shiny top boots, had been too much for Jim's balance. How could a
man--he spoke of himself as a man now--how could a man be an "honest
miner" and not smoke a pipe?
And now with his manly clothes and his manly pipe he was to be so
happy! He had all that went to make up "the honest miner." True, he
did not let his father know about the pipe. He hid it under his pillow
at night. He meant to have his first smoke at the sluice-box, as a
miner should.
Monday morning he was up with the sun and ready for his work. His
father, who worked down the Gulch, had already gone before the
children had finished their breakfast. So now Jim filled his bran-new
pipe very leisurely; and with as much calm unconcern as if he had been
smoking for forty years, he stopped to scratch a match on the door as
he went out.
From under his broad hat he saw his little sister watching him, and
he fairly swelled with importance as Stumps looked up at him with
childish wonder. Leaving Madge to wash the few tin dishes and follow
as she could with Little Stumps, he started on up the hill, pipe in
mouth.
He met several miners, but he puffed away like a tug-boat against the
tide, and went on. His bright new boots whetted and creaked together,
the warm wind lifted the broad brim of his _sombrero_, and his bright
new red shirt was really beautiful, with the green grass and oaks
for a background--and so this brave young man climbed the hill to his
mine. Ah, he was so happy!
Suddenly, as he approached the claim, his knees began to smite
together, and he felt so weak he could hardly drag one foot after the
other. He threw down his pick; he began to tremble and spin around.
The world seemed to be turning over and over, and he trying in vain to
hold on to it. He jerked the pipe from his teeth, and throwing it down
on the bank, he tumbled down too, and clutching at the grass with both
hands tried hard, oh! so hard, to hold the world from slipping from
under him.
"Oh, Jim! you are white as snow," cried Madge as she came up.
"White as 'er sunshine, an' blue, an' green too, sisser. Look at
brurrer 'all colors,'" piped Little Stumps pitifully.
"O, Jim, Jim--brother Jim, what is the matter?" sobbed Madge.
"Sunstroke," murmured the young man, smiling grimly, like a true
Californian. "No; it is not sunstroke, it's--it's cholera," he added
in dismay over his falsehood.
Poor boy! he was sorry for this second lie too. He fairly groaned in
agony of body and soul.
Oh, how he did hate that pipe! How he did want to get up and jump on
it and smash it into a thousand pieces! But he could not get up or
turn around or move at all without betraying his unmanly secret.
A couple of miners came up, but Jim feebly begged them to go.
"Sunstroke," whispered the sister.
"No; tolera," piped poor Little Stumps.
"Get out! Leave me!" groaned the young red-shirted miner of the
Sierras.
The biggest of the two miners bent over him a moment.
"Yes; it's both," he muttered. "Cholera-nicotine-fantum!" Then he
looked at his partner and winked wickedly. Without a word, he took
the limp young miner up in his arms and bore him down the hill to his
father's cabin, while Stumps and Madge ran along at either side, and
tenderly and all the time kept asking what was good for "cholera."
The other old "honest miner" lingered behind to pick up the baleful
pipe which he knew was somewhere there; and when the little party
was far enough down the hill, he took it up and buried it in his own
capacious pocket with a half-sorrowful laugh. "Poor little miner," he
sighed.
"Don't ever swear any more, Windy," pleaded the boy to the miner who
had carried him down the hill, as he leaned over him, "and don't never
lie. I am going to die, Windy, and I should like to be good. Windy, it
_ain't_ sunstroke, it's" ...
[Illustration: HE TOOK THE LIMP YOUNG MINER IN HIS ARMS.]
"Hush yer mouth," growled Windy. "I know what 'tis! We've left it on
the hill."
The boy turned his face to the wall. The conviction was strong upon
him that he was going to die, The world spun round now very, very fast
indeed. Finally, half-rising in bed, he called Little Stumps to his
side:
"Stumps, dear, good Little Stumps, if I die don't you never try for to
smoke; for that's what's the matter with me. No, Stumps--dear little
brother Stumps--don't you never try for to go the whole of the 'honest
miner,' for it can't be did by a boy! We're nothing but boys, you and
I, Stumps--Little Stumps."
He sank back in bed and Little Stumps and his sister cried and cried,
and kissed him and kissed him.
The miners who had gathered around loved him now, every one, for
daring to tell the truth and take the shame of his folly so bravely.
"I'm going to die, Windy," groaned the boy.
Windy could stand no more of it. He took Jim's hand with a cheery
laugh. "Git well in half an hour," said he, "now that you've out with
the truth."
And so he did. By the time his father came home he was sitting up; and
he ate breakfast the next morning as if nothing had happened. But he
never tried to smoke any more as long as he lived. And he never lied,
and he never swore any more.
Oh, no! this Jim that I have been telling you of is "Moral Jim," of
the Sierras. The mine? Oh, I almost forgot. Well, that blue dirt was
the old bed of the stream, and it was ten times richer than where the
miners were all at work below. Struck it! I should say so! Ask any of
the old Sierras miners about "The Children's Claim," if you want to
hear just how rich they struck it.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
OLD GODFREY'S RELIC.
A simple, upright man was he,
Of spirit undefiled,
Cheerful and hale at seventy-three,
As any blithesome child.
Old Godfrey's friends and neighbors felt
His due was honest praise;
Ofttimes how fervently they dwelt
On his brave words and ways!
He had no foeman in the land
Whose deeds or tongue would gall;
Of guileless heart, of liberal hand,
He smiled on one and all.
But most, I think, he smiled on me;
"Your eyes, dear boy," he said,
"Remind me, though not mournfully,
Of eyes whose light is dead."
How oft beneath his roof I've been
On eves of wintry blight,
And heard his magic violin
Make musical the night.
No consort by his board was set,
No child his hearth had known,
Yet of all souls I've ever met,
His seemed the least alone.
[Illustration: Keen Memories of the Thrilling Years That Thronged His
Ocean Life.]
What stories in my eager ears
He poured of peace or strife;
Keen memories of the thrilling years
That thronged his ocean life.
And oh, he showed such marvellous things
From unknown sea and shore,
That, brimmed with strange imaginings,
My boy's brain bubbled o'er!
It wandered back o'er many a track
Of his old life-toil free;
The enchanted calm, the fiery wrack,
Far off, far off at sea!
For once he dared the watery world,
O'er wild or halcyon waves,
And saw his snow-white sails unfurled
Above a million graves.
Northward he went, thro' ice and sleet,
Where soon the sunbeams fail,
And followed with an armed fleet
The wide wake of the whale.
Southward he went through airs serene
Of soft Sicilian noon,
And sang, on level decks, between
The twilight and the moon.
But once--it was a tranquil time,
An evening half divine,
When the low breeze like murmurous rhyme
Sighed through the sunset fine.
Once, Godfrey from the secret place
Wherein his treasures lay,
Brought forth, with calmly museful face,
This relic to the day--
A soft tress with a silken tie,
A brightly shimmering curl;
Such as might shadow goldenly
The fair brow of a girl.
"Oh, lovelier," cried I, "than the dawn
Auroral mists enfold,
The long and luminous threadlets drawn
Through this rich curl of gold!
"Tell, tell me, o'er whose graceful head
You saw the ringlet shine?"
Thereon the old man coolly said,
"_Why, lad, the tress is mine!_
"Look not amazed, but come with me,
And let me tell you where
And how, one morning fearfully,
I lost that lock of hair."
He led me past his cottage screen
Of flowers, far down the wood
Where, towering o'er the landscape green,
A centuried oak-tree stood.
"Here is the place," he said, "whereon
Heaven helped me in sore strait,
And in a March morn's radiance wan
Turned back the edge of fate!
"My father a stout yeoman was,
And I, in childish pride,
That morning through the dew-drenched grass,
Walked gladly by his side,
"Till _here_ he paused, with glittering steel,
A prostrate trunk to smite;
How the near woodland seemed to reel
Beneath his blows of might!
"And round about me viciously
The splinters flashed and flew;
Some sharply grazed the shuddering eye,
Some pattered down the dew.
"Childlike, I strove to pick them up,
But stumbling forward, sunk,
O'er the wild pea and buttercup,
Across the smitten trunk.
"Just then, with all its ponderous force
The axe was hurtling down;
What spell could stay its savage course?
What charm could save my crown?
"Too late, too late to stop the blow;
I shrieked to see it come;
My father's blood grew cold as snow;
My father's voice was dumb.
"He staggered back a moment's space,
Glaring on earth and skies;
Blank horror in his haggard face,
Dazed anguish in his eyes.
"He searched me close to find my wound;
He searched with sobbing breath;
But not the smallest gateway found
Opened to welcome death.
"He thanked his God in ardent wise,
Kneeling 'twixt shine and shade;
Then lowered his still half-moistened eyes
O'er the keen axe's blade.
"_Two hairs clung to it!_... thence, he turned
Where the huge log had rolled,
And there in tempered sunlight burned
A quivering curl of gold.
"The small thing looked alive!... it stirred
By breeze and sunbeam kissed,
And fluttered like an Orient bird,
Half-glimpsed through sunrise mist.
"Oh! keen and sheer the axe-edge smote
The perfect curl apart!
Even _now_, through tingling head and throat,
I feel the old terror dart.
"My father kept his treasure long,
'Mid seasons grave or gay,
Till to death's plaintive curfew-song,
Calmly he passed away.
"I, too, the token still so fair,
Have held with tendance true;
And dying, this memorial hair
I'll leave, dear lad, to you!"
PAUL H. HAYNE.
EVAN COGWELL'S ICE FORT.
In the early days of Northern Ohio, when settlers were few and far
between, Evan Cogswell, a Welsh lad of sixteen years, found his way
thither and began his career as a laborer, receiving at first but two
dollars a month in addition to his board and "home-made" clothing. He
possessed an intelligent, energetic mind in a sound and vigorous body,
and had acquired in his native parish the elements of an education in
both Welsh and English.
The story of his life, outlined in a curious old diary containing
the records of sixty-two years, and an entry for more than twenty-two
thousand days, would constitute a history of the region, and some of
its passages would read like high-wrought romance.
His first term of service was with a border farmer on the banks of a
stream called Grand River, in Ashtabula County. It was rather crude
farming, however, consisting mostly of felling trees, cutting wood and
saw-logs, burning brush, and digging out stumps, the axe and pick-axe
finding more use than ordinary farm implements.
Seven miles down the river, and on the opposite bank, lived the
nearest neighbors, among them a blacksmith who in his trade served
the whole country for twenty miles around. One especial part of his
business was the repairing of axes, called in that day "jumping," or
"upsetting."
In midwinter Evan's employer left a couple of axes with the blacksmith
for repairs, the job to be done within a week. At this time the
weather was what is termed "settled," with deep snow, and good
"slipping" along the few wildwood roads.
But three or four days later, there came a "January thaw." Rain and a
warmer temperature melted away much of the snow, the little river was
swelled to a great torrent, breaking up the ice and carrying it down
stream, and the roads became almost impassable. When the week was up
and the farmer wanted the axes, it was not possible for the horse to
travel, and after waiting vainly for a day or two for a turn in the
weather, Evan was posted off on foot to obtain the needed implements.
Delighting in the change and excitement of such a trip, the boy
started before noon, expecting to reach home again ere dark, as it was
not considered quite safe to journey far by night on account of the
wolves.
Three miles below, at a narrow place in the river, was the bridge,
consisting of three very long tree-trunks reaching parallel from bank
to bank, and covered with hewn plank. When Evan arrived here he found
that this bridge had been swept away. But pushing on down stream
among the thickets, about half a mile below, he came upon an immense
ice-jam, stretching across the stream and piled many feet high. Upon
this he at once resolved to make his way over to the road on the
other side, for he was already wearied threading the underbrush. Grand
River, which is a narrow but deep and violent stream, ran roaring
and plunging beneath the masses of ice as if enraged at being so
obstructed; but the lad picked his path in safety and soon stood on
the opposite bank.
Away he hurried now to the blacksmith's, so as to complete his errand
and return by this precarious crossing before dark.
But the smith had neglected his duty and Evan had to wait an hour or
more for the axes. At length they were done, and with one tied at each
end of a strong cord and this hung about his neck, he was off on the
homeward trip. To aid his walking, he procured from the thicket a
stout cane. He had hardly gone two miles when the duskiness gathering
in the woods denoted the nearness of night; yet as the moon was riding
high, he pushed on without fear.
[Illustration: HOMEWARD. SAFELY INTRENCHED.]
But as he was skirting a wind-fall of trees, he came suddenly upon two
or three wolves apparently emerging from their daytime hiding place
for a hunting expedition. Evan was considerably startled; but as
they ran off into the woods as if afraid of him, he took courage in
the hope that they would not molest him. In a few minutes, however,
they set up that dismal howling by which they summon their mates and
enlarge their numbers; and Evan discovered by the sounds that they
were following him cautiously at no great distance.
Frequent responses were also heard from more distant points in the
woods and from across the river. By this time it was becoming quite
dark, the moonlight penetrating the forest only along the roadway
and in occasional patches among the trees on either side. The rushing
river was not far away, but above its roar arose every instant
the threatening howl of a wolf. Finally, just as he reached the
ice-bridge, the howling became still, a sign that their numbers
emboldened them to enter in earnest on the pursuit. The species
of wolf once so common in the central States, and making the early
farmers so much trouble, were peculiar in this respect; they were
great cowards singly, and would trail the heels of a traveler howling
for recruits, and not daring to begin the attack until they had
collected a force that insured success; then they became fierce and
bold, and more to be dreaded than any other animal of the wilderness.
And at this point, when they considered their numbers equal to the
occasion, the howling ceased.
Evan had been told of this, and when the silence began, he knew its
meaning, and his heart shuddered at the prospect. His only hope lay
in the possibility that they might not dare to follow him across the
ice-bridge. But this hope vanished as he approached the other shore,
and saw by the moonlight several of the gaunt creatures awaiting
him on that side. What should he do? No doubt they would soon muster
boldness to follow him upon the ice, and then his fate would be sealed
in a moment.
In the emergency he thought of the axes, and taking them from his
neck, cut the cord, and thrust his walking-stick into one as a helve,
resolved to defend himself to the last.
At this instant he espied among the thick, upheaved ice-cakes two
great fragments leaning against each other in such a way as to form a
roof with something like a small room underneath. Here he saw his only
chance. Springing within, he used the axe to chip off other fragments
with which to close up the entrance, and almost quicker than it can
be told, had thus constructed a sort of fort, which he believed would
withstand the attack of the wolves. At nightfall the weather had
become colder, and he knew that in a few minutes the damp pieces of
ice would be firmly cemented together.
Hardly had he lifted the last piece to its place, when the pack came
rushing about him, snapping and snarling, but at first not testing the
strength of his intrenchment. When soon they began to spring against
it, and snap at the corners of ice, the frost had done its work, and
they could not loosen his hastily built wall.
Through narrow crevices he could look out at them, and at one time
counted sixteen grouped together in council. As the cold increased he
had to keep in motion in order not to freeze, and any extra action on
his part increased the fierceness of the wolves. At times they would
gather in a circle around him, and after sniffing at him eagerly, set
up a doleful howling, as if deploring the excellent supper they had
lost.
Ere long one of them found an opening at a corner large enough to
admit its head; but Evan was on the alert, and gave it such a blow
with the axe as to cause its death. Soon another tried the same thing,
and met with the same reception, withdrawing and whirling around
several times, and then dropping dead with a broken skull.
One smaller than the rest attempting to enter, and receiving the fatal
blow, crawled, in its dying agony, completely into the enclosure, and
lay dead at Evan's feet. Of this he was not sorry, as his feet were
bitterly cold, and the warm carcass of the animal served to relieve
them.
In the course of the night six wolves were killed as they sought to
creep into his fortress, and several others so seriously hacked as
to send them to the woods again; and, however correct the notion that
when on the hunt they devour their fallen comrades, in this case they
did no such thing, as in the morning the six dead bodies lay about
on the ice, and Evan had the profitable privilege of taking off their
skins.
Of his thoughts during the night, a quotation from his diary is
quaintly suggestive and characteristic.
"I bethought me of the wars of Glendower, which I have read about, and
the battle of Grosmont Castle; and I said, 'I am Owen Glendower;
this is my castle; the wolves are the army of Henry; but I will never
surrender or yield as did Glendower.'"
Toward morning, as the change of weather continued, and the waters of
the river began to diminish, there was suddenly a prodigious crack and
crash of the ice-bridge, and the whole mass settled several inches.
At this the wolves took alarm, and in an instant fled. Perhaps they
might have returned had not the crackling of the ice been repeated
frequently.
At length Evan became alarmed for his safety, lest the ice should
break up in the current, and bringing his axe to bear, soon burst
his way out and fled to the shore. But not seeing the ice crumble, he
ventured back to obtain the other axe, and then hastened home to his
employer.
During the day he skinned the wolves, and within a fortnight pocketed
the bounty money, amounting in all to about one hundred and fifty
dollars. With this money he made the first payment on a large farm,
which he long lived to cultivate and enjoy, and under the sod of which
he found a quiet grave.
IRVING L. BEMAN.
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he:
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew,
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through.
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace--
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mechlin church-steeple we heard the half-chime--
So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"
At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past;
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track,
And one eye's black intelligence--ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;
We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Delhem a dome-spire sprung white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!
"How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer--
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix, Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sate with his head twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
ROBERT BROWNING.
A HERO.
(_A STORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION._)
They were sitting by the great blazing wood-fire. It was July, but
there was an east wind and the night was chilly. Besides, Mrs. Heath
had a piece of fresh pork to roast. Squire Blake had "killed" the
day before--that was the term used to signify the slaughter of any
domestic animal for food--and had distributed the "fresh" to various
families in town, and Mrs. Heath wanted hers for the early breakfast.
Meat was the only thing to be had in plenty--meat and berries. Wheat
and corn, and vegetables even, were scarce. There had been a long
winter, and then, too, every family had sent early in the season all
they could possibly spare to the Continental army. As to sugar and tea
and molasses, it was many a day since they had had even the taste of
them.
The piece of pork was suspended from the ceiling by a stout string,
and slowly revolved before the fire, Dorothy or Arthur giving it a
fresh start when it showed signs of stopping. There was a settle
at right angles with the fireplace, and here the little cooks sat,
Dorothy in the corner nearest the fire, and Arthur curled up on the
floor at her feet, where he could look up the chimney and see the
moon, almost at the full, drifting through the sky. At the opposite
corner sat Abram, the hired man and faithful keeper of the family in
the absence of its head, at work on an axe helve, while Bathsheba, or
"Basha," as she was briefly and affectionately called, was spinning in
one corner of the room just within range of the firelight.