THE HOUSEWARMING
It was to Polly that Agnes went one afternoon when her father had
been absent all day and the gloom of the great encircling forest had
oppressed her more than usual. Polly was bustling about, singing
happily, when Agnes appeared at the door of the cabin. “Is it yersel’,
Nancy, child? Come right in,” was the greeting. “Jerry, lad, get a
stool for Nancy. The bairnies do be all in a pother agen I get their
bit of supper, so I’ll go on with it, Nancy.”
“Isn’t it early for supper?” asked Agnes, sitting down and picking up
the baby who was crawling about on the puncheon floor.
“Early it is; but if there was ten meals the day, they’d get hungry
between ’em, and the porritch is all gone, so I’m makin’ more, for when
they see the pot’s empty they begin to cry. As if,” she surveyed the
group smiling, “their mother didn’t know where to get more. And how
goes the world with ye, Nancy?”
“It goes a wee bit dour to-day,” said Agnes, sighing. “Father has been
gone all day to the far clearing, and there’s no one for me to talk to
but the squirrels and the birds.”
“And it’s lame yer tongue gets from the long rest. Sure you’ve a nimble
tongue, I notice, Nancy, and it’s hard to keep it restin’.”
Agnes laughed. “So it is, but I didn’t suppose you had noticed that.”
“It ’ud be hard not. I mind the last time ye were here with Archie
M’Clean that sorry a word could he get in.”
“Oh, Archie, he doesn’t talk even when one is still, and to sit hours
at a time gazing at another is not to my liking.”
“Puir Archie; he uses his eyes if not his tongue, and what is one
better than the other to use?”
“I’d rather a wagging tongue than a blinking eye; it’s more cheerful,”
responded Agnes.
“I misdoubt it when the tongue wags to your discredit,” returned Polly.
“But, my fathers! who’s a longer tongue than mesel’? An’ I’m not one to
run down me own most spakin’ attrybutes.”
“Ah, but you never speak ill of any one, Polly. Here, let me stir the
mush and you take the baby; he is fretting for you.”
“He’s frettin’ for his sleep,” said Polly. “Sure he’s wor’d out with
creepin’ the floor. I’ll put him in his cradle and he’ll drop off.” She
drew the cradle from the corner; a queer little affair it was, made of
a barrel sawed across halfway, then lengthwise, and set upon clumsy
rockers, but baby found his bearskin as soft as any mattress could be,
and the lullaby of his little four-year-old sister as sweet as any
music.
“Land! but I clane forgot to tell ye,” exclaimed Polly, when the baby
was settled; “there’s to be a housewarming next week.”
“Oh, whose?” cried Agnes.
“Johnny McCormick’s.”
“Then he’s married.”
“Married he is. He fetched his bride home from Marietta yesterday.
They’re at his brother’s. They’re to have the housewarming next week.”
“Oh, Polly, will you be going?”
“Will I? Was I ever absent from a scutching frolic, or a corn-shucking,
or a housewarming, or the like? Tell me that, Nancy Kennedy.”
Agnes made no answer, but sat watching Polly ladling out her bubbling
mass of mush. “What fine new bowls you have, Polly,” she said.
“Jimmy, my man, made ’em o’ nights. He’s a crackerjack at anything like
that, is Jimmy. Come, children, set by.” And putting a piggin of milk
on the table, Polly placed the bowls in their places while the children
stood around, the younger ones in glee, beating on the table with their
wooden spoons.
“I must run home now,” said Agnes, “for my father will be in, and I
must get his supper, and the cows are to be brought up. I’ll get them
on the way back if they have not strayed too far.”
“Ye’ll no stay and sup with the children? Jimmy and I will have our
bite when he comes in.”
“No, thank you. I don’t want to be late getting home. The woods are
dark enough by day, and when the evening comes, it’s worse. I’ll keep
along by the river bank where it’s lighter. Father shot a wildcat
yesterday. We are getting quite a pile of skins against the winter.”
“They’re very useful,” said Polly. “I’ll show ye how to make yersel’ a
jacket; you’ll be wantin’ wan by the cold weather, and squirrel skin
makes a fine one. They’re a pest, the gray squirrels, but they’re not
so bad to eat, and the skins, though small, are warm and soft.”
“I’ve shot a number of them, though I hate to; they are so pretty and
so frisky and friendly.”
“They’re far too friendly--they are so plentiful and eat up all our
corn; and, after all, it is better that we should kill them mercifully
than that they should be torn asunder by wild beasts.”
“That is what father says.”
“And father’s right; our corn crops will be small enough if we allow
all the squirrels to help themselves. Well, good-by, Nancy; don’t
forget the housewarming.”
“I’ll not.” And Agnes took her way along the narrow bridle-path toward
the river, glad to find it was lighter outside than in the dim cabin,
the windows of which, covered with linen smeared with bear’s grease,
did not admit much light. Still it was later than she cared to be out
alone, brave though she was, and accustomed to the dangers of the
forest, and she was more than usually glad to meet Archie M’Clean
coming through the woods with his cows.
“Have you seen anything of Sukey?” Agnes called.
Archie paused to think, then answered. “She’s over there a bit. I’ll go
fetch her for you.”
“Oh, no, don’t do that. I can get her if you tell me where she is.”
But Archie was striding down the path and Agnes stood still waiting,
keeping an eye the while on Archie’s cows. Presently the familiar
tinkle of Sukey’s bell announced her approach, then the girl and the
lad slowly followed the cows along the river’s bank, Agnes doing most
of the talking, but Archie her willing listener.
The little settlement was slowly increasing. More than one young man,
though he possessed little beyond his rifle, his horse, and his axe,
was ready to marry the girl of his choice, who would take her wedding
journey through the silent woods and would become mistress of the small
farm whose acres could be increased indefinitely with little trouble.
Therefore, when young John McCormick began to make ready for his bride,
there were neighbors enough to join in and help to chop and roll the
logs, and next to raise the house itself.
Jeanie and Agnes were quite excited over the frolic, for, so far, not
many such had come to them. While the men were busy doing their part
in establishing the young couple, the women of the community willingly
turned their attention to the preparation of the feast, though John’s
rifle brought in the bear and venison. Agnes had promised to go over to
help the M’Cleans do their part, and had quite looked forward to the
day. She was hurriedly putting an end to her morning’s work when she
heard a sound outside. The door stood open, and the September sunshine
flooded the little dim room. On a bench by the door was a bowl in which
were two or three squirrels newly skinned and ready to be cooked. Agnes
meant to have them for her father’s supper. She turned to get the bowl,
when in at the door was thrust the muzzle of a gaunt wolf, which,
scenting the fresh meat, had come to investigate. For a second Agnes
was paralyzed with fear, and the next moment, considering discretion
the better part of valor, she sprang to the ladder leading to the loft
and climbed up, leaving the rifle, which she knew well how to use,
below. The squirrels were young and tender and the wolf was hungry,
so he made short work of them, yet they were only a mouthful and but
whetted his appetite. Agnes, peering below, saw the great, ferocious
creature sniffing the ladder and looking up at the loft. He meditated
an attack. She tugged at the ladder and presently had it safely drawn
up into the loft beside her. There were snarls and growls below, and
the wolf began to make fierce springs for his prey. “If I only had my
rifle,” murmured Agnes, “I would shoot him. How fine it would be to do
that all by myself.” But the rifle was beyond her reach, and she began
to feel herself lucky, as the wolf leaped higher and higher, if she
could keep beyond the reach of the sharp fangs.
There was no trap-door to the little loft, but Agnes laid the ladder
across it, hoping that, though the rungs would give the creature
something to clutch, it would perhaps prevent him from doing more.
After a while the leaping ceased, and the wolf, sitting on his haunches
below there, snarled and showed his teeth; but now Agnes, being
satisfied that he could not reach her, felt her fear subsiding, and the
situation, instead of being exciting, became rather tiresome. She was
missing the fun at the M’Cleans’. She wondered how much longer she was
to be kept prisoner by this ugly creature. He did not seem disposed
to go away. Perhaps he would keep her there all day. Wolves were not
apt to come around in the daytime, especially at this season, though
at night it was safer to shut windows and doors against them. This one
must have been pursued by some hunter, and had come suddenly upon the
cabin. Agnes peered down at him from between the rungs of the ladder,
and thought he was a very unattractive brute as he sat there with his
red tongue lolling out. “I’d like your hide, you ugly beast,” she said,
“but I don’t want you to get mine. I think I’ll drag my bed across the
ladder, and then if he can’t see me, perhaps he will go away.”
This proceeding, however, seemed only to increase the wolf’s ambition
to get upstairs, for he flung himself madly into the air and once came
so near that Agnes’s heart stood still. Yet he came no nearer, and the
long day wore on--a doleful day indeed. Agnes could not expect any one
to come to her assistance, for her father, knowing her intention of
going to the M’Cleans’, had taken his lunch with him and had gone to
the aid of Johnny McCormick, like the rest of the men in the settlement.
It was late in the afternoon that Agnes at last heard some one call
“Agnes! Agnes! Nancy Kennedy, where are you?” Then there was the sudden
crack of a rifle. The girl pulled aside the bearskin which made her bed
and peeped below. On the floor lay the gray form of the wolf, and over
it stood Archie M’Clean. “Agnes, oh, Agnes,” he cried, “are you hurt?”
From above came the answer: “No, I am quite safe. I’ll put the ladder
back and come down. I am so glad you have killed that horrible wolf. He
has kept me up here all day. How did you happen to come?” she asked,
when she was safe by Archie’s side.
“We wondered why you didn’t come as you promised, and Jeanie said she
was afraid something had happened, so when I came out for the cows, I
stopped to see.”
“And found the wolf. Well, he has kept me a prisoner all day besides
eating up my father’s supper.”
“Never mind, his skin will be very comfortable for you on the floor.”
“Oh, but it’s yours; you killed him.”
“I think you deserve it, for you kept him there all day so I could kill
him when I came along.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” said Agnes, laughing.
“I’ll come back and skin him for you when I have taken the cows home.
Perhaps I can shoot something for your father’s supper, too, on my way.”
“Oh, never mind that; he’s sure to bring home something, for he has
gone to the McCormick’s new house, and that is some distance. But come
back, do, and help me get my supper. I shall shut the door and window
tight after this, for I want no more wolves for company, though I’d
rather it were a wolf than an Indian.”
“Your father expected that you were at our house,” said Archie,
“perhaps you had better come with me.”
“I must get the cow up first. Can you wait?”
“Well enough. I will get our own cows at the same time; then while you
are milking, I will skin the wolf, and then we can go together.”
The tinkle of the cow-bells sounded not so far off and it was not long
before Archie and Agnes were trudging along side by side, the carcass
of the wolf having been thrown into the river and the hide stretched
for drying.
“And why didn’t you go to the house-raising?” asked Agnes.
“Because I was needed at home.”
“What will they be doing to-day?”
“They’ll finish up the odds and ends; make some tables and stools and
benches and get it ready for to-morrow.”
“Then will come the housewarming. Did your mother and Jeanie get
through all they expected?”
“Yes, and they have a good feast for John. I am going to build a house
when I am twenty-one.”
Agnes laughed. “Whom will you put in it?” she asked saucily.
“You.”
“Archie M’Clean! How do you know you will?”
“I say I will,” he replied doggedly. “I’ve as good a right as any one
to choose my girl. I am eighteen, and many of the boys marry at my age;
but if I wait three years, you will be eighteen then.”
“Oh, but--No, no, Archie, I’m too young yet to think of such a thing.
My father needs me, and my mother will be coming. I’ll think of nobody,
of no lad, till I see my mother again. In three years--why, who
knows?--you may change your mind; there’ll be many another girl in the
settlement by then.”
“And many another lad, maybe.”
“Well, then, so much the better.”
“I’ll not change my mind,” said Archie. “I’m not a great talker,
Agnes, but I know what I want, and when I make up my mind I keep to it.”
“And when did you make up your mind to build your house?”
“That day when I saw you, when we were on the road here, and you were
riding with Jeanie in the wagon. It was four months ago.”
“You’ll be telling another tale four years from now. I’m too young;
fifteen isn’t old enough to make any promises.”
“It’s as old as my mother was.”
“Maybe, but what is one man’s meat is another man’s poison.”
“Am I poison?”
“No; but that isn’t what I mean. Oh, no more nonsense, Archie, or I
shall have to stay away from the housewarming, and that I do not want
to do.”
They were within sight of the M’Clean cabin, and Agnes ran on ahead,
but, seeing Jeanie standing there, she ran back to Archie. “Don’t tell
any one,” she said.
“Tell what? About the wolf?”
“No, about--about what you said.”
He nodded, and Agnes knew the secret was safe.
“Well, well, why didn’t you come before?” asked Jeanie, when Agnes was
within hearing.
“I couldn’t; I had company.”
“Why didn’t you bring the company? They would have been very welcome.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” Agnes shook her head decidedly.
“Why, Nancy Kennedy, you know he would.”
“I know he wouldn’t.”
“What was his name?”
“Mr. Wolf.”
Jeanie looked puzzled. “I never heard of him. Is he an old friend? Did
he come from Carlisle?”
“No, he did live near here.”
“Doesn’t he now?”
“No, he’s dead.” Agnes laughed.
“I never heard of such a thing. What are you talking about? Mother, you
never heard such talk. Come here and make Nancy tell us what she means.”
Agnes laughed at Jeanie’s vehemence; then she sobered down. “It was no
laughing matter, I can tell you, and but for Archie I might not be here
now.” And she proceeded to tell the tale of her day’s imprisonment.
“Why, you must be half starved!” exclaimed Mrs. M’Clean.
“No; the wolf left me a piece of johnny-cake and I drank some new milk,
then we found some late blackberries as we came along.”
“Well, you will be glad of a good bowl of hominy. Come in. Father’ll
not be back yet. Here comes Archie with the milk-pails.”
After her long day of solitude it was good, Agnes thought, to get
among her friends, and she chattered away like a magpie, yet she was
conscious of Archie’s gaze fixed upon her, and she felt uncomfortable,
wishing he had left their free comradeship as it stood. “I am a little
girl still. I want to be a little girl,” she announced suddenly, “and I
don’t believe I will go to the housewarming.”
“Nancy Kennedy! Why not?” exclaimed Jeanie. “There will be other girls
there no older than you. There is Susan Duncan and Flora Magruder, and
even little Meg Donaldson is going.”
“I know--but--”
“No buts about it. What a whimsey! Of course you’ll go. There will be
good sport, and no end of feasting. I don’t see how you can think of
staying at home.” She was so persistent that finally Agnes acknowledged
that it was but a sudden whim, and that she really wanted to go.
It was a homely, but jolly, little company which gathered in the new
log-cabin of John McCormick to celebrate the housewarming. The rough
pioneers in their hunting-shirts, leather breeches, and moccasins were
a manly set of fellows; while the girls in linsey-woolsey petticoats,
with linen bedgowns, a handkerchief folded across the breast, their
feet shod in coarse shoepacks, were fit companions for the sturdy
brothers, husbands, and fathers, who outnumbered them. Agnes, being one
of the few who had recently come from a more civilized neighborhood,
could boast better shoes and a finer kerchief. She was shy, however,
and kept close to Polly O’Neill, until that lively body joined some
gossiping friends, and then Agnes slipped off to a corner where Jeanie
joined her, and together they watched the scene.
[Illustration: AGNES SLIPPED OFF TO A CORNER WHERE JEANIE FOUND HER.]
“Ah, but Polly is a romp; I’d fain have her agility,” said Jeanie,
admiringly.
Agnes laughed as Polly belabored a stout lad who captured her in a
rollicking game, but she yawned the next minute and said: “I’m sleepy.
Does one have to stay up all night?”
“Indeed, yes. You’ll have no chance to sleep. We shall have to hang on
till morning or they will hunt us out and parade us up and down the
floor. Here is something to waken you up. Supper is ready.”
Agnes rose with alacrity, and the company trooped to the table which
was nothing more than a slab of wood supported by four round legs set
in auger holes. It was set with bent and dented pewter ware, rude
wooden bowls, and trenchers. A few pewter and horn spoons, but no
knives were visible; the men used their hunting-knives which they drew
from a sheath hanging from their hunting-belts.
But hardly had they begun to attack the venison and bearmeat, the
roasted corn, and johnny-cakes, before the door was flung open and an
express whispered hoarsely, “Indians!”
Agnes clutched Jeanie. “Where is my father?” she whispered. “Oh, what
shall we do?”
“To the blockhouse!” The word was passed; then quickly lights were
extinguished, and creeping slowly along in the darkness the whole
company started forth, not knowing what moment the terrible yell of an
Indian would startle them, or whether they could reach their refuge
unhurt. Every one was silent as death. The dreaded word “Indians!”
silenced even the smallest child who, clinging to its mother,
understood something of the terror which inspired the older ones.
Close by Agnes’s side strode Archie. “They shall kill me before they
take you,” he whispered.
But there was no need for his heroics, for once within the blockhouse
they were safe, the Indians rarely attacking these little forts. It was
found, however, that all were not gathered in the retreat, and that
those who, for one reason or another, had not been at the housewarming
were in danger.
“My father was off hunting,” said Agnes, pitifully. “He does not care
for frolics, you know. Oh, if the Indians have found him, what shall I
do?”
“Never fear, my lass,” Polly tried to reassure her. “I’ve no doubt he
is hiding, and when the redskins go off, he’ll come in safe and sound.”
This was comforting, but still Agnes had her fears as one after another
of the stragglers crept back to the fort, each with some new report.
“Tell us your news, Sandy,” were the words which greeted the last
comer.
“The Indians are burning and plundering the cabins,” he told them. “I
sneaked around through the woods and got here safely. I don’t think
there are many of them, just a small raiding party. They have made a
dash, and will be off again presently. They’ll not attack the fort.”
“Did you see my father?” Agnes asked fearfully.
The man was silent a moment, then he answered: “I left him an hour
since on his way here. Hasn’t he come?”
“No; oh, no.”
“Then he’s likely laying low. Don’t fret, my lass; he’ll be coming
along after a while.”
With the rising of the sun the Indians disappeared. They were too
few in number to attack the fort, and had counted on surprising the
inhabitants of the little settlement in their homes. Fortunately most
of them were at the housewarming, and those who were not present were
warned in time to escape. The little hunting party, of which Fergus
Kennedy was one, were the only persons in real danger, and of the
number all had now returned but two. But many of the little cabins were
burned to the ground and the cattle slain.
At the return of her husband who had gone out to reconnoitre, and who
returned with the news that all was quiet, Polly looked around at the
buckets of water which she had lugged in, and exclaimed: “Well, I
needn’t a’ put my stren’th in thim buckets. I’d better saved it.”
“But suppose the Indians had come and had tried to fire the
blockhouse,” said Jeanie.
“Ah, but there’s no supposin’; they didn’t.”
“But we have to be prepared, and we were all glad to have something to
do in an hour of peril,” said Mrs. M’Clean, “though I, for one, have no
pleasure in constant alarm. I am for going to a more settled-up place.
I’m willing to move on if my man gives the word. I mistrusted we were
too far from ceevilization.”
“Ay, ay! ye may feel that a ways,” returned Polly, “but I’ll no let the
pesky critturs get the best o’ me, and I’ll not move on fur ’em. Here I
bide. I am as good a shot as they are, an’ one can die but wanst.”
“Ay, but it’s not the dying; it’s the being carried off from home and
kin, and having your babies murdered before your eyes, and your husband
tortured in your presence.”
“Sh!” whispered Polly, for there was Agnes at her elbow, eyes wide open
with fear and cheeks pale. “I’m not scared,” Polly went on valiantly,
with a nod to Agnes. “We’ve the good strong blockhouse, and we can bide
here till the cabin’s built again, if so be it is burnded, which I’m
not so certain it is, an’ we’re as safe wan place as anither. Those
that’s born to be drownded will niver get hung, sez I,” she went on
with a true Presbyterian belief in the doctrine of predestination,
“an’ if I’m kilt entirely by a tomahawk, sure I’ll not die of the pox,
an’ the former’s the speedier. I may lose me hair but not me beauty.”
“I’d rather keep both if I can,” returned Mrs. M’Clean, laughing.
Polly grinned. “Sure, ye’ll have little trubble kapin’ what ye’ve
not got,” she replied saucily. At which Mrs. M’Clean took her by the
shoulders and shook her so hard that Polly’s mass of black hair tumbled
down in a big coil to her knees. She gathered it up in both hands, and
put it back under her cap, laughing at Mrs. M’Clean’s look. “Eh, Jean,”
she said, “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not be likely to lose yer scalp; there’s
so little hair ye hev to take a holt on.”
“You’re a saucy creature, Polly,” Mrs. M’Clean replied. “I’ve not your
crop on my head, I know, but neither have I so much on my lip.” Polly’s
mouth was ornamented by quite a visible mustache, and the laugh was
against her, so she gave in cheerfully and turned away.
Seeing Agnes standing aloof with mournful eyes, she went up to her and
took her in her arms. “We’re a thriflin’ set, my dear,” she said, “but
it’s the relief to the moind and the cessaytion of worriment that makes
one so light. An’ yer in trubble, but don’t ye give up whilst there’s a
loophole. Manny a one’s been carried off and has escaped, afther years
sometimes, so I’d not mourn yet.”
“Ah! but, Polly, if he’s been killed or taken prisoner, what shall I
do?”
“Ye’ve twenty or more homes waitin’ fur ye, an’ ye kin begin with mine,
an’ stay there till ye weary av it, thin move on to the next.” She
indicated the direction of her dwelling by a toss of her head. “It’s
still standin’, I’m told, and back we’ll go.”
“But if the Indians come again.”
“They’ll not at wance, I’m sure. They know we’re too many fur ’em. But
if ye’d rather stay here in the fort, suit yoursel’, and we’ll all be
pleased.”
“I think I’ll stay here,” Agnes replied after a moment’s thought, “for
it is here father would come first.”
“Ye’ve hit the nail on the head. To be sure he would, but ye know ye’re
welcome to my last bite and sup.”
“Indeed I do, you good Polly. You are a real comfort.” At which speech
Polly wiped her eyes on her sleeve, for her transitions from laughter
to tears were generally as sudden as the opposite.