"I will tell you the story," said Margotte, pausing in her knitting, as
we leaned together over the white palings of her little garden. "Yes,
there is a story, madame--a story of a wolf; but you have got it wrong,
madame, and I must set you right."
Picture a sunset in the Pyrenees, a glorious crimson sky tipping the
distant peaks with pale pink, and deepening the purple shadows on the
nearer mountains--the mountains that inclose and overtop Margotte
Nevaire's pretty home. I had come for a quiet month to this picturesque,
secluded village, and though my month was over, I was tempted to linger
day after day, for the sake of the sunshine and the mountains, and not
least, perhaps, for the sake of these two peasant girls, with whom I
lodged.
Margotte was the youngest of the two by fifteen years--the three boys
who came between had died--and though it is very long since we leaned
side by side over the white palings, I can always call her to mind as
she stood knitting there.
She was tall and strong, and finely made, with a clear white skin, and
brown hair waving in heavy masses under her white starched caps. She had
beautiful eyes, heavy-lidded and dark-lashed, and a firm, sweet
mouth--such a woman as you see sometimes amongst the desolate mountains,
as if God had given to them a grander soul, to compensate for the
blessings He denied.
Léontine was different; tall too, and active, but with heavier
movements, and more of firmness than of sweetness in her scarred face.
She had no girlish vanity in her glossy hair, or the cap starched to
such absolute perfection, for so much of her youth and beauty had
vanished with that scar--a deep blue line from brow to chin--that no
loving arrangement of the hair by Margotte's deft fingers could hide.
So Margotte said to me that evening, dropping her knitting into her
apron pocket: "I will tell you the story of the wolf, madame. Léontine
is out, and it is a grand story--a story I should like you to hear."
"It was night," said Margotte, "a cruel, cold winter night, such as we
who live amongst the mountains have terrible cause to dread, for it
means hunger and cold--sometimes absolute famine. It means the children
crying for food when there is none to give them, and the wolves howling
in the distance. Ah! those wolves, madame, how they make one shudder
with their monotonous howls, that seem so near at first, and then die
away into the far distance!
"Well, it was night, as I have said, and the baby was asleep, as it
might be here, and Léontine was knitting on the hearth, and Marcelle, a
friend of Léontine's, was chattering to her, kneeling on the stones, and
the door was on the latch.
"That was the mischief, you see; but Léontine was young then, and
Marcelle was a giddy, thoughtless chatterer, and she had run in with her
shawl over her head for an hour's talk. Léontine has told me of it so
often that I almost seem to see the two girls crouching by the fire that
sent bright and flickering reflections on to the snow outside.
"Suddenly, as they talked, there came distinctly to them the howling of
the wolves across the snow. Marcelle put her hands over her ears and
shuddered. Léontine knelt up and stirred the fire.
"'Come closer, my friend,' she said; 'it is a dreary sound. Thank God,
we are safe here!'
"'Are we safe, do you think?' asked Marcelle, with chattering teeth. 'I
dare not go home to-night. Will your mother let me stay here, Léontine?'
"'Surely,' said Leontine.
"She was so brave, my sister, my dear, dear sister, madame, and so
gentle! she took Marcelle's head upon her knee, and put her knitting
aside to soothe her terror.
"'We are quite safe, Marcelle,' she said, 'and mother will soon be back.
It is a dreary night.'
"It _was_ a dreary night, dark and still and terribly cold; the white
flakes were falling slowly to the earth, and covering the mother's
footsteps on the path.
"Léontine walked over to the window and looked out; the fire-light was
dancing and flickering on the snow outside, and making a cheerful patch
of ruddy light in the darkness, which would guide the mother's steps for
her home-coming. Through the darkness the howling of the wolves seemed
nearer.
"'Ah, they are coming closer,' said Marcelle, starting upright. 'Can you
see them, Léontine? I am afraid.'
"Léontine was leaning close to the glass, pressing her face against it.
"'Yes, I see shadows,' she said; 'they are coming to the light,
Marcelle. No! it is only one shadow, after all; we must not frighten
each other.'
"She turned with a faint smile to Marcelle's shuddering face, and tried
to draw the curtains with her trembling hands, but the shadow on the
snow was very near.
"'Do not be afraid, my dear,' she said, kneeling down upon the hearth
again, and drawing Marcelle's cold hands into her own strong ones; 'be
brave; we are quite safe, you know; the door is strong, and God is so
good, Marcelle.'
"But Marcelle was sobbing.
"Her sobbing woke the baby, and it cried--little moaning cries that
fretted Léontine, and that brought the dark shadow nearer to the door.
"Léontine rocked the baby, but could not hush its wailing cries; she
knelt beside the cradle, singing her strange, weird songs in a voice
that never trembled, and all the time that foolish Marcelle was sobbing
and trembling at her feet.
"'Hush, for God's sake!' said Léontine at last, lifting her clear eyes,
and trying to still the faltering of her voice. 'You frighten me,
Marcelle, and you keep baby fretful. Mother will soon be home, and the
night is not long, and we are quite safe, thank God.'
"But the words were still in her mouth when she heard a heavy shuffling
in the snow outside, and a terrible howl that seemed to shake the little
cottage to its foundations. Then--ah! think of it, madame--the
door--this door against which you lean--was burst open, and out of the
darkness a great wolf came bounding in, and paused for a minute on the
threshold.
"Léontine was upright in an instant, standing before the cradle. Even
Marcelle rose also, and stood shrieking on the hearth.
"But the great, lean, hungry wolf came slinking on--and it passed
Léontine, and took the little baby from the cradle.
"Léontine had stood as if rooted to the spot, with her burning eyes
fascinated by the awful sight; but now she strode to the table, and took
a knife. And yet she dared not throw it, because of the baby, madame.
"They seemed so helpless all of a sudden, those two girls, while the
great beast crept past them again, trotting to the door. Marcelle had
taken a fagot from the fire, and cast it at him, but he only shook it
off, and growled savagely, bounding out into the snow.
"Ah, madame, it was terrible--terrible; and yet, as Léontine always
says, God is good.
"For while Marcelle was crying by the empty cradle, and the snow was
sweeping into the room and putting out the fire, Léontine had sprung to
the door, and had flung herself to the ground, with her brave white face
not two inches from the wolf's glaring eyes; she stretched out her hands
and caught him by his shaggy coat, twisting her strong fingers into his
matted hair. She still held her knife firmly, but she dared not use it.
"She succeeded in her wish, madame, however; the wolf was surprised and
angry. With a low, fierce growl, that made Marcelle's heart beat to
suffocation, he dropped the baby.
"Léontine has told me often that she never knows how she came living out
of that terrible struggle; she says she remembers crying aloud to God to
keep the baby safe, and to take the life she offered up so willingly
instead. She remembers striking with her knife at the great body that
fell upon her, blinding and suffocating her; then there came to her ears
a dim faint sound like music, and my cries--_I_ was the baby, you have
guessed, madame--and then silence, such silence as Léontine says she
thinks will be like the silence of death.
"But it was not death. Ah, no--there is Léontine, you see, coming up
with her pitcher from the well; and the wolf, the last wolf killed in
St. Privât, lies buried not a foot from where we stand; but Léontine
will carry her trophy of victory to her dying day. Some people say that
her face would be very beautiful but for the scar; but for me, madame, I
think that it is the scar that makes her face so beautiful."
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX]
Our young friends must not be impatient if their communications are not
noticed immediately. Our space is limited, and we answer or print
letters in the order in which they are received. The following pleasant
note comes from a young correspondent in Paterson:
DEAR "YOUNG PEOPLE,"--If all the boys and girls were as glad to see
you as I was, you must have received a very flattering welcome. We
have felt the want of a cheap, first-class weekly paper so much
that we are able to appreciate you now that we have you. There are
several weeklies published for the "young," but the great objection
to them is that half are too dry, and the other half too
sensational. You are neither, but very interesting.
In answer to a question accompanying the above note, we would say that
there is no limit to the age of our contributors.
* * * * *
GEORGE S. VAIL.--We will accept original puzzles if they are very good.
They must, in all cases, be accompanied by a full solution. Your chicken
story is very pretty, but we have no room to print it.
* * * * *
CHESTER B. FERNALD.--The full operation in figures should be sent with
all answers to mathematical puzzles.
* * * * *
LYMAN C.--Your land-turtle will eat pieces of pear or sweet apple,
bread, cake, and many other things. It will also live many months
without eating at all. You can keep it in a box, and it will be happier
if you give it a little earth to dig in. If the earth is deep enough, it
will make a burrow and sleep in it until next spring. We knew a little
girl who received a present of two land-turtles, which she placed in the
yard. In a few days she was unable to find them, and gave them up for
lost. The next spring, six months afterward, she was digging in her
flower beds, when, to her astonishment, she found her two lost pets, who
opened their eyes on being disturbed, and crawled sluggishly out of
their hole. They had been asleep all through the cold weather, for
turtles are very long lived, and they can easily give a whole winter to
a single nap. Rev. Mr. Wood, in a note to White's _Natural History of
Selborne_, gives a very interesting account of a tame turtle which he
allowed to crawl about his study. This turtle showed a great genius for
climbing, and at one time actually succeeded in scrambling upon a
footstool. He says: "Its food consisted of bread and milk, which it ate
several times a day, drinking the milk by scooping up some of it in its
lower jaw, and then by throwing its head back the milk ran down its
throat."
* * * * *
YOUNG CHEMIST.--Spread on your paper first a solution of iodide of
potassium, then a solution of nitrate of silver. Iodide of silver forms,
and saturates the paper. The excess of nitrate of silver and the heavy
yellow powder which forms are now washed off, and the paper is ready for
the camera. The picture may be developed by a solution of gallic acid
mixed with a very small quantity of an aqueous solution of acetic acid
and nitrate of silver. The picture is fixed by washing with hyposulphite
of soda. If you wish to derive any pleasure from photography, you would
better drop the old-fashioned paper process, and turn your attention to
ferrotypes, or negatives on glass, as with them good results are more
easily obtained than with paper.
* * * * *
We acknowledge very pretty and neatly written letters from St. Clair
Nichol, Listowel, Ontario, and Charles L. Benjamin (nine years old),
Washington, D. C., both containing correct information respecting Sir
Rowland Hill.
* * * * *
CLARISSA H. H.--Your answer to No. 4 of the mathematical puzzles is
right. If you look carefully you will discover why the others are wrong.
* * * * *
G. A. Page sends correct answers to Nos. 1, 3, and 4 of the mathematical
puzzles in our second number; also to numerical charade. Many thanks to
"an instructor and lover of young people" for her kind note. We are
sorry it is anonymous.
* * * * *
A correspondent sends answers to puzzles which we have not considered,
as no signature accompanies them. Our young friends will please sign
their full names to communications, which we will not print if so
requested.
_Harper's Young People._
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE will be issued every Tuesday, and may be had at
the following rates:
Four cents a number.
Single subscriptions for one year, $1.50; five subscriptions, one year,
$7.00: payable in advance. Postage free.
Subscriptions may begin with any number. When no time is specified, it
will be understood that the subscriber desires to commence with the
number issued after the receipt of order.
Remittances should be made by Post-office Money Order, or Draft, to
avoid risk of loss.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.