THE GREAT PRAIRIES OF THE "FAR WEST"--A REMARKABLE COLONY DISCOVERED,
AND A MISERABLE NIGHT ENDURED.
Of all the hours of the night or day the hour that succeeds the dawn is
the purest, the most joyous and the best. At least so think we; and so
think hundreds and thousands of the human family; and so thought Dick
Varley, as he sprung suddenly into a sitting posture next morning, and
threw his arms with an exulting feeling of delight round the neck of
Crusoe, who instantly sat up to greet him.
This was an unusual piece of enthusiasm on the part of Dick, but the dog
received it with marked satisfaction, rubbed his big hairy cheek against
that of his young master, and arose from his sedentary position in order
to afford free scope for the use of his tail.
"Ho! Joe Blunt! Henri! Up, boys, up! The sun will have the start o'
us. I'll catch the nags."
So saying Dick bounded away into the woods with Crusoe gambolling
joyously at his heels. Dick soon caught his own horse and Crusoe caught
Joe's. Then the former mounted and quickly brought in the other two.
Returning to the camp he found everything packed and ready to strap on
the back of the pack-horse.
"That's the way to do it, lad," cried Joe. "Here Henri, look alive and
git yer beast ready. I do believe yer goin' to take another snooze!"
Henri was indeed, at that moment, indulging in a gigantic stretch and a
cavernous yawn, but he finished both hastily, and rushed at his poor
horse as if he intended to slay it on the spot. He only threw the
saddle on its back, however, and then threw himself on the saddle.
"Now then, all ready?"
"Ay,--oui, yis!"
And away they went at full stretch again on their journey.
Thus day after day they travelled, and night after night they laid them
down to sleep under the trees of the forest, until at length they
reached the edge of the Great Prairie.
It was a great, a memorable day in the life of Dick Varley, that on
which he first beheld the prairie,--the vast boundless prairie. He had
heard of it, talked of it, dreamed about it, but he had never,--no, he
had never realised it. 'Tis always thus. Our conceptions of things
that we have not seen are almost invariably wrong. Dick's eyes
glittered, and his heart swelled, and his cheeks flushed, and his breath
came thick and quick.
"There it is," he gasped, as the great rolling plain broke suddenly on
his enraptured gaze; "that's it--oh!--"
Dick uttered a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest chief of
the Pawnees, and, being unable to utter another word, he swung his cap
in the air and sprang like an arrow from a bow over the mighty ocean of
grass. The sun had just risen to send a flood of golden glory over the
scene; the horses were fresh, so the elder hunters, gladdened by the
beauty of all around them, and inspired by the irresistible enthusiasm
of their young companion, gave the reins to the horses and flew after
him. It was a glorious gallop, that first headlong dash over the
boundless prairie of the "far west!"
The prairies have often been compared, most justly, to the ocean. There
is the same wide circle of space bounded on all sides by the horizon;
there is the same swell, or undulation, or succession of long low
unbroken waves that marks the ocean when it is calm; they are canopied
by the same pure sky, and swept by the same untrammelled breezes. There
are islands, too--clumps of trees and willow-bushes,--which rise out of
this grassy ocean to break and relieve its uniformity; and these vary in
size and numbers as do the isles of ocean--being numerous in some
places, while in others they are so scarce that the traveller does not
meet one in a long day's journey. Thousands of beautiful flowers decked
the green sward, and numbers of little birds hopped about among them.
"Now, lads," said Joe Blunt, reining up, "our troubles begin to-day."
"Our troubles! our joys, you mean!" exclaimed Dick Varley.
"P'raps I don't mean nothin' o' the sort," retorted Joe. "Man wos never
intended to swaller his joys without a strong mixtur' o' troubles. I
s'pose he couldn't stand 'em pure. Ye see we've got to the prairie
now--"
"One blind hoss might see dat!" interrupted Henri.
"An' we may or may not diskiver buffalo. An' water's scarce, too, so
we'll need to look out for it pretty sharp, I guess, else we'll lose our
horses, in which case we may as well give out at once. Besides, there's
rattlesnakes about in sandy places--we'll ha' to look out for them; an'
there's badger holes--we'll need to look sharp for them lest the horses
put their feet in 'em; an' there's Injuns, who'll look out pretty sharp
for _us_ if they once get wind that we're in them parts."
"Oui, yis, mes boys, and there's rain, and tunder, and lightin'," added
Henri, pointing to a dark cloud which was seen rising on the horizon
ahead of them.
"It'll be rain," remarked Joe, "but there's no thunder in the air jist
now; we'll make for yonder clump o' bushes and lay by till it's past."
Turning a little to the right of the course they had been following, the
hunters galloped along one of the hollows between the prairie waves
before mentioned, in the direction of a clump of willows. Before
reaching it however, they passed over a bleak and barren plain where
there was neither flower nor bird. Here they were suddenly arrested by
a most extraordinary sight--at least it was so to Dick Varley, who had
never seen the like before. This was a colony of what Joe called
"prairie-dogs." On first beholding them Crusoe uttered a sort of half
growl, half bark of surprise, cocked his tail and ears, and instantly
prepared to charge, but he glanced up at his master first for
permission. Observing that his finger and his look commanded "silence"
he dropped his tail at once and stepped to the rear. He did not,
however, cease to regard the prairie-dogs with intense curiosity.
These remarkable little creatures have been egregiously misnamed by the
hunters of the west, for they bear not the slightest resemblance to
dogs, either in formation or habits. They are, in fact, the marmot, and
in size are little larger than squirrels, which animals they resemble in
some degree. They burrow under the light soil and throw it up in mounds
like moles.
Thousands of them were running about among their dwellings when Dick
first beheld them, but the moment they caught sight of the horsemen
rising over the ridge, they set up a tremendous hubbub of consternation;
each little beast instantly mounted guard on the top of his house and
prepared, as it were, to "receive cavalry."
The most ludicrous thing about them was, that although the most timid
and cowardly creatures in the world, they seemed the most impertinent
things that ever lived! Knowing that their holes afforded them a
perfectly safe retreat they sat close beside them, and as the hunters
slowly approached, they elevated their heads, wagged their little tails,
showed their teeth, and chattered at them like monkeys. The nearer they
came the more angry and furious did the prairie-dogs become, until Dick
Varley almost fell off his horse with suppressed laughter. They let the
hunters come close up, waxing louder and louder in their wrath; but the
instant a hand was raised to throw a stone or point a gun, a thousand
little heads dived into a thousand holes, and a thousand little tails
wriggled for an instant in the air--then, a dead silence reigned over
the deserted scene.
"Bien, them's have dive into de bo'-els of de eart'," said Henri with a
broad grin.
Presently a thousand noses appeared, and nervously disappeared like the
wink of an eye. Then they appeared again, and a thousand pairs of eyes
followed. Instantly, like Jack in the box, they were all on the top of
their hillocks again, chattering and wagging their little tails as
vigorously as ever. You could not say that you _saw_ them jump out of
their holes. Suddenly, as if by magic, they _were_ out; then Dick
tossed up his arms, and, suddenly, as if by magic, they were gone!
Their number was incredible, and their cities were full of riotous
activity. What their occupations were the hunters could not ascertain,
but it was perfectly evident that they visited a great deal and gossiped
tremendously, for they ran about from house to house, and sat chatting
in groups; but it was also observed that they never went far from their
own houses. Each seemed to have a circle of acquaintance in the
immediate neighbourhood of his own residence, to which in case of sudden
danger he always fled.
But another thing about these prairie-dogs (perhaps, considering their
size, we should call them prairie-doggies), another thing about them, we
say, was that each doggie lived with an owl, or, more correctly, an owl
lived with each doggie! This is such an extraordinary _fact_, that we
could scarce hope that men would believe us, were our statement not
supported by dozens of trustworthy travellers who have visited and
written about these regions. The whole plain was covered with these
owls. Each hole seemed to be the residence of an owl and a doggie, and
these incongruous couples lived together apparently in perfect harmony.
We have not been able to ascertain from travellers _why_ the owls have
gone to live with these doggies, so we beg humbly to offer our own
private opinion to the reader. We assume, then, that owls find it
absolutely needful to have holes. Probably prairie-owls cannot dig
holes for themselves. Having discovered, however, a race of little
creatures that could, they very likely determined to take forcible
possession of the holes made by them. Finding, no doubt, that, when
they did so, the doggies were too timid to object, and discovering,
moreover, that they were sweet, innocent little creatures, the owls
resolved to take them into partnership, and so the thing was settled--
that's how it came about, no doubt of it!
There is a report that rattlesnakes live in these holes also; but we
cannot certify our reader of the truth of this,--still it is well to be
acquainted with a report that is current among the men of the backwoods.
If it be true, we are of opinion that the doggie's family is the most
miscellaneous and remarkable on the face of--or, as Henri said, in the
bo'-els--of the earth.
Dick and his friends were so deeply absorbed in watching these curious
little creatures that they did not observe the rapid spread of the black
clouds over the sky. _A_ few heavy drops of rain now warned them to
seek shelter, so wheeling round they dashed off at speed for the clump
of willows, which they gained just as the rain began to descend in
torrents.
"Now, lads, do it slick. Off packs and saddles," cried Joe Blunt,
jumping from his horse. "I'll make a hut for ye, right off."
"A hut, Joe! what sort o' hut can ye make here?" inquired Dick.
"Ye'll see, boy, in a minute."
"Ach! lend me hand here, Dick; de bockle am tight as de hosse's own
skin. Ah! dere all right."
"Hallo! what's this?" exclaimed Dick, as Crusoe advanced with something
in his mouth. "I declare, it's a bird of some sort."
"A prairie-hen," remarked Joe, as Crusoe laid the bird at Dick's feet;
"capital for supper."
"Ah! dat chien is superb! goot dog. Come here, I vill clap you."
But Crusoe refused to be caressed. Meanwhile, Joe and Dick formed a
sort of beehive-looking hut by bending down the stems of a tall bush and
thrusting their points into the ground. Over this they threw the
largest buffalo robe, and placed another on the ground below it, on
which they laid their packs of goods. These they further secured
against wet by placing several robes over them and a skin of parchment.
Then they sat down on this pile to rest and consider what should be done
next.
"'Tis a bad look out," said Joe, shaking his head.
"I fear it is," replied Dick in a melancholy tone.
Henri said nothing, but he sighed deeply on looking up at the sky, which
was now of a uniform watery grey, while black clouds drove athwart it.
The rain was pouring in torrents, and the wind began to sweep it in
broad sheets over the plains, and under their slight covering, so that
in a short time they were wet to the skin. The horses stood meekly
beside them, with their tails and heads equally pendulous, and Crusoe
sat before his master, looking at him with an expression that seemed to
say, "Couldn't you put a stop to this if you were to try?"
"This'll never do. I'll try to git up a fire," said Dick, jumping up in
desperation.
"Ye may save yerself the trouble," remarked Joe, drily--at least as
drily as was possible in the circumstances.
However, Dick did try, but he failed signally. Everything was soaked
and saturated. There were no large trees; most of the bushes were
green, and the dead ones were soaked. The coverings were slobbery; the
skins they sat on were slobbery; the earth itself was slobbery; so Dick
threw his blanket (which was also slobbery) round his shoulders, and sat
down beside his companions to grin and bear it. As for Joe and Henri,
they were old hands, and accustomed to such circumstances. From the
first they had resigned themselves to their fate, and wrapping their wet
blankets round them sat down, side by side, wisely to endure the evils
that they could not cure.
There is an old rhyme, by whom composed we know not--and it matters
little--which runs thus--
"For every evil under the sun
There is a remedy--or there's none.
If there is--try and find it;
If there isn't--never mind it!"
There is deep wisdom here in small compass. The principle involved
deserves to be heartily recommended. Dick never heard of the lines, but
he knew the principle well; so he began to "never mind it," by sitting
down beside his companions and whistling vociferously. As the wind
rendered this a difficult feat he took to singing instead. After that
he said, "Let's eat a bite, Joe, and then go to bed."
"Be all means," said Joe, who produced a mass of dried deer's meat from
a wallet.
"It's cold grub," said Dick, "and tough."
But the hunters' teeth were sharp and strong, so they ate a hearty
supper and washed it down with a drink of rain water collected from a
pool on the top of their hut. They now tried to sleep, for the night
was advancing, and it was so dark that they could scarce see their hands
when held up before their faces. They sat back to back, and thus, in
the form of a tripod, began to snooze. Joe's and Henri's seasoned
frames would have remained stiff as posts till morning; but Dick's body
was young and pliant, so he hadn't been asleep a few seconds when he
fell forward into the mud and effectually awakened the others. Joe gave
a grunt, and Henri exclaimed, "Hah!" but Dick was too sleepy and
miserable to say anything. Crusoe, however, rose up to show his
sympathy, and laid his wet head on his master's knee as he resumed his
place. This catastrophe happened three times in the space of an hour,
and by the third time they were all wakened up so thoroughly that they
gave up the attempt to sleep, and amused each other by recounting their
hunting experiences and telling stories. So engrossed did they become
that day broke sooner than they had expected--and just in proportion as
the grey light of dawn rose higher into the eastern sky did the spirits
of these weary men rise within their soaking bodies.