moccasined feet gave forth no sound, and their keen eyes took in

every leaf that stirred as their sinewy forms glided among the huge

trunks of the primeval vegetation--at least, Yan's note-book said they

did. They certainly went with very little noise, but they disturbed a

small Hawk that flew from a Balsam-fir--a "Fire tree" they now called

it, since they had discovered the wonderful properties of the wood.

Three arrows were shot after it and no harm done. Yan then looked into

the tree and exclaimed:

"A nest."

"Looks to me like a fuzz-ball," said Guy.

"Guess not," replied Yan. "Didn't we scare the Hawk off?"

He was a good climber, quite the best of the three, and dropping his

head-dress, coat, leggings and weapon, she shinned up the Balsam

trunk, utterly regardless of the gum which hung in crystalline drops

or easily burst bark-bladders on every part.

He was no sooner out of sight in the lower branches than Satan entered

into Guy's small heart and prompted him thus:

"Le's play a joke on him an' clear out."

Sam's sense of humour beguiled him. They stuffed Yan's coat and

pants with leaves and rubbish, put them properly together with the

head-dress, then stuck one of his own arrows through the breast of the

coat into the ground and ran away.

Meanwhile Yan reached the top of the tree and found that the nest was

only one of the fuzz-balls so common on Fir trees. He called out to

his comrades but got no reply, so came down. At first the ridiculous

dummy seemed funny, then he found that his coat had been injured and

the arrow broken. He called for his companions, but got no answer;

again and again, without reply. He went to where they all had intended

going, but if they were there they hid from him, and feeling himself

scurvily deserted he went back to camp in no very pleasant humour.

They were not there. He sat by the fire awhile, then, yielding to his

habit of industry, he took off his coat and began to work at the dam.

He became engrossed in his work and did not notice the return of the

runaways till he heard a voice saying "What's this?"

On turning he saw Sam poring over his private note-book and then

beginning to read aloud:

"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird

Thou art----"

But Yan snatched it out of his hands.

"I'll bet the rest was something about 'Singbird,'" said Sam.

Yan's face was burning with shame and anger. He had a poetic streak,

and was morbidly sensitive about any one seeing its product. The

Kingbird episode of their long evening walk was but one of many

similar. He had learned to delight in these daring attacks of the

intrepid little bird on the Hawks and Crows, and so magnified them

into high heroics until he must try to record them in rhyme. It was

very serious to him, and to have his sentiments afford sport to

the others was more than he could bear. Of course Guy came out and

grinned, taking his cue from Sam. Then he remarked in colourless

tones, as though announcing an item of general news, "They say there

was a fearless-crested Injun shot in the woods to-day."

The morning's desertion left Yan in no mood for chaffing. He rightly

attributed the discourtesy to Guy. Turning savagely toward him he

said, meaningly:

"Now, no more of your sass, you dirty little sneak."

"I ain't talkin' to you," Guy snickered, and followed Sam into the

teepee. There were low voices within for a time. Yan went over toward

the dam and began to plug mud into some possible holes. Presently

there was more snickering in the teepee, then Guy came out alone,

struck a theatrical attitude and began to recite to a tree above Yan's

head:

"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird,

Thou art but a blooming sing bird--"

But the mud was very handy and Yan hurled a mass that spattered Guy

thoroughly and sent him giggling into the teepee.

"Them's the bow-kays," Sam was heard to say. "Go out an' git some

more; dead sure you deserve 'em. Let _me_ know when the calls for

'author' begin?" Then there was more giggling. Yan was fast losing all

control of himself. He seized a big stick and strode into the teepee,

but Sam lifted the cover of the far side and slipped out. Guy tried to

do the same, but Yan caught him.

"Here, I ain't doin' nothin'."

The answer was a sounding whack which made him wriggle.

"You let me alone, you big coward. I ain't doin' nothin' to you. You

better let me alone. Sam! S-A-M! S-A-A-A-M!!!" as the stick came down

again and again.

"Don't bother me," shouted Sam outside. "I'm writin' poethry--terrible

partic'lar job, poethry. He only means it in kindness, anyhow."

Guy was screaming now and weeping copiously.

"You'll get some more if you give me any more of your lip," said Yan,

and stepped out to meet Sam with the note-book again, apparently

scribbling away. As soon as he saw Yan he stood up, cleared his throat

and began:

"Kingbird, fearless crested--"

But he did not finish it. Yan struck him a savage blow on the mouth.

Sam sprang back a few steps. Yan seized a large stone.

"Don't you throw that at me," said Sam seriously. Yan sent it with his

deadliest force and aim. Sam dodged it and then in self-defense ran at

Yan and they grappled and fought, while Guy, eager for revenge, rushed

to help Sam, and got in a few trifling blows.

Sam was heavier and stronger than Yan, but Yan had gained wonderfully

since coming to Sanger. He was thin, but wiry, and at school he had

learned the familiar hip-throw that is as old as Cain and Abel. It was

all he did know of wrestling, but now it stood him in good stead. He

was strong with rage, too--and almost as soon as they grappled he

found his chance. Sam's heels flew up and he went sprawling in the

dust. One straight blow on the nose sent Guy off howling, and seeing

Sam once more on his feet, Yan rushed at him again like a wild beast.

A moment later the big boy went tumbling over the bank into the pond.

"_You_ see if I don't get you sent about your business from

here," spluttered Sam, now thoroughly angry. "I'll tell Da you hender

the wurruk." His eyes were full of water and Guy's were full of stars

and of tears. Neither saw the fourth party near; but Yan did. There,

not twenty yards away, stood William Raften, spectator of the whole

affair--an expression not of anger but of infinite sorrow and

disappointment on his face--not because they had quarrelled--no--he

knew boy nature well enough not to give that a thought--but that

_his_ son, older and stronger than the other and backed by

another boy, should be licked in fair fight by a thin, half-invalid.

It was as bitter a pill as he had ever had to swallow. He turned in

silence and disappeared, and never afterward alluded to the matter.

[Illustration: "There stood Raften, spectator of the whole affair."]

XV

The Peace of Minnie

That night the two avoided each other. Yan ate but little, and to Mrs.

Raften's kindly solicitous questions he said he was not feeling well.

After supper they were sitting around the table, the men sleepily

silent, Yan and Sam moodily so. Yan had it all laid out in his mind

now. Sam would make a one-sided report of the affair; Guy would

sustain him. Raften himself was witness of Yan's violence.

The merry days at Sanger were over. He was doomed, and felt like a

condemned felon awaiting the carrying out of the sentence. There was

only one lively member of the group. That was little Minnie. She was

barely three, but a great chatterbox. Like all children, she dearly

loved a "secret," and one of her favourite tricks was to beckon to

some one, laying her pinky finger on her pinker lips, and then when

they stooped she would whisper in their ear, "Don't tell." That was

all. It was her Idea of a "seek-it."

She was playing at her brother's knee. He picked her up and they

whispered to each other, then she scrambled down and went to Yan. He

lifted her with a tenderness that was born of the thought that she

alone loved him now. She beckoned his head down, put her chubby arms

around his neck and whispered, "_Don't tell_," then slid down,

holding her dear innocent little finger warningly before her mouth.

What did it mean? Had Sam told her to do that, or was it a mere

repetition of her old trick? No matter, it brought a rush of warm

feeling into Yan's heart. He coaxed the little cherub back and

whispered, "No, Minnie, I'll never tell." He began to see how crazy he

had been. Sam was such a good fellow, he was very fond of him, and he

wanted to make up; but no--with Sam holding threats of banishment over

him, he could not ask for forgiveness. No, he would do nothing but

wait and see.

He met Mr. Raften again and again that evening and nothing was said.

He slept little that night and was up early. He met Mr. Raften

alone--rather tried to meet him alone. He wanted to have it over with.

He was one of the kind not prayed for in the Litany that crave "sudden

death." But Raften was unchanged. At breakfast Sam was as usual,

except to Yan, and not very different to him. He had a swelling on his

lip that he said he got "tusslin' with the boys somehow or nuther."

After breakfast Raften said:

"Yahn, I want you to come with me to the schoolhouse."

"It's come at last," thought Yan, for the schoolhouse was on the road

to the railroad station. But why did not Raften say "the station"?

He was not a man to mince words. Nothing was said about his handbag

either, and there was no room for it in the buggy anyway.

Raften drove in silence. There was nothing unusual in that. At length

he said:

"Yahn, what's yer father goin' to make of ye?"

"An artist," said Yan, wondering what this had to do with his

dismissal.

"Does an artist hev to be bang-up eddicated?"

"They're all the better for it."

"Av coorse, av coorse, that's what I tell Sam. It's eddication that

counts. Does artists make much money?"

"Yes, some of them. The successful ones sometimes make millions."

"Millions? I guess not. Ain't you stretchin' it just a leetle?"

"No, sir. Turner made a million. Titian lived in a palace, and so did

Raphael."

"Hm. Don't know 'em, but maybe so--maybe so. It's wonderful what

eddication does--that's what I tell Sam."

They now drew near the schoolhouse. It was holiday time, but the door

was open and on the steps were two graybearded men. They nodded to

Raften. These men were the school trustees. One of them was Char-less

Boyle; the other was old Moore, poor as a church mouse, but a genial

soul, and really put on the Board as a lubricant between Boyle and

Raften. Boyle was much the more popular. But Raften was always made

trustee, for the people knew that he would take extremely good care of

funds and school as well as of scholars.

This was a special meeting called to arrange for a new schoolhouse.

Raften got out a lot of papers, including letters from the Department

of Education. The School District had to find half the money; the

Department would supply the other half if all conditions were complied

with. Chief of these, the schoolhouse had to have a given number of

cubic feet of air for each pupil. This was very important, but how

were they to know in advance if they had the minimum and were not

greatly over. It would not do to ask the Department that. They could

not consult the teacher, for he was away now and probably would cheat

them with more air than was needed. It was Raften who brilliantly

solved this frightful mathematical problem and discovered a doughty

champion in the thin, bright-eyed child.

"Yahn," he said, offering him a two-foot rule, "can ye tell me how

many foot of air is in this room for every scholar when the seats is

full?"

"You mean cubic feet?"

"Le's see," and Raften and Moore, after stabbing at the plans with

huge forefingers and fumbling cumberously at the much-pawed documents,

said together: "Yes, it says cubic feet." Yan quickly measured the

length of the room and took the height with the map-lifter. The three

graybeards gazed with awe and admiration as they saw how _sure_

he seemed. He then counted the seats and said, "Do you count the

teacher?" The men discussed this point, then decided, "Maybe ye

better; he uses more wind than any of them. Ha, ha!"

Yan made a few figures on paper, then said, "Twenty feet, rather

better."

"Luk at thot," said Raften in a voice of bullying and triumph; "jest

agrees with the Gover'ment Inspector. I _towld_ ye he could. Now

let's put the new buildin' to test."

More papers were pawed over.

"Yahn, how's this--double as many children, one teacher an' the

buildin' so an' so."

Yan figured a minute and said, "Twenty-five feet each."

"Thar, didn't I tell ye," thundered Raften; "didn't I say that that

dhirty swindler of an architect was playing us into the conthractor's

hands--thought we wuz simple--a put-up job, the hull durn thing. Luk

at it! They're nothing but a gang of thieves."

Yan glanced at the plan that was being flourished in the air.

"Hold on," he said, with an air of authority that he certainly never

before had used to Raften, "there's the lobby and cloak-room to come

off." He subtracted their bulk and found the plan all right--the

Government minimum of air.

Boyle's eye had now just a little gleam of triumphant malice. Raften

seemed actually disappointed not to have found some roguery.

"Well, they're a shcaly lot, anyhow. They'll bear watchin'," he added,

in tones of self-justification.

"Now, Yahn, last year the township was assessed at $265,000 an' we

raised $265 with a school-tax of wan mill on the dollar. This year the

new assessment gives $291,400; how much will the same tax raise if

cost of collecting is same?"

"Two hundred and ninety-one dollars and forty cents," said Yan,

without hesitation--and the three men sat back in their chairs and

gasped.

It was the triumph of his life. Even old Boyle beamed in admiration,

and Raften glowed, feeling that not a little of it belonged to him.

There was something positively pathetic in the simplicity of the three

shrewd men and their abject reverence for the wonderful scholarship of

this raw boy, and not less touching was their absolute faith in his

infallibility as a mathematician.

Raften grinned at him in a peculiar, almost a weak way. Yan had never

seen that expression on his face before, excepting once, and that

was as he shook hands with a noted pugilist just after he had won a

memorable fight. Yan did not know whether he liked it or not.

On the road home Raften talked with unusual freeness about his plans

for his son. (Yan began to realize that the storm had blown over.) He

harped on his favourite theme, "eddication." If Yan had only known,

that was the one word of comfort that Raften found when he saw his big

boy go down: "It's eddication done it. Oh, but he's fine eddicated."

Yan never knew until years afterward, when a grown man and he and

Raften were talking of the old days, that he had been for some time

winning respect from the rough-and-ready farmer, but what finally

raised him to glorious eminence was the hip-throw that he served that

day on Sam.

* * * * *

Raften was all right, Yan believed, but what of Sam? They had not

spoken yet. Yan wished to make up, but it grew harder. Sam had got

over his wrath and wanted a chance, but did not know how.

He had just set down his two buckets after feeding the pigs when

Minnie came toddling out.

"Sam! Sam! Take Minnie to 'ide," then seeing Yan she added, "Yan, you

mate a tair, tate hold Sam's hand."