_ON THE MOUNTAIN._
AND where was Annie all this time? Hurrying along toward the top of the
great mountain as fast as her weary little legs could carry her, often
stumbling and falling, now and then sitting down to rest and get her
breath and cry for "grandma" and "Fanny," and then drying her tears and
setting off again.
Annie had waited at the spring for what seemed a very long time, though
in reality it was not more than twenty minutes. She had never been
alone in the woods before. Indeed, she had never been in the woods at
all, and she began to be a little scared at the loneliness, and at the
kind of murmuring, whispering silence which prevailed around her.
She thought at first that she would go home, and then she reflected
that perhaps grandma would not like it if she came home alone. She
was not quite sure that she could climb the fence, and Sarah had
said something, she did not know exactly what, about a bull. Then an
odd fancy came into her silly little head. Mary Patterson, who was
an English girl, had told her about the gypsies and how they stole
children. What if that dark, wild-looking girl with the curly hair
should be a gypsy, who had coaxed Fanny into the woods to do her some
mischief?
"But I won't believe any such nonsense," said Annie, stoutly. "Fanny
knew her before, and she was real good to me. I dare say she is looking
for snail shells all the time. I wonder if there would be any harm in
my going a little way up the path to see if they are coming?"
Annie hesitated a minute or two, and then she concluded to venture.
She went a little way and then a little farther, and then she saw a
very pretty sight—no less than a family of young squirrels at play on
a fallen tree. She watched them for a few minutes, and then ventured
a little nearer and a little nearer. Then she saw a beautiful flower,
and thought she would get it for Uncle Hugh. She did so, and then all
at once bethinking herself that the girls might come back and miss her,
she turned round and hurried back toward the spring.
She walked on and on, wondering that she did not come to the place,
and that she saw so many things which she had not noticed before.
Meantime, the path, such as it was, grew narrower and rougher, till all
at once Annie found herself at a spring, indeed, but not the one she
had left nor at all like it. This spring boiled up in a little pool at
the foot of a precipice so high that Annie could hardly see the top,
and the rocks seemed just ready to fall on her head. In fact, many of
them had already fallen, and lay round in wild confusion, while the
earth between them was soft and boggy, so that Annie had wet her boots
through and through before she was aware.
In the midst of the rocks and in the water lay a good many bones
bleached and scattered. Annie did not know enough to perceive that
they were the bones of a sheep or calf. She had a kind of horror of
dry bones, and would never touch or go near one if she could help it,
and she turned and hurried away out of sight of the place. She had the
sense to see that this was not the spring she had left, and she thought
she must return to that as quickly as possible.
So she turned and ran back again, taking, as she supposed, the same
path, but she only involved herself in fresh difficulties. And at last,
thoroughly bewildered, she sat down to rest and to think what she had
better do. She looked round. The place was so entirely strange that it
might almost have been in another world from that which the little girl
had inhabited hitherto. Great black evergreen trees grew all around
her, and the ground beneath was brown and slippery from the fallen
spruce and hemlock needles. Great rocks peeped through the soil, or lay
scattered upon it, as if they had at some time fallen from the sky.
Everything was very still, but as Annie listened she heard at a great
distance, as it seemed, a strange wild scream and then another. It was
the cry of the eagles which lived on the upper part of the mountain,
but Annie did not know that. Gradually, as she sat there, the knowledge
grew upon her that she did not know where she was, that she was
lost—lost on the great mountain, where Sarah had warned her not to go
on any account, where, as she knew, more than one person had been lost
and never found again. Perhaps the bones were those of people who had
strayed away before her, who had died all alone in the woods and had
never even been buried.
That was a silly fancy, but Annie was only a very little girl, and
older and wiser people have lost their heads on being lost in the
woods. She burst into tears and called aloud for grandma and Uncle
Hugh, but stopped suddenly, for somebody or something in the woods
seemed mocking her, repeating the words over and over again, fainter
and fainter every time. It was only the mountain echo, but Annie did
not know anything about echoes. She was frightened at the sound; and
starting to her feet, she ran away as fast as she could, which was not
very fast, for the ground began to be very steep and rugged.
By this time, Annie was quite beside herself. She remembered that
they had come up hill all the way to Mrs. Lilly's, and that grandma
had told her before leaving home that morning that Mrs. Lilly lived
on the mountain, and she reasoned in her confused little mind that if
she could only climb high enough, she should find the old red house
and grandma. So she climbed on, often falling and hurting herself, now
getting on easily a little way, now stopping to rest. And once finding
a bed of soft green moss, she lay down and slept for two or three
hours, the deep, heavy sleep of exhaustion.
When she awoke, it was nearly dark in the woods, for the sun was below
the mountain-top, though he still shone on the other side. Annie felt
weak and exhausted, but her sleep had refreshed her, and after she
remembered where she was and how she came there, she rose and struggled
on.
At last she could go no farther, and it was well she could not, for she
was now come into a very dangerous part of the mountain, where there
were many deep holes and cracks, some of them partly filled with water.
If she had fallen into one of them, she would probably never be found
again either dead or alive, for the place had an ill name, and few even
of the boldest hunters ever came near it.
Annie sat down on the ground in dumb despair, too wretched even to
cry, too hopeless to make another effort. She sat on the ground, with
her elbows on her knees and her hands supporting her chin, and thought
about herself and her condition almost as if she had been another
person. She was lost on the mountain like the poor hunter she had heard
of; and, like him, she would most likely never be found again. She
would die there in that lonely place and never go home, never see the
new baby sister who had come since she left home, and never, never see
papa and mamma any more.
She thought of her little cousin Grace Belden—how she had died in
her crib in the safe, warm nursery, with mamma holding her hands and
talking to her about heaven and the Lord Jesus. There would be nobody
to hold her hand and talk to her when she was dying, nor to dress her
body in soft white cashmere and lay it tenderly in the little white
coffin, as they had done with Grace—nobody to take her to the church
and read the funeral service, and sing a funeral hymn so softly and
sweetly, as Mrs. Terry and her daughters had done for Grace. Perhaps
the robins would cover her body with leaves, as they had done with the
babes in the wood, and the angels would come and carry her away to
heaven. She did not think she should be afraid of them if they looked
like the picture which hung in mamma's room at home.
But oh, she did want to see mamma once more. She rose and tried to
walk, but she sat down directly. One of her boots had come off, and she
had so hurt her foot on the sharp stones that it bled. Besides, her
head was dizzy, and a mist came over her eyes when she stood up. No;
she must just sit still where she was, and perhaps somebody would come.
She had lighted on a place where she could sit down and lean her
back against a rock. She had not climbed directly up, but rather in
a slanting direction along the side of the mountain. Still, she had
climbed very high—higher than any one would believe who did not know
how fast and how far lost children will travel.
The wind blew cool, and Annie was thinly dressed, for it had been a
warm day, and nobody had expected her to be out in the evening. The
cold and fatigue made her drowsy, and she was almost asleep, when she
suddenly started to her feet. Had she dreamed it? Was it one of the
voices which had mocked her in the woods and whispered in the tops of
the trees, or had some one called her name? She listened intently. Yes,
it was so.
"Annie! Annie Mercer!" rung out in a clear voice. "Annie, are you here?"
"Yes, oh yes!" called Annie, in a joyful tone. "Oh, do come!"
"I am coming. Keep still where you are. Don't stir!" called the voice
again.
Annie stood like a statue, hardly breathing. She heard steps among
the dry leaves, and in another moment, Sarah Leyman burst through the
bushes and caught the child in her arms.
"You blessed, dear little thing, I have found you at last!" exclaimed
Sarah, kissing Annie as if she would eat her up. "But how in the world
did you ever come here? Were you scared at the spring?"
"I was very naughty," said Annie, penitently. "I ought to have minded,
but I didn't. And I went up the hill to find you, and there I saw some
squirrels. And I tried to go back, and then I came to a place where it
was all wet, and there were bones," said Annie, in a terrified whisper.
"I thought they were the bones of people who had been lost; were they?"
"Oh no," said Sarah; "they were the bones of some animal which had
fallen off the rocks. Well, what then?"
"Then I knew that I was lost, and I tried to find my way, and I
couldn't, and when I came up here I couldn't get any further, and so I
sat down."
"And a very good thing you did," said Sarah. "But who would have
thought of your getting so far?"
"How did you find me?" asked Annie.
"That's more than I can tell you, Annie. I followed your track pretty
well to the green spring, and then it was pretty much all chance or
something else—I don't know what. I could see that you had started to
go up the hill, and I kept on after you, till by and by I found the
place where you lay down and left your hat. See, here it is. Then I
knew I was right so far, and I don't know why, but I felt sure you had
come up here." And Sarah kissed Annie once more.
"It was very good in you to come and find me," said Annie, returning
the kiss. "I thought I should die all alone, and nobody would know
where I was, nor bury me, nor anything," she continued, piteously. "And
when I called, something kept mocking me, and whispering in the trees
overhead."
"That was only the echo and the wind in the trees," replied Sarah. "It
could not hurt you."
"I didn't know that," said Annie; "it made me afraid. Won't you take me
home to grandma?"
Sarah's face darkened. She compressed her lips and looked round her. It
was now dark, and though the moon was risen, she gave them but little
light.
"Why, there's the trouble, Annie," said she. "I don't see how we are to
get home to-night."
"But I must go home," said the little girl, her wide blue eyes full of
terror. "I can't stay out in the woods all night. Oh, please, please,
do take me home to grandma!" wailed the poor child, in piteous tones.
"It is so dreadful up here, and I want to go to my own little bed."
Sarah sat down and took Annie on her lap, holding her fast, for the
poor child was so horrified at the thought of staying out all night
that she had started to run away.
"Annie dear, listen to me," said she, kindly but firmly. "Stop crying,
and sit still and try to listen and understand."
Annie was a docile little thing, and she had always been taught to
mind. She stopped struggling, sat still, and presently checked her sobs
and looked up in Sarah's face.
"I am good now," said she. "Won't you take me home?"
"I want to tell you about it," said Sarah, still holding her. "I should
like to take you home and to go home myself. I don't want to stay out
in the woods any more than you do. But you see it is quite dark, only
the moon shines a little. There are a great many dangerous holes and
precipices round here. And if we should try to go down the mountain in
the dark, we should most likely fall and be killed, and then we should
never see grandma any more. I don't see but we must stay here till
morning, and then we will go down."
"But we haven't any beds nor any supper," objected Annie. "And I am so
hungry, I don't know what to do."
Sarah put her hand into her pocket and brought out two ginger cakes
which she had brought from home.
"Here is some supper for you," said she; "and as for beds, we must do
the best we can. Sit still here and eat your cakes, and I will see what
I can do. There! Don't be frightened; I am not going away," she said,
in a soothing tone, as Annie threw her arms around her neck and clung
to her. "I wouldn't leave you for anything."
Somewhat reassured and very hungry, Annie sat down and ate her cakes,
while Sarah looked about among the rocks, where she presently found a
little nook well enough suited to her purpose—a kind of recess or cave
formed by two great slabs of stone, leaning one against the other.
"This will do," said she to herself; "now for a bed."
She dared not go far away to seek materials, but she broke off all
the evergreen boughs within reach, and arranged them into a couch,
spreading her own apron over them.
"There! That is the best that I can do," said she, returning to Annie's
side. "It is no great thing of a bed, but it is better than nothing.
Now let me loosen your clothes, and you shall lie down and sleep like a
little kitten, and I will watch by you. Don't be afraid. I don't think
anything will come near us."
"And will you hear me say my prayers?" asked Annie. "Grandma always
does, or mamma when I am at home. Oh dear! What would mamma say if she
could see where I am?"
"I am very glad she does not," was Sarah's thought. But she only said,
"Yes, dear, I will hear you say your prayers."
Annie knelt down and repeated her simple prayer, ending, as usual,
with, "God bless papa and mamma, grandmamma and all my friends, and
dear little baby sister;" to which she added, "And bless Sarah because
she came to find me, and please keep us safe, and let somebody come and
find us pretty soon."
"Now lie down and let me cover you up warm," said Sarah, after a little
silence. "I will sit down here close by you."
She laid Annie down as she spoke, and heaped the branches under her
head, so as to make a pillow. Then she laid the child's jacket over her
and put more branches over her feet.
"Thank you," said Annie. "May I say my evening hymn now?"
"Yes, do. Say all the hymns you know. I love to hear them. Are you
warm?"
"Not very," said Annie.
Sarah took off her woollen frock and laid it over the child, and then
sat down by her.
"Now listen, Annie," said she, impressively, laying her hand on the
child's arm. "When you wake up, whether it is night or morning, don't
you stir. You may speak to me, but if I don't answer, don't you move.
Lie still, and somebody will come and find you. Will you remember?"
"Yes," answered Annie; "I will do just as you tell me."
"That is a good girl. Now, say your hymns and try to go to sleep."
Annie began to repeat her hymn, but presently her voice died away and
she was silent.
Sarah hoped she was asleep, but presently she roused up again:
"Sarah!"
"Well, dear, here I am."
"I forgot to say my Bible verse—the verse I learn every morning, you
know."
"Well, say it now."
"'I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only
makest me dwell in safety,'" repeated Annie, reverently. "I don't think
we ought to be afraid, Sarah. I think he will take care of us."
"Annie," said Sarah, "suppose you had been very naughty indeed. Do you
think he would take care of you or care anything about you then?"
"Why, yes," answered Annie, simply, "because he does take care of all
the wicked people all the time. They couldn't live if he didn't."
A great wonder rose in Sarah's mind. Had her heavenly Father really
been taking care of her all this time, as Aunt Sally used to say he
would? She thought of all the risks she had run in her wild rambles, of
her encounter with the bull. Had he really taken care of her? Was it
his hand which had guided her to Annie? "And suppose we have been very
wicked and are sorry and want to be good, what must we do?" she asked.
"We must be very sorry and ask him to forgive us and make us better,
and we must try never to do so again," she answered.
"And will he forgive us and help us if we do so?"
"Yes, it says so in the Bible. I don't remember the words."
"Never mind," said Sarah. "Go to sleep like a good girl, and remember
what I said to you about lying still."
"I will," said Annie. "Please kiss me goodnight."
The two children—for Sarah was not much more—kissed each other
tenderly. Then Annie lay down to sleep, and Sarah sat by her, shivering
with the cold, her bare arms exposed to the wind. At last she crept
close to Annie's side, within the shelter of the rock; and leaning
against the side of the little cave, she fell into an uneasy slumber.
[Illustration: _On the Mountain._ "If you find her, you shall have more
dollars than ever you saw in your life."]