THE "CHICHAGOFF DECADE."
"We have two whole days before us," said Kittie the next morning, as
she promenaded up and down the deck with Fred, "and the steamer is
going right over the same path we took in coming. Can't we get up
something new so as to have some fun?"
"We might have charades, or tableaux," suggested Fred. "But we should
have to stay below, getting ready for them."
"And we've had 'em all before," interpolated Tom, who was stretched out
at his ease in a steamer chair.
"It's going to be pretty foggy, I'm afraid," said Randolph, joining
the group. "They say that will delay us, for we shall have to run
half-speed, or stop altogether. Do you see how thick it begins to look
ahead?"
They had left Sitka in the early morning, and had only Juneau to touch
at--probably in the night--before reaching the coaling station of
Nanaimo, on Vancouver's Island.
"Why don't you get up a paper?" suggested Mr. Percival. "That's what
Arctic explorers do, I believe, when they are frozen in for the winter."
"Good, good!" cried Pet. "And everybody in our party must
contribute--except me!"
There was a laugh at this, and Kittie, seizing her friend around the
waist, gave her a little impromptu waltz which set her hair flying and
eyes dancing more merrily than ever.
"What shall we call it?" was the next question.
"'The Alaskan Herald.'"
"'The Northern Light.'"
"'The Illustrated Totem Pole'"--this from the wounded warrior in the
chair.
All these names being rejected, they decided to leave the choice of
names to the editor, to which position Mr. Selborne was unanimously
chosen.
"All contributions," he announced, "must be in my hands at five o'clock
this afternoon. The paper will then be put to press, and will be read
aloud at precisely eight o'clock, on deck, in front of Stateroom 2 (Mr.
Percival's), if the weather permits; if not, in a corner of the lower
cabin, after the supper table has been cleared."
All that day the literary circle thus suddenly formed were hard at work
at their manuscripts; and many were the gales of laughter in which the
girls indulged, as they compared notes from time to time. The editor,
it should be said, had laid down the rule that any contribution might
be in verse or prose, but if the latter, it should not contain over
twelve hundred words.
One by one in the course of the afternoon, the manuscripts, signed
by fictitious names, were dropped into a box provided by the editor,
who was busy, meanwhile, not only with his own contribution, but in
arranging an artistic heading for the sheet which was to form the first
page of the paper. He had also furnished all the aspiring authors
and authoresses with sermon paper of uniform size, so that the whole
collection might afterward be bound together, if desired.
Evening came at last, and to the gratification of all concerned,
the fog lifted, so that there was a bright sunset, which would
render out-of-doors reading easy until after ten o'clock. The party
accordingly met at the appointed spot on deck, having kept their plan a
profound secret among themselves, so as not to have strangers present
at the reading.
Mrs. Percival sat just within the door of her stateroom, while the
rest grouped themselves outside in various comfortable attitudes. The
editor, with a formidable-looking flat package in his hand, took his
position on the seat by the rail, where the light was favorable for
reading.
"I will first," he said, "pass round the title page of this unique
periodical, merely premising that its simple and musical title was
suggested in part by the name of the island, the wood-clad shores of
which we were passing when the idea of the paper was first promulgated."
The title sheet was accordingly inspected and praised, with shouts of
laughter, by the circle of authors. Fortunately it has been preserved,
and can be given here in fac-simile, just as it came from the hand of
Rossiter and of his sister, who, he admitted, had helped him by drawing
the lifelike designs with which it was embellished.
The title chosen, as you see, was the "Tri-Weekly Chichagoff Decade."
"Why 'Tri-Weekly'?" asked Pet and Mr. Percival together.
"Because," replied Mr. Selborne, in his gravest tones, "it has greatly
interested your editor to see you all _try weakly_ to produce"--
The rest of the sentence was drowned in a chorus of outcries and
laughter.
"But," persisted Mr. Percival, "do you expect to sail these waters
again, in just ten years from now? Else, why is it the 'Decade'?"
"Oh! that, sir, merely indicates that it is a _deck aid_ to
cheerfulness."
Here Tom collapsed and fell over upon Randolph, murmuring that it was
enough to give a _weakly-chick-a-cough_ to hear such puns. But such
ill-timed levity was promptly suppressed.
Mr. Selborne now squared his shoulders, and opened the reading with a
short editorial, which he called his
SALUTATORY.
It is seldom that an editor finds himself in the position of one who
greets his friends with one hand and bids them farewell with the
other; who combines, as it were, his welcoming and his parting bow;
who enters the room and backs out of it simultaneously; who, in short,
is obliged to write at one and the same moment, his Salutatory and
Valedictory.
Such is the novel and mildly exciting task of the present incumbent of
the editorial chair of the "Decade." We greet most heartily the host
of subscribers who are sure to flock to its standard; and we beg to
assure them of the integrity of its aims, and the sound financial basis
of this enterprise. We pledge ourselves to endeavor, at any cost, to
maintain the high standard we have set up, and so long as the "Decade"
is published, to suffer no unworthy line to disgrace its fair pages.
At the same time we feel obliged to give notice that this is the last
issue of the paper. Circumstances over which we have no control compel
the proprietors to suspend its publication. The editor, in resigning
his position, wishes to express his deep sense of the obligation under
which his readers have placed him, in the universal and constant
support they have given him and his assistants, from the very inception
of the enterprise, and the kindly criticism with which he has always
been favored.
* * * * *
The editorial was received with a round of subdued applause, which
subsided the more quickly that the little circle around the reader saw
curious eyes cast in their direction, and an evident inclination on the
part of other passengers to share in the fun, which was, however, of
too personal a nature to admit a general public.
"The opening piece," remarked Mr. Selborne, "is contributed by a noted
historian, who of late seems to have given his most serious attention
to verse. I am glad to have the opportunity of laying before you this
exquisite production, which gives an accurate review of our travels
thus far, and, as the dullest reader must admit" ("Don't look at me!"
put in Tom), "blends instruction with poetry with the most delightful
result. The poem is entitled--with no reference, I believe, to the
farming interests of the Territories--
WESTWARD, HO!
AN HISTORICO-POETICAL REVIEW.
BY HERODOTUS KEATS MACAULAY, A. E.
"What does 'A. E.' stand for?" asked Mrs. Percival.
"'Animated Excursionist,' I presume, ma'am."
[Illustration: READING THE "CHICHAGOFF DECADE."]
"Alaskan Editor," "Expatriated Amateur," and various other suggestions
were kindly offered by the boys, but were frowned down by the older
members, who now called for the poem itself.
"One bright summer morning in early July
Our party assembled in Boston, to try
Of travels abroad an entirely new version
Afforded by Raymond & Whitcomb's Excursion."
"Hold on!" shouted Tom, who was privileged by his lameness. "That's an
ad. Herodotus Keats wants a free ticket next year. Who is he, I wonder?"
"Thomas," remarked Fred, eying him severely through his glasses, "don't
display your ignorance of the great authors, nor interrupt with ribald
comments. Go on, please, Mr. Selborne."
"I know now, any way," muttered the Irrepressible. The editor paid no
further attention to him, but resumed the reading:
"The train was on hand in a place you all know well,
The Causeway Street depot marked "Boston & Lowell";
It started, and cheers rose above lamentation
As, waving our hands, we rolled out of the station.
The daisies were white in the fields around Boston,
Like meadows in autumn with garments of frost on;
And fair were the skies over Merrimac's stream,
As onward, still onward, with rattle and scream,
We flew o'er the rails ever faster and faster,
With never a thought of impending disaster."
"But there wasn't any disaster--unless the historian foresaw, in his
prophetic soul, a certain bear"--
"Oh! let up, Ran. That's poetical license. Macaulay couldn't find
anything else to rhyme with 'faster.'"
"Arriving at Weirs, on Lake Winnepesaukee,
Our iron steed stopped, and became sort of balky,
Backed, snorted and started again with such speed
That some of us nearly 'got left' then, indeed!
At the Pemigewasset we halted to dine,
Then northward we sped to the Canada line,
Where Thomas was homesick until pretty soon he
Began to sing sadly of dear 'Annie Rooney.'
In Montreal all the attractions were seen;
We dizzily whirled down the falls of Lachine
Till we hardly knew whether 'twas Memphremagog or
The turbulent rapids of far Caugnawauga."
"Oh!" groaned Tom.
"And now came the splendid Canadian Pacific--
Through scenes now sublime, now tame, now terrific,
Past forests of fir, and along the wild shore
And storm-beaten crags of Lake Sup-e-ri-or.
There was such an outcry at this that the captain, who was facing the
bridge, looked back to see what was the matter.
"All right, Captain," sung out Randolph. "No iceberg in sight--only a
queer kind of ore."
"I'm glad it isn't mine," remarked Tom.
"The Winnepeg grasshoppers followed Miss Bess
Entangling themselves in each silken tress,
Nor struggled for freedom, for when they were caught
They thought them but meshes the sunbeams had wrought.
"We halted at Banff, where the Bow and the Spray
Come leaping from cradles of snow far away;
And joining white hands, the bridegroom and bride
Glide silently down toward the sea side by side.
"Again we have entered our palace on wheels,
And cry out anew, 'How homelike it feels!'
The 'Nepigon' broad and the stately 'Toronto'
We can never forget, not e'en if we want to;
Nor 'Calgary' sturdy, and fair 'Missanabie';
But nearest our hearts, there can no better car be
Throughout the whole world, whatever befall,
Than faithful old 'Kamloops,' the dearest of all.
"At Glacier we saw the great river of ice,
And a bear almost ate up a boy in a trice;
While one of the girls gave her poor little ankle
A twist and a wrench, whose twinges still rankle!
At last we arrive at our long journey's end;
The continent crossed, at Vancouver we send
One glance of regret and a farewell combined
O'er the car we are leaving forever behind.
"At our next stopping place we had to try hard
To pronounce the name of our hotel 'Dri-árd';
Victoria's awfully English, you know,
And nothing that's 'Yankee' was found high or low,
Except our excursionists, everywhere seen
Until they embarked, northward bound, on the _Queen_.
We sailed and we sailed, through channels and reaches,
Past wild, rocky shores and verdure-clad beeches,
Until we emerged from the tortuous tangle
And moored at the dreary old wharf of Fort Wrangell,
Where many a totem pole reared its proud head,
Once gorgeous in trappings of sable and red.
"At Juneau we halted--ah! how can I tell
Of all the adventures that shortly befell
Two hunters, who started out boldly to kill
Any sort of a beast that roamed on the hill.
Their perils and hardships, when distant from Juneau
And lost in the woods, I am sure that you do know
Enough that on meeting the enemy there,
_Venerunt, viderunt, vicerunt_--a bear!
"Since then our startling events have been fewer;
We've mounted the glacier that's named after Muir,
And trembled to see its blue pinnacles fall
In fragments before us, like Jericho's wall.
We saw all we could in the fair town of Sitka,
But could not go far for want of a fit car,
And now we're sailing o'er Frederick's Sound,
On board the good _Queen_ safe and well,
Homeward bound!"
The applause which followed this effusion was tremendous. It was
suggested that the last half of the journey had been rather slighted;
but Mr. Selborne explained that he had it direct from the author that
this disproportionate treatment was caused by lack of time in which to
fill out the poem as originally sketched.
"The next piece," he continued, "was in the nature of an epic. It was
certainly personal in its bearings; but so was every epic, and too much
delicacy in an editor always results in an insipid periodical."
The curiosity of his auditors having been thus aroused, he gravely read:
THE BEAR-HUNTER'S FATE.
BY AN OLD SUBSCRIBER.
Tom, Tom, the valiant one,
Shot a bear and away he run;
The bear was fleet,
Poor Tom was beat,
And Bruin stepped upon his feet.
"Is that what Kittie manes by my 'fate'?" shouted Tom, laughing
good-naturedly with the rest. "Sure I knew something was brewin' when I
saw her writing!"
"The contribution I have now to read," said the editor, as soon as
silence was restored, "is accompanied with an apology from the author,
stating that for lack of original material he has drawn largely upon
such printed sources as were at his command, in giving you a brief
account of
MYSTERIOUS ALASKA.
BY DARWIN FITZ-AGASSIZ THOMPSON.
The interior of Alaska is at present one of the few remaining habitable
spots on the surface of the globe, which remain practically unexplored
by the white man.
A few years ago Central Africa held this distinction, but Speke,
Grant, Du Chaillu, Livingstone, Stanley, and dozens of others have now
penetrated those somber jungles, the land of mystery, the fabled abode
of hideous monsters, giants and dwarfs, and soon a transcontinental
railroad will connect Zanzibar with Stanley Pool and the mouth of the
Congo.
Within half a dozen years, Alaska has been similarly assailed, and at
this very moment there are bands of intrepid men camping here and there
in that lonely interior, and calling upon the hitherto impenetrable
forests and desolate tundras to deliver up the secrets they have held
for untold ages.
Doubtless many wonderful discoveries await these explorers and their
successors. New plants will be found, mountains of precious ore, a vast
wealth of timber and water-power, and, it may be, strange creatures
hitherto unknown to science.
It is believed by many that the mastodon, whose skeleton rears itself
high above the elephant's, in our museums, is not entirely extinct,
but actually roams the tangled thickets of inner Alaska. It is stated
that Professor John Muir himself lends countenance to this belief,
asserting that he has seen the bones of these mighty animals, with the
fresh flesh adhering to them. Certain it is that the great, curved
tusks of the mammoth (as it is sometimes called) are found all over the
southwestern slope of Africa, and that natives report encounters with
huge living animals with similar tusks.
An animal which is unnamed, save by the coast hunters hereabouts, is
the "Mt. St. Elias bear," such as was shot by members of our party last
week.
The head is very broad, and the fur a silvery gray. The skin is highly
prized, not only for its rarity, but for its beauty, and Indians have
been known to refuse a hundred dollars for one. They sometimes hang up
such a skin in front of the "big house" of their village, as a talisman
to aid them in future hunting, such is its magic power.
Within a few years the American bison, once so familiar in all
stories of Western adventure, has become almost wholly extinct. A few
individuals are said to lurk in the meadows and high tablelands of
Alaska; but soon they must rank with the mastodon.
I have had time to but touch upon the mysteries of our great
Northwestern Territories. Little by little its marvels, its wealth,
its beauties will unfold to modern research, and the schoolboy of
a generation hence will look back with incredulous wonder upon the
maps, the charts and the scientific works upon Alaska that alone are
available to-day.
* * * * *
"I know who wrote that," said Randolph, looking meaningly at the editor.
The latter, however, took no notice of the implication, and, turning
over the next sheet in the pile, read aloud the following poem, which
was unsigned:
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Only a bird on a bough of fir--
Look, can you see his feathers stir,
And hear his wee notes, soft and low,
Echoes of songs of long ago?
I am not bearing my cross, you see,
For the cross itself is bearing me.
When birds are frightened, or suffer loss,
Alone in the darkness, they fly to a cross,
And never are heard to moan, "I must,"
But always twitter, "I trust! I trust!"
For not a fluttering sparrow can fall
But into His hand, who loveth all.
Lord, hear thy children while they pray,
Make us thy sparrows this Christmas Day.
"Bessie wrote that," whispered Pet, glancing at the little Captain, who
did not deny the authorship, but smiled a little as she nestled closer
to her father's side.
"While I am reading verse," remarked Mr. Selborne, "I may as well read,
though a little out of course, another short poem about sparrows.
SPARROWS.
From the orchard, sweet with blossoms,
From the waving meadow-grasses,
From the heated, dusty pavement
Where a tired city passes,
Rise the happy sparrow-voices,
Chirps and trills, and songs of gladness--
Bits of sunshine, changed to music,
Brightening, scattering clouds of sadness.
At the first fair flush of dawning,
At the twilight's last faint shining,
Sparrows sing, through storm and darkness,
Never doubting nor repining.
Fluttering to and fro, wherever
Faith is fainting, life is dreary,
Bear they each his little message
To the hopeless and the weary:
"Sparrows trust their Heavenly Father;
Centuries ago he told us
We should never fall unheeded;
In his love He would enfold us.
"So we cast our care upon Him,
Never fearing for to-morrow;
And we're sent by Him to help you,
When your sky is dark with sorrow."
"I think the assistant editor knows who wrote that," said Mr. Percival,
glancing toward Adelaide with a smile. "Mr. Selborne, it is getting
rather late. How many more articles have you in the----?"
"Three, sir; and one of them is very short, being a four-line poem or
quatrain. Shall I read it now?"
"If you please."
"This poem is printed so neatly that the writer has evidently spent as
much time upon it as the producers of some of the longer pieces," the
editor remarked, holding the sheet for all to see.
EXCELSIOR.
BY A. M. ATEUR.
'Tis said that in life the most exquisite rapture
Lies not in possession, but striving to capture.
Be sure that the proudest success is in vain
That helps not a loftier conquest to gain.
"Very well, Tom," said Fred Seacomb approvingly. "The sentiment does
you credit, my son. I recognize the authorship, however, by the style
of print rather than the high moral tone of the poem."
Tom laughed with the rest, and to cover his retreat called for the next
piece, which he knew must be by Pet, as every one else but Mr. Percival
was accounted for; and his was pretty sure to be a story.
Mr. Selborne's voice became very gentle as he read the story of
THE THREE WISHES.
"O, dear! I wish I were a tall palm-tree on the borders of a desert,
where caravans and missionaries and pilgrims would rest in my shade.
Then I should really be of some use in the world." That is what the
Pine said.
"O, dear! I wish I lived away up on a mountain-top, where the wind
always blows cold and clear, and the snows lie deep in winter. People
would come from far countries to visit the mountain, and I would be a
guide by the way. Then I should really be of some use in the world."
That is what the Palm said.
"O, dear! I wish I were a palm-tree down in the valley, where birds
might build their nests in my boughs, and artists would make beautiful
pictures of me. Then I should really be of some use in the world." That
is what the little stunted Fir said, on the mountain-top.
Days and weeks came and went. The Pine waited impatiently, and rustled
all its branches in the autumn winds, and let fall its brown needles,
until a thick carpet of them lay about its trunk on the mossy ground.
And out from the moss peeped a few rough green leaves. The Pine
noticed that they were shivering in the November wind, and pityingly
dropped a few more needles around them.
When the storms of winter came, it stretched its broad, evergreen
boughs above the leaves, and sheltered them with its shaggy trunk.
The long, cold months passed at last, and it was spring. Still the Pine
grieved and sighed because it could be of no use in the world.
To be sure it had protected the timid, furry leaves so well that they
had lived, and now bore in their midst a cluster of small pink blossoms.
Just before sunset a man with coarse, roughened features and a bad look
in his face, came and threw himself down on the ground beneath the
Pine. His fists were clenched, for he was very angry about something,
and, although the Pine never knew it, he was being tempted to a
terrible crime.
As the man lay there thinking evil thoughts, and almost making up his
mind to the wicked deed, he caught a breath of fragrance which made him
for a moment forget his anger.
It reminded him of home, of his boyhood, of a wee sister with blue
eyes and waving golden hair, with whom he used to wander into the
pine-woods near the old farmhouse and gather flowers.
He looked about him, and his eye fell upon the pink flowers.
"Mayflowers!" he murmured half-aloud. And stretching out his hand he
gathered them and held their pure, sweet faces up to his own.
The fierce look left his eyes, and a strange moisture came instead.
His lips quivered. He was thinking now of his mother. She had left her
children for a far country while they were still tiny creatures. But
he could remember her face as she lay in the darkened room, resting so
peacefully.
And some one--was it the little blue-eyed sister?--had placed a bunch
of Mayflowers--
The man rose, and placing a small green spray of pine with the
blossoms, carried them away in his big rough hand.
And the wicked deed was never done.
The Palm sheltered many weary travelers; but the greatest good it did
was after it died.
One day a stranger arrived and cut the tall tree down. From its broad
leaves a hundred fans were made, and many were the fevered, throbbing
brows that were cooled by the Palm as its leaves, now hundreds of
leagues apart, waved to and fro above the sufferers. So the Palm,
although it never knew it, was permitted to do the work of the Master,
refreshing and healing those who were sick with all manner of diseases.
As to the Fir, it tried to keep a brave heart, but it became more and
more discouraged as not only months but years rolled by, and it grew no
bigger, and could not see that it was of any use in the world.
"So homely am I, too!" it whispered to itself, glancing down at its
little thick, gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.
Its only comfort was in giving a shelter to such small birds, and even
insects, as were blown about on these heights by the fierce mountain
tempests. Once it had a whole night of real joy, when a white rabbit,
caught by the storm miles away from home, crouched under its boughs and
lay there snugly, a warm, sleepy ball of white fur, till the sun called
it home in the morning.
"_O, Schwesterchen, seh 'auf! 'S ist ein Tannenbaum!_"
Of course all firs understand German, and our little friend knew the
child said, "O, little sister, look here! It's a fir-tree!"
The next word it heard filled it with delight. It was the girl who
spoke this time, hardly above her breath, "_Weihnachtsbaum!_" which was
only a queer way of saying, "Christmas-tree!"
They were, in fact, the children of a German peasant, who lived in a
small hut far down the mountain-side.
The Fir did not know it, but in reality the peasant had been
unfortunate of late, and had grown so cross and surly that he declared
he would have no Christmas in his house that year. And Hans and
Gretchen had wandered away mournfully on the mountain-side to talk it
over.
The Fir was so glad they talked German! If it had been French, now, I
don't believe it could have understood them at all.
"It is such a little one!" said Hans.
"And it has such lovely crosses at the end of its boughs!" said
Gretchen.
(The Fir never knew before that it had crosses. But there they were,
sure enough.)
"Let's cut it down and try," said both together.
So Hans swung his small ax sturdily, and down came the tree. That is,
it was too short to fall. It just tipped over on its side a little.
Well, to make the story short, the Fir was carried down and decked out
in such simple ways as they could provide without spending any money.
When the peasant saw it for the first time on Christmas Eve--they had
kept it for a surprise--he clapped his hands with delight, in spite of
all his surliness. And that night, for the first time for many weeks,
he brought out the old leather-covered Bible and read a chapter before
bed-time.
And what chapter was it?
Why, the story of the first Christmas Eve, when Christ was born in
Bethlehem.
* * * * *
As there was now but one article left, all knew that it must be Mr.
Percival's.
They therefore composed themselves to listen with much interest to the
story entitled
GETTING SQUARE WITH HIM.
BY THE OLDEST INHABITANT.
"Let that girl alone!"
The speaker was a tall, slightly-built boy of perhaps sixteen. His
eyes flashed, and his fists clenched nervously.
"Let that girl alone, I say, or"--
"Well, or what?" sneered a coarse-looking fellow, some two or three
years older than the first. "You needn't think you own this town,
Winthrop Ayre, if you did come from Boston!" And he once more advanced
toward a neatly-dressed girl, who was timidly cowering in a corner by a
stone wall and a high fence, to avoid the touch of her rough tormentor.
The latter was supported by two more of his kind, and all three were
evidently trying to frighten her by their fierce looks and rude words.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mort Lapham!" exclaimed Winthrop
indignantly, placing himself directly in front of the frightened girl.
"Deacon Lapham's son might be in better business than insulting girls
in the street."
"So you want to put your finger in the pie, do you? Here, fellows,
let's give him a lesson!"
Winthrop noticed that the attention of all three was now upon him
alone, and motioned to the girl to run. She moved slowly a few steps
down the street, and then stopped. Meanwhile the big bully raised his
hand and tried to slap the city boy in the face. Winthrop warded off
the blow easily, and retreated into the corner where the girl had been.
"You'd better keep away, Mort," he said quietly, though his cheeks
were hot; "and you, too, Dick and Phil. I don't want to fight, and now
you've let the girl go, there's nothing to fight about, that I know of."
"Coward!" cried Mort, enraged at missing his blow. "Don't you wish you
had your Sunday-school teacher here to take care of you! She wouldn't
let any one hurt you, would she, Sonny?"
The color in Winthrop's face deepened, but he said nothing. He was
rapidly turning over the question in his mind, whether Miss Kingsbury
would want him to turn his cheek if three boys struck him at once.
A tingling blow on that exact spot put to flight his meditations. His
fist drew back impulsively, but he would not strike yet. He was in
splendid training, this boy, and still stood entirely on the defense,
knowing that the true hero is not he who fights for himself, like a
brute creature, but for somebody else.
"Coward!" hissed Mort Lapham once more, cautiously keeping out of
reach of the other's arm. "Hit him again, Phil!"
As the three closed about him, a determined look in their ugly faces,
the girl who had lingered irresolutely at a few paces distance, gave
a low cry for help, and rushed up to the group as if to protect her
protector.
"Take that!" shouted Mort, throwing out his hand and striking her,
perhaps harder than he really meant to, full in the face.
Before he had time to see the effect of his blow, there was a crash
between his eyes, and the earth seemed suddenly flying up into the sky.
As he lay on the ground half-stunned, Winthrop, who felt that it was
at last time to act, turned fiercely on his other opponents. Surprised
by the suddenness of his attack, they forgot the superiority of their
numbers, and started backwards. Another nervous blow from the slender
young athlete, and Phil was on his back beside his leader, while Dick
Stanwood, tripping over a stone--purposely or not the boys never
knew--went down ingloriously with the rest. Above them stood young
Ayre, like Saint Michael over his enemies, panting and glowing.
"Oh! are you hurt?" asked the girl, hurrying up to "Saint Michael," and
laying her hand on his arm.
Winthrop laughed. "Well, I'm able to walk," he said reassuringly. Then:
"Let's leave these rascals to come to their senses. May I see you home?"
The girl flushed prettily in her eagerness. "You are so kind," she
said. "I live just the other side of that hill, and if you'll come in a
few minutes and see grandpa, I'll be very much obliged."
"But your forehead," added Winthrop, as they walked along the dusty
road side by side, leaving their three late assailants to sneak off
in the opposite direction; "I'm afraid that fellow hurt you, though I
don't believe he meant to strike you so hard."
"Oh! it isn't much. I haven't told you who I am," she added shyly. "I
know about you and your sister Marie, over at the Elms. Your Uncle Ayre
and my grandfather are dear friends."
"Then you must be 'Puss' Rowan!"
"Yes," she laughed; "though it's rather saucy for you to say it. My
real name is Cecilia."
"Excuse me, Miss Cecilia."
"O, dear me! Don't call me that, or I shall think you are speaking
to somebody else. 'Puss' I've always been, and 'Puss' I must be, I
suppose!" And she gave a comical little sigh, ending in another ripple
of laughter, which was very pleasant to hear.
"Yes," she went on, more soberly, "I've heard how your sister was ill,
and you brought her here for her health, to stay all summer. May I come
and see her? She's just about my age, grandpa says."
"Do! It will do her good, I'm sure," replied Winthrop warmly, glancing
at his companion's pretty face and sunny curls.
Puss blushed a little, and suddenly became very demure. "Here's
grandpa's, where I live," she said, pausing before an old,
gambrel-roofed house. "Won't you come in?"
All the houses in Taconic were pleasant inside and out. This one looked
particularly so.
"Thank you; just for a minute," said Winthrop, walking up with Puss
between two rows of lilac bushes. The girl led him into a cool,
old-fashioned parlor, which had shells on the mantel-piece, and great,
irregular beams in the ceiling.
Mr. Rowan, a silvery-haired gentleman, with much stately dignity and
kindly manner, soon entered, and talked pleasantly with the boy, of his
uncle's younger days and Winthrop's own affairs. Altogether a half-hour
passed very quickly, and Winthrop was sorry to feel obliged to take his
leave.
Puss went down to the gate with him.
"Be sure to tell your sister I am coming to-morrow," she said. "And
you'll call again here yourself, won't you? I shall not soon forget how
you took care of me!"
Winthrop drew himself up and lifted his hat in elegant city fashion;
which, however, only made Puss laugh and shake her curls.
"It's no use to be the least bit dignified with me," she said merrily,
"for I don't know what to do back. We just shake hands, here in the
country, and say good-by."
"Good-by," said Winthrop, taking her little brown hand with mock
solemnity.
"Good-by," laughed Puss, "that's better. Don't forget your message!"
As Winthrop walked rapidly toward his uncle's house, he went over and
over the exciting events of the afternoon. He had only arrived about a
week before, but he had already come in contact with the three boys who
had been amusing themselves by rudely teasing Miss Cecilia Rowan, the
gentlest and prettiest girl in the village. They were notorious, he had
soon found, for their ill-behavior and rough manners, and had even been
suspected of certain petty thefts in the neighborhood. Winthrop could
not help feeling that he should hear from them again.
The meeting between his sister and Puss Rowan took place the very
next day, and the two girls were almost immediately warm friends. As
Winthrop had predicted, Puss's bright face and winsome ways won the
heart of the pale city maiden at once, and "did her good," too.
One or two pleasant afternoons they passed together, and several
delightful trips were planned. One of these was a small lunch party,
to a favorite spot for the village young folks, called "Willow Brook."
It was about four miles from Taconic Corner, and the road to it lay
through deep woods, adding an enjoyable drive to and fro, to the
pleasures of the day.
Willow Brook is a noisy little stream that comes dancing down from a
spur of the White Mountains, finding its way through a heavy growth of
spruce and fir, over half a dozen granite ledges, and so onward until
it reaches the upper Taconic meadows, where it suddenly becomes demure
and quiet; but, nevertheless, is all dimples when the wind whispers to
it through the sedges, or teases for a romp under the shadow of the
birch-trees that line its bank here and there. At length it reaches a
small picturesque valley, where the hills, though by no means lofty,
perhaps remind it of its mountain childhood; for there it pauses, and
holds in its bosom the pictures of the gently rising uplands, with
their peacefully browsing flocks of lambs--and gathers white lilies,
and so rests a while from its journey. At times, it is true, a dimple
of the old-time fun, or an anxious shadow as it hears the roar of
machinery and busy life beyond, hides the treasured secrets of its
heart, but as the ruffled brow smooths, you can see again in those
quiet depths, lambs, lilies, fleecy clouds, alike snowy white and
beautiful.
The mill had stood at the foot of "Lily Pond," where the road crossed
the stream, nobody knows how long. There was an old-fashioned dam,
built of a few logs and a good deal of earth and rock, now overgrown
with grass and bushes up to the very sluiceway of the mill. The
waste-board, over which the water flowed in a thin, glistening sheet
in the early spring when the pond was high, was scarcely more than ten
feet long. About a hundred feet further down the stream was a shady
grove of willows and other trees, growing down close to the water's
edge. Toward this spot Winthrop with his sister, Puss and her father
rode merrily enough that hot July day. Mr. Rowan did not go down to
the grove at once, but, having let the young people jump out with
their baskets at the Lily Pond Bridge, drove on to a neighbor's to
transact some business, promising to join the party at lunch a half an
hour later. Winthrop assisted his sister carefully down over a steep
embankment to the willows, Puss springing ahead and calling to her
companions that she had found "a lovely place right beside the water."
Baskets and shawls were soon safely stowed away, and Winthrop, with the
help of the girls, arranged a sort of shelter of boughs. When a small
fire had been kindled on a flat rock just in front, Puss laughed with
delight, and Marie's delicate face showed a glow of healthy pleasure,
which her brother noted with quiet satisfaction. Plainly Taconic life
was bringing the frail invalid back to strength and health.
Leaving the girls to chatter over the beauties of the place and their
plans for the coming weeks, Winthrop strayed down stream a few rods,
following a cat-bird, whose whimsical calls led him to suspect a nest
among the alders which lined the river at that point.
The bird kept persistently out of sight, but repeated its cry in a more
and more distressed tone, until Winthrop reached the very heart of a
thicket.
"I've got you now!" he said aloud, as he stooped and thrust aside a
mass of foliage. Then he started to his feet. He had very nearly laid
his hand on--not the pretty, rounded nest of the gray-winged thrush,
but the evil, grinning features of Mort Lapham.
"I rayther guess we've got you this time, my Boston daisy," said Mort,
rising in his turn. "Tie him up, fellows!"
The ugly youth's two boon comrades sprang forward from the rear, and
before Winthrop could offer the slightest resistance, entangled as he
was in the tough, slender stems of the alders, he was bound, hand and
foot.
"What are you going to do with me, Phil Bradford?" asked the prisoner
quietly, though his heart sank as the three cowardly assailants hurried
him roughly through the underbush.
"You'll find out soon enough," growled the other, who had not forgotten
the blow given in defense of the girl by the roadside. They emerged
presently in a little opening that crowned a bluff, some half a dozen
feet or more above the surface of the river, where it here made a
sudden bend toward the steep bank forming at its base a deep, black
pool, with here and there a few pine needles turning slowly in its
eddies.
In all this time Winthrop had not uttered a cry. He would not alarm
the girls unnecessarily, and might include them in his own dangerous
situation.
"Now," said Mort, with a cruel leer, "we'll square up our accounts. The
next time I'm having a little fun on my own account, I reckon you'll
mind your own business!"
With these words he proceeded to tie his victim firmly to a stout young
pine that grew close to the edge of the bluff. They placed his face
to the trunk, and clasping his hands around it, lashed them tightly
together.
"I say," interposed Dick, as he saw the cords cut into the captive's
wrists, "you needn't pull 'em so tight! Don't you see--you're hurting
him awfully!"
Winthrop set his lips together, and said nothing.
"Hurting him!" repeated Mort savagely. "I guess he'll wish he wa'n't
hurt any more'n that, before I get through with him! Gimme that whip!"
"Don't whip him!" cried Dick again. "We've scared him enough, now. You
said you only wanted to frighten him, Mort."
"Git out o' the way, will you? I'm running this job, and this slim
Sunday-school chap from the city has got to have a little more scarin'
yet."
"But"--
"If you don't want a taste yourself, you'll keep quiet, Dick Stanwood.
Phil an' I'll duck ye in the river, 'f you say much more!"
"All right," said Dick, who evidently regretted his part in the matter.
"If that's all the thanks I get, I'm off!" And turning suddenly on his
heel, he walked away through the woods.
"Hold on! Stop him, will you, Phil?" cried Mort angrily. But Dick had
hastened his steps and was already out of sight.
Still Winthrop said never a word. His face was white, and the two
guards thought he was too frightened to speak.
"Strip off his coat and vest," commanded Mort, brandishing the whip.
Phil obeyed his leader like a lamb, untying the captive's hands
cautiously, and, with Mort's aid, fastening them again more securely
than ever.
"Now, then, here's one for interfering between me and the girl!"
Down came the leather lash across the thinly clad shoulders.
"One more for the lick you gave me between the eyes!"
Again the stinging, burning blow. Still Winthrop did not cry out.
"You want some more, do you?" cried Mort, enraged at his victim's
silence.
The lash was raised again. As Mort raised and swung it, to give the
full force of the blow, he stepped backward. The embankment, long ago
undermined by the river, crumbled under the bully's feet; with a
shriek of terror he toppled over, and disappeared beneath the black
eddies of the pool. Winthrop could not see what had happened, for his
back, now smarting as if living coals were bound to it, was toward the
bank. From the sound of the falling earth, the cry of his tormentor,
and the loud splash that followed, he guessed what had occurred.
"Untie me, quick!" he shouted to Phil, who stood gazing stupidly at
the whirling bubbles where his leader had disappeared. "No, cut the
rope--take my knife out of my pocket!"
Phil, who was always ready to follow the party in power, obeyed
mechanically. In a few seconds Winthrop was free.
"Can't he swim?" he cried, kicking off the last coils of the rope, as
Mort rose, screaming and splashing to the surface, and went under again.
"Not a stroke," said Phil stoically. "Serves him right, don't it? Say,
Win, I'm awful sorry"--
But he was apologizing only to the pine-tree and the cut cords.
Winthrop had sprung into the pool, and even now had his late assailant
by the collar and was striking out for the shore lower down, where the
bank was not so high.
"Don't drown me!" yelled Mort, rolling up his eyes. "I didn't mean"--
"Stop kicking--you're all right!" gasped Winthrop. "There--put your
feet down--can't you touch bottom?"
"Winthrop, my lad! Here--give me your hand!" cried a new voice; and
Puss's father leaned perilously far over the bank to assist the boy. At
the same time Phil and Dick--the latter of whom had brought Mr. Rowan
to the scene--helped the choking, crest-fallen, dripping Mort to his
feet.
"What does this mean?" demanded the older man sternly, surveying the
cords and whip.
"O, Winthrop!--brother!" and the two girls came hurrying down to the
river's edge. Winthrop tried to toss on his coat, but did not succeed
before the stains on his poor, smarting back told the story to his
sister's anxious eye.
Of course the picnic was ended for that day. The whole party hurried to
the wagon and drove home. On the way, Winthrop begged Mr. Rowan not to
have either of his late captors prosecuted, or punished in any way.
"I'm satisfied," he said, "if they are."
"Well, I'm not!" burst out Mort suddenly, "and I sha'n't be, till I
get square with you somehow!"
The girls turned and looked at him in new amazement and terror. But
Winthrop understood him better.
"All right, old fellow," he replied simply, holding out his hand to the
other.
Mort grasped it and said no more.
* * * * *
"Good story, father!" called out Tom, whose voice, whether for approval
or criticism, was never wanting. "I'd like to know how Mort got square
with him, though."
Mr. Percival laughed as he rose. "That is not of so much consequence.
In such a case, 'the readiness is all.' Does that finish the paper, Mr.
Editor?"
"It does," said Selborne gravely. "And the publication of the
'Tri-Weekly Chichagoff Decade' is suspended until further notice."