A NOTABLE ARRIVAL IN BERKS.
"Hi-Ho! Hi-ho!" The well-known call of the Rangers summoning them to
immediate assembly at the engine-house rang out, clear and shrill up and
down the quiet village street. It was early morning, the sun was just
rising, and though there was already much activity in kitchen and
barn-yard, the long elm-shaded and grass-bordered thoroughfare was
almost as deserted as at midnight. Still there was one team in sight,
and one boy. The former was that belonging to Squire Bacon; and, driven
by Evert Bangs, it was coming from the direction of the railway station,
where it had been to deliver, for the early morning train, the very last
russet apples that would be shipped from Berks that year. The boy was
little Cal Moody, who was earning twenty-five cents a week towards his
bicycle by driving a neighbor's cow to and from pasture every morning
and evening. He had just completed his task for that morning, and was on
his way home when he noticed the approaching team.
It does not take much to arouse curiosity in a quiet little place like
Berks, and the boy's attention was instantly attracted to the fact that
Squire Bacon's wagon bore a very queer-looking load. As it passed
through occasional level shafts of sunlight that were darting between
the trees it seemed to be full of flashes and bright gleamings. What
could it be? Cal stopped to find out.
The nearer it approached the more he was puzzled, and it was not until
the team was actually passing him, when the good-natured driver sang
out: "Here they are, Cal! Came at last on the night freight, and I
thought I might as well bring 'em along up," that the mystery was
solved.
With a great tingling wave of joyful excitement sweeping over him, Cal
knew that Squire Bacon's wagon held a load of bicycles in crates, and
that they were being taken to the engine-house on the village green. He
tried to give a shout of delight, but at first could only gasp without
uttering a sound. Then, as he recovered his voice, the Ranger rallying
cry of "Hi-ho! Hi-ho!" rang shrilly out on the morning air with a
distinctness that instantly roused the sleepy village into full
activity. The meaning of the cry was well understood by this time, and
believing that it now indicated the breaking out of a fire, every one
within hearing instantly repeated it, at the same time running toward
the place whence it first issued. So within two minutes the exciting cry
was sounding from end to end of the village, and even far beyond its
limits. Sam Ray heard it in the new house up on the hill, and Reddy
Cuddeback heard it in the mill settlement down by the river. Will Rogers
heard it while he was dressing, and rushed out without stopping to
complete his toilet. Thus the echoes of Cal's first summons had hardly
died away before every Ranger in the village was tearing up or down the
long street toward the engine-house, and yelling at the top of his
voice.
The first to arrive got there even ahead of Evert Bangs, and were
already running out the natty little red-and-gold engine as he drove up.
"Hold on!" he shouted. "I ruther guess your engine won't be wanted just
yet. Seems to me you boys get het up terrible easy. No, your 'Hi-ho!'
don't mean fire this time, nor nothing like it. What it means is
_bicycles_, and here they be. I was calculating to have 'em all unloaded
before any of you fellers showed up, as a sort of surprise, you
understand; but seeing as you're on hand, I guess you'd better help."
Better help! Wouldn't they, though? and weren't they just glad of the
chance? So many and so eager were the hands upraised to grasp the
precious crates, that, even while some of the later arrivals were still
asking, "where was the fire?" the last one was lifted out, carried into
the engine-house, and there carefully deposited.
"How many are there?" asked "Cracker" Bob Jones, anxiously, as Evert
Bangs drove off with his empty wagon, and the engine-house doors were
closed to all except Rangers.
"I don't know," replied Will Rogers. "Let's count them."
As all began to count aloud at the same moment, it is not surprising
that several different results were announced. "Fifteen!" shouted Si
Carew. "Eight!" called little Cal Woody.
"Oh, pshaw!" laughed Will Rogers. "You fellows are so excited that I
don't believe any one of you could say his A B C's straight through.
Keep quiet for a moment and let me count them. One, two, three, four,
fi-- There! I believe I've missed one already. One, two, three--"
"Here's a letter for you, Will," shouted Hal Bacon, who had been to the
post-office, and came running breathlessly in at that moment. "What's
all this I hear about bicycles? Oh, my eye! What a lot! How did they get
here?"
"Just wheeled themselves up from New York," laughed Will, at the same
time tearing open his letter, which was postmarked at that city. After a
hasty glance at its contents, he called for silence, and read the
following:
_William Rogers, Esq., Captain Berks Ready Rangers_:
DEAR SIR,--Your favor of 10th inst. with check for three hundred
and fifty dollars enclosed, is at hand, and contents noted. As per
request I forward by freight, charges prepaid, three hundred and
fifty dollars' worth of bicycles, or ten (10) in all.
I am greatly pleased at the energy and perseverance shown by the
Rangers in earning this sum of money, which I may as well admit is
larger than I believed they would raise, and I congratulate them
most heartily upon their success.
Tom does not expect to spend this summer in Berks, but is making
arrangements for a most delightful outing elsewhere. In it he
hopes his fellow Rangers will be able to join him. It is nothing
more nor less than a-- But I must not anticipate, nor rob him of
the pleasure of telling you his plans himself.
With best wishes for the continued prosperity and happiness of the
Ready Rangers, I remain,
Sincerely their friend,
L. A. BURGESS.
"Ten bicycles for three hundred and fifty dollars!" cried "Cracker" Bob
Jones. "And all of 'em first-class, A No. 1 machines. That beats
anything I ever heard of. If Mr. Burgess has got any more to sell at the
same price I'd like to take them off his hands, that's all."
"But he hasn't," declared Will Rogers. "Don't you remember that ten was
the exact number he happened to have?"
"And it's the exact number that happens to make just one apiece for us,"
commented Abe Cruger. "Seems to me that's about as big a piece of luck
as I ever ran across."
"If it is luck," added Hal Bacon, shrewdly.
"Let's open 'em right away," cried Cal Moody, jumping up and down in his
excitement. "It doesn't seem as if I could wait another minute."
"Yes. Let's open 'em!" shouted half a dozen voices.
"Hold on," commanded Will Rogers. "We haven't time to open all the
crates and put the machines together now. Besides, Pop Miller isn't
here, nor lots of people who have helped us get these bicycles, and who
would be awfully interested in seeing them opened. So I propose that we
leave them just as they are until after school, and then hold what you
might call an opening reception."
Although the Rangers agreed to this proposition, it was with reluctance;
and that their thoughts remained with those precious crates all day was
shown in more ways than one. In school, for instance, when little Cal
Moody was asked to spell and define the word biennial, he promptly
replied, with "Bi--_bi_, cy--_cy_, cle--_cle_--bicycle--a machine having
two wheels;" and when "Cracker" Bob Jones was requested to favor the
arithmetic class with an example in percentage he complied by stating,
"that if ten bicycles, listed at $125 each, could be bought for $350,
and sold at their listed price, the percentage of profit would be--"
Just here he was interrupted by a shout of laughter, in which even the
teacher, who thoroughly understood and sympathized with the situation,
was forced to join.
When the hour for the opening of the crates at length arrived, half the
village was there to see, and when the ten glittering bicycles, each of
which bore a small silver plate inscribed with the name of its new
owner, were finally put together and displayed to the admiring public of
Berks, there were no happier nor prouder boys in the United States than
the young Rangers who had earned them.
From that time on, they rode their bicycles during every leisure moment,
and on the 30th of May they celebrated their birthday by giving an
exhibition parade as bicycle fire scouts, that was pronounced the very
finest thing of its kind ever seen in that section of country. In this
parade each machine carried a fire bucket, and while some also bore
axes, others were equipped with the rope-ladder that Will Rogers and
Sam Ray had used so effectively, a fire-net, blankets, spades, and other
articles to be used in an emergency.
The Chester Wheel Club came over to join in the parade, and with them
came the bicycle-supply man, who was so impressed with the fact that
Berks was becoming a bicycling centre that he at once established a
branch of his business there, and appointed Pop Miller his agent.
Best of all was a visit from Tom Burgess, who came on from New York, not
only to take part in the parade, but to unfold the gorgeous plan he had
evolved for the summer vacation, and in which he wished his fellow
Rangers to join. He first confided it privately to Will Rogers, and when
he concluded, the latter exclaimed:
"Tom Burgess, it seems almost too good to be true, but with the
experience we've already gained in _Blue Billows_ I believe we can carry
it through. If we only can, it will be the biggest thing the Rangers
have undertaken yet."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
GREAT MEN'S SONS.
BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.
THE SON OF SHAKESPEARE.
Many years ago had you been, let us say, a tinker travelling with your
wares or a knight riding by, you might have passed, upon a small arched
bridge that spanned a little river in the heart of "Merrie England," a
small boy, hanging over the railing, now watching the rippling water, or
with eager eyes looking along the roadway that ran between green meadows
toward that distant London, from which, perhaps, you were tramping or
riding.
[Illustration: "HAVE YOU SEEN MY FATHER AS YOU CAME ALONG?"]
I think, as you passed, you would have looked twice at that small boy on
the bridge, whether you were low-down tinker or high-born knight. For he
was a bright, sweet-faced little ten-year-old in his quaint
sixteenth-century costume, and the look of expectancy in his eyes might,
as it fell upon your face, have shaped itself into the spoken question,
"Have you seen my father as you came along?"
Whereupon, had you been the lordly knight you might have said, "And who
might your father be, little one?" Or had you been the low-down tramping
tinker you would probably have grunted out: "Hoi, zurs! An' who be'est
yure feythur, lad?"
To either of which questions that small boy on the bridge would have
answered in some surprise--for he supposed that, surely, all men knew
his father--"Why, Master William Shakespeare, the player in London."
For that little river is the Avon; that small bridge of arches is
Clopton's mill-bridge, that small boy is Hamnet, the only son of Master
William Shakespeare, of Henley Street, in Stratford-on-Avon. And in the
year 1595 the name of William Shakespeare was already known in London as
one of the Lord Chamberlain's company of actors, and a writer of
masterly poems and plays.
Perhaps if you were the tinker, you might be tired enough with your
tramping to throw off your pack, and, sitting upon it, to talk with the
little lad; or, if you were the knight, it might please your worship to
breathe your horse upon the bridge and hold a moment's converse with the
child.
Were you tinker or knight the time would not be misspent, for you would
find young Hamnet Shakespeare most entertaining.
He would tell you of his twin sister Judith--something of a "tomboy," I
fear, but a pretty and lovable little girl, nevertheless. And as Hamnet
told you about Judith, you would remember--no, you would not, though,
for neither tinker nor knight nor any other Englishman of 1595 knew what
we do to-day of Shakespeare's plays; but if you should happen to have a
dream of the little fellow now, you might remember that Shakespeare's
twins must have been often in the great writer's mind; for they stole
into his work repeatedly in such shapes as that charming brother and
sister of his _Twelfth Night_--Sebastian and Viola--
"An apple cleft in two is not more twin
Than these two creatures,"
or the twin brothers Antipholus of Ephesus and Syracuse, and those very,
very funny twin brothers of the _Comedy of Errors_, forever famous as
the Two Dromios.
And if young Hamnet told you of his sister he would tell you, doubtless,
of his grandfather who was once the bailiff or head man of Stratford
town, and who lived with them in the little house in Henley Street; and
especially would he tell you of his own dear father, Master William
Shakespeare, who wrote poems and plays, and had even acted, at the last
Christmas-time, before her Majesty the Queen in her palace at Greenwich.
For you may be sure boy Hamnet was very proud of this--thinking more of
it, no doubt, than of all the poems and plays his father had written.
Then, perhaps, you could lead the boy to tell you about himself. He
might tell you how he liked his school--if he did like it; for perhaps,
like his father's schoolboy, he did sometimes go
"with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school."
He would, however, be more interested to tell you that he went to school
in the chapel of the Holy Cross, because the old school-house next door,
to which his father had gone as a boy, was being repaired that year, and
he liked going to school in the chapel because it gave him more
holidays.
Ah, he would tell you, he did enjoy those holidays. For the little house
in Henley Street was a bit crowded, and he liked to be out of doors,
being, I suspect, rather a boy of the woods and the fields than of the
Horn-Book, the Queen's Grammar, and Cato's Maxims. He and Judith had
jolly times abroad, for Judith was a good comrade, and really had it
easier than he did--so he would tell you--for Judith never went to
school. In fact, to her dying day, Judith Shakespeare--think of that,
you Shakespeare scholars!--a daughter of the greatest man in English
literature could neither read nor write!
So the Shakespeare twins would roam the fields, and knew, blindfold, all
that bright country-side about beautiful Stratford. Their father was a
great lover of nature. You know that from reading his plays, and his
twins took after him in this. Young Hamnet Shakespeare loved to hang
over Clopton Bridge, as we found him to-day, watching the rippling Avon
as it wound through the Stratford meadows and past the little town. He
knew all the turns and twists of that storied river with which his great
father's name is now so closely linked. He knew where to find and how to
catch the perch and pike that swam beneath its surface. He and Judith
had punted on it above and below Clopton Bridge, and on many a warm
summer day he had stripped for a swim in its cooling water.
He knew Stratford from the Guild Pits to the Worcester road, and from
the Salmon Tail to the Cross-on-the-Hill. He could tell you how big a
jump it was across the streamlet in front of the Rother Market, and how
much higher the roof of the Bell was than of the Wool-Shop, next
door--for he had climbed them both.
He knew where, in Stratford meadows, the violets grew thickest and
bluest in the spring, where the tall cowslips fairly "smothered" the
fields, as the boys and girls of Stratford affirmed, and where, in the
wood by the weir-brakes just below the town the fairies sometimes came
from the Long Compton quarries to dance and sing on a midsummer night.
He had time and time again wandered along the Avon from Luddington to
Charlecote. He had been many a time to his mother's home cottage at
Shottery, and to his grandfather's orchards at Snitterfield for
leather-coats and wardens. He knew how to snare rabbits and "conies" in
Ilmington woods, and he had learned how to tell, by their horns, the age
of the deer in Charlecote Park--descendants, perhaps, of that very deer
because of which his father once got into trouble with testy old Sir
Thomas Lucy, the lord of Charlecote Manor.
The birds were his pets and playfellows. And what quantities there were
all about Stratford town! Hamnet knew their ways and their traditions.
He could tell you why the lark was hanged for treason; how the swan
celebrated its own death; how the wren came to be king of the birds; and
how the cuckoo swallowed its stepfather. He could tell you where the
nightingale and the lark sang their sweetest "tirra-lirra" in the
weir-brake below Stratford Church, and just how many thievish jackdaws
made their nests in Stratford spire. He could show you the very fallow
in which he had caught a baby lapwing scudding away with its shell on
its head, and in just what field the crow-boys had rigged up the best
kind of a "mammet" or scarecrow to frighten the hungry birds.
So, you see, little Hamnet Shakespeare could keep you interested with
his talk until it was time--if you were the tramping tinker--to toss
once more your heavy pack on your shoulders, or, if you were lordly
knight, to cry "get on" to your now rested horse. And by this time you
would have discovered that here was a boy who, with eyes to see and ears
to hear all the sights and sounds of that beautiful country about
Stratford and along the Avon's banks, had learned to find, as his
father, later on, described it:
"tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything."
A clatter of hoofs rings upon the London highway. The boy springs to his
feet; he scarcely waits to give you his hasty good-day, but with a hop,
skip, and jump, flies across the bridge and along the road. And, as he
is lifted to the saddle by the well-built, handsome man with scarlet
doublet, loose riding-cloak, white ruff, auburn hair and beard, who sits
his horse so well, you know that father and son are riding home
together, and that there will be joy in the little house in Henley
Street. For Master William Shakespeare, the London player, has come from
town to spend a day at home in the Stratford village he loved so dearly.
Perhaps, two or three years later, you may be led again to tramp or ride
through Stratford town. As you loiter awhile at the Bear Tavern, near
the Clopton Bridge, you recognize the arches and the pleasant river that
flows beneath them, and then you remember the little boy with whom you
talked on the bridge.
To your inquiries the landlord of the Bear says, with a sigh and a shake
of the head,
"A gentle lad, sir, and a sad loss to his father."
"What--dead?" you ask.
"Yes, two years ago," the landlord replies. "Little Hamnet was never
very strong, to be sure, but he sickened and died almost before we knew
aught was wrong with him. A sad loss to his father. Master Shakespeare
dearly loved the lad, and while he was gathering fame and wealth he
thought most, I doubt not, of that boy to whom he was to pass them on."
"So Master William Shakespeare has grown rich as well as famous, has
he?" you say, for all England knows by that time of his wonderful plays.
"Indeed yes," the landlord answers you. "See, across the trees, that big
house yonder? It is New Place, bought in the spring of this very year of
1597, by Master Shakespeare, and put into fine repair. And there all his
family live now--his old father, Master John, his wife, Mistress Ann,
and all the children. But little Hamnet is not there, and I doubt not
Master Shakespeare would gladly give all New Place and his theatre in
London too, for that son of his back again, alive and well, and as happy
of face as he used to be in the old house in Henley Street."
The landlord of the Bear is right. Hamnet Shakespeare ended his short
life on the 11th of August, 1596, being then but eleven years old.
We know but little of his famous father's life; we know even less of the
son he so dearly loved. Nor can any one say, had the boy but lived,
whether he would have inherited anything of his father's genius.
The play of _Hamlet_ may have been called in memory of the boy Hamnet,
so nearly are the names alike; even more is it possible that the lovely
boy, Prince Arthur, whose tragic story is a part of Shakespeare's play
of _King John_, may have been drawn in memory of the writer's dead boy.
For _King John_ was written in the year of young Hamnet Shakespeare's
death, and with the loss of the boy he so dearly loved weighing upon his
soul, the great writer, whose name and fame the years only make yet more
great, may thus have put into words a tender memory of the short-lived
little Hamnet, the gentle son of Shakespeare.
THE DEMON OF SNAGGLE-TOOTH ROCK.
BY AGNES CARR SAGE.
[Illustration: Decorative T]
here were weeping and wailing within the Saunders' modest
"one-story-and-a-jump" cottage. Monongahela's eyes were red from crying;
the twins, Dallas Lee and Jemima Calline, had for once lost their
appetite, even for corn-pone and molasses; and Washington Beauregard,
the eldest of the brood of youngsters, frowned gloomily, and ground his
teeth in deep if silent rage as he polished up his antiquated old rifle
and thought upon vengeance. Only the baby crowed and gurgled as lustily
as ever, shaking his gourd rattle in blissful infantile ignorance of the
loss that had befallen the family--a loss most keenly felt by the
children, for it was that of the bonny ewe-lamb, their pet and plaything
by day, and almost their bedfellow by night; while the manner of its
disappearance was shrouded in profound mystery.
"Mebbe 'twas Butcher Killem who tuck him," suddenly suggested the
lugubrious boy twin. "Tuck him to make roasts 'n' chops of; 'n' if it
was, we may be eatin' Cotton Ball for dinner some of these fine days."
A dire prediction, which immediately sent Jemima Calline off into a wild
paroxysm of grief, flinging herself flat upon the floor, and drumming a
funereal tattoo with her best Sunday shoes on the gay rag carpet of
domestic manufacture. "I'll never taste mutton again; never, never, the
longest day I live," she howled.
"Now, Dallas Lee, see what you've done!" scolded Monongahela, usually
called Monny for short. "You've set her off agin, and we'll have her in
'sterics direckly. Thar ain't no need of any sech fool talk either, and
slanderin' your neighbor into the bargain. Mr. Killem is an honest man,
who buys 'n' pays for all the critters he cuts up. Besides, I caught the
lamb myself, and shet her up in the wood-shed before ever we started for
the bush-meetin'. I locked the door 'n' took the key in my pocket. The
door was still locked when we came back."
"Ya--as; but ye couldn't lock the hole in the roof," drawled Wash,
looking up from his polishing. "The hole pap 'n' I hev been calculatin'
to mend for some time back, but 'ain't got at yit, more's the pity.
Thar's where the thief come in. For thar on the shingles is where the
locks of wool are a-hangin'."
"But I can't see how anybody could clamber up thar, drop through a hole,
and git back agin with a big kickin' beast in his arms; for if he'd
killed it on the spot ther'd be blood spattered 'round."
"Mebbe nobody could, but mebbe some_thing_ might."
"Some thing! What sort of a thing? A fox or any other animal?"
"P'r'aps so," but Wash would say no more. He was famous for holding his
own counsel, and did so now, until the yellow moon had risen from behind
the glorious mountain peaks surrounding their little primitive West
Virginia home, and he and his favorite sister wandered out together into
the soft, pine-scented night. Then, however, their thoughts naturally
reverted to the mysterious disappearance, and the girl asked somewhat
curiously, "So, Washington Beauregard, you won't allow that the 'ornery'
thief what stole our pet come on two legs?"
"No, Monny, nor on four legs nuther," answered her brother. "Though I
didn't want to say much afore the chillen. But I've been a-studyin' over
this matter, and I begin to fear that he comes on wings."
"On wings! Law, then, he must be a bird! But I never saw a hawk or even
an eagle big and strong enough to tote off a half-grown sheep like
Cotton Ball. Strikes me it's dumb foolishness you're talkin', Wash."
"Waal, I dunno about that. Hevn't you heard the old hunters, on winter
nights, tell of a curisome-winged thing that once made its nest over
yonder on Snaggle Tooth?" and the youth pointed to a high, dark, jagged
crag silhouetted against the purplish-blue sky. "It did a power of
mischief in this neighborhood, totin' off chickens 'n' dogs 'n' sheep,
and some say even tacklin' a calf. 'Twas a cute old fowl, so nobody
could git a crack at it; but was up to so much devilment, that they
called it the Demon of Snaggle-Tooth Rock."
"Oh, yaas, I've heard o' that often; but it was years ago, before you or
I were born, an' the critter hasn't been raound here since."
"That's so; but what has been kin be; and the other day Tim Harkins tole
me a yarn about jest sech a bird havin' been seen lately over Stonycliff
way. A monstrous chap, something like a golden eagle, only bigger an'
wickeder-lookin', with a more crooked beak, an' feathers of a dirty
brownish-gray. At the time I thought Tim was jest a-humbuggin', but
after the little beast disappeared so unaccountable like, I begun to
reckon it must be true, sure enough."
"Oh, Wash, I can't bear to think of it!" and Monny's face looked quite
pale in the moonlight. "Poor, dear little Cotton Ball! Fancy that demon
and his mate tearing her limb from limb. It 'most breaks my heart." And
long after the girl had climbed the ladder leading to the low attic
under the clapboard roof, which she had shared with the younger children
ever since their mother's death one year before, she lingered at the
tiny two-paned window gazing off at the peaceful-seeming hills, but in
imagination following the lost lambkin to the eagle's grim eyrie on
wild, inaccessible Snaggle-Tooth Rock.
"It is dreadful, dreadful; but I won't tell Jemima Calline," was her
last thought as she crept into bed beside her sister.
For Monongahela was old beyond her fourteen years, and bravely strove to
fill the place of their lost parent to the motherless little ones,
sending them trim and tidy to school and "Methody meetin'," feeding them
on plenty of bacon, corn-dodgers, and apple-butter, and every morning,
in spite of grimaces, dosing them all round with "whiskey and burdock"
as an antidote against dyspepsia, the curse of that hog-eating,
excessive coffee-drinking community.
Within a few days Washington's fears were painfully confirmed. Our young
mountain folk were out one afternoon on the hill-side gathering ginseng
and other herbs, when they met the circuit-rider who visited in turn the
churches of their vicinity, and whom Mr. Saunders had frequently
entertained. He paused for a chat, and informed them of the
consternation created in a neighboring valley by the appearance of the
terrible bird to prey upon any poultry or small animals left out over
night; while one man had been severely wounded in an almost hand-to-claw
tussle in order to save his dog.
The following morning, then, when Monny, with the baby toddling by her
side, went out early to milk the cow, she heard a continuous firing, and
came upon her brother armed with the old flint-lock rifle which he had
inherited from his grandfather, popping away at the brown and purple
cones on the top of a tall pine-tree, and deftly snapping off the one at
which he aimed nine times out of ten.
"Well, Washington Beauregard, I'll allow you are a pretty fair
marksman," she remarked, after a moment of admiring watching. "Not many
private hunters kin wing a bird as well as you, kin they?"
"Reckon I could hold my own agin most of they-uns if I only had a
new-fangled gun," returned the boy. "This old fowlin'-piece ain't wurth
much, and I do hope I kin sell enough 'sang'[1] this year to buy
another. 'Tain't much fun to git a fine aim at a buck and lose him
'cause your gun misses fire. As it is, though, I believe I could snip a
curl off the baby's head an' hardly scare the darlin'. Jest hold him up,
honey, an' let me hev a try." But to this William Tell arrangement Monny
objected in horror, and scurried off with the infant, followed by Wash's
roar of laughter and shout of "Ho, scare rabbit! But anyhow I mean to
keep in practice,'n' hev a cold-lead welcome ready for that air eagle if
he ever shows hisself this way agin."
The bird did not come; but about noon Tim Harkins did, ambling along on
a rawboned sorrel nag, and reined up at the gate with a long-drawn-out
"Whoa, thar'!"
"Wash Saunders! Oh, Wash!" he called, and that youth, rising from the
dinner-table, appeared in the ramshackle porch.
"Hello, Tim, is that you? Step in an' hev a bite, won't yer?"
"No, thankee. I'm jest on my way to a gander-pull over nigh the Springs,
'n' on'y stopped to fotch you a message. Ye wouldn't keer, naow, to hire
out for a few weeks, at a dollar a day, would yer?"
"What to do?"
"Oh, jest to show a gentleman through the mountings, an' pint out the
hants o' the wild birds. 'Pears this Perfessor, as they call him, is
stoppin' over to the Spring Hotel, an' the landlord, Poke Dickson, axed
me ef I knowed any o' the neighborhood boys who would like the job.
Somenn what wuz a first-rate shot, an' 'quainted with all the trails.
Yaas, I tole him Wash Saunders am the very chap, ef you kin git him.
But, I added, the Saunders air pooty ticky, an' Wash, mebbe, won't
relish playin' pinter-dorg to any one. For, sez I, his pappy am a
forehanded man, who keeps his fambly comf'ble. He hez a good corn 'n'
tobaccy field, 'n' the gyurls hez a kyarpet on the best room, 'n'
curtings to the windys, 'n' everything mighty slick. Still, sez I,
'twon't do no harm to ax, so here I be."
"Sho, Tim, you know I ain't so ticky as that. Dunno but I'd like it
first rate, for I'm strivin' to get a new rifle. Granddaddy's old 'Sally
Blazer,' as he used to name it, is about played out."
"Waal, naow, then, here's your chance, 'n' I'm real tickled. But I must
be ajoggin'. G'lang, Juniper! Shall I tell Poke you will go over 'n' see
the Perfessor?"
"Yes, I will, this very evenin'"; which the boy did, and returned
jubilant. "It's a snap, a reg'lar snap," he declared to the group of
brothers and sisters who ran to meet him. "Professor Stuart is real
quality, an' no mistake. He's an orni--orni--waal, I don't rightly
remember the name, but he's plumb crazy about birds, 'n' comed here a
purpose to see those what live in West Virginia. It's a curous notion,
but he's nice, 'n' so is Mis' Stuart, though she lies on a sofy most of
the time, and looks drefful white 'n' pindlin'."
"Air there any chilluns?" inquired Jemima Calline.
"Yaas, two. An awful pooty gyurl, with eyes like brown stars, an' all
rigged out in white, same as an angel, with big, puffy sleeves; an' the
jolliest small boy you ever see. He's a downright little man, though
he's only five year old, an' he's curls down to his waist."
"Waal, then, sence they were so friendly, I s'pose you came to some
bargain?" said Monongahela.
"Sartain; an' I'm to meet Mr. Stuart to-morrer mornin' at the
cross-roads an' show-him a red-bird's nest. He wants to collect eggs an'
live specimens."
When, then, the Professor rode up to the appointed rendezvous on the
following day, he found Wash awaiting him, "Sally Blazer" in hand, and a
powder-horn and shot-pouch slung from his neck by a leather strap. His
feet, too, were encased in moccasins that his footfall might not startle
the shy creatures of the wildwood.
"Ah, my lad, I see you understand the business," remarked the
ornithologist, with an approving nod, "and I predict we shall be fine
friends."
Thus, too, it proved and for both. That was the beginning of a month of
happy, halcyon days spent in the open; a perpetual picnic, scaling the
rough but ever-enchanting hills, wandering through the beautiful solemn
pine forests, following Nature's most winsome things to their chosen
haunts, and always breathing in the resinous health-giving mountain air.
Sometimes, when the tramp was not to be too long a one, small Royal
accompanied his father, gay and joyous as a dancing grig, and looking
like a little Highland princeling in his outing costume of Scotch plaid,
proudly flourishing a tiny wooden gun.
"We are good chums, ain't we, Wash?" he would say, in his precocious
friendly little way--"good chums, going hunting together. But we mustn't
kill things just for fun. That is naughty. Papa says food or science is
the only excuse. He never takes but one egg from a nest, and would
rather snare birds than shoot them."
Occasionally, too, pretty Jean would join the party at a given point,
driving over with a dainty lunch from the hotel, and then there would be
a merry out-door meal in some cozy green nook, near to one of the cold
clear mountain springs which furnished the purest and most refreshing
beverage.
And what a revelation this experience was to poor little Washington
Beauregard! Not only the bits of knowledge he picked up from the
ornithologist's learned discourses on the gorgeous Virginia-cardinals
and orioles, the red-capped woodpeckers and flitting humming-birds, but
in a different style of girlhood and more refined mode of life than he
had ever known. Day by day, too, he became fonder of and more devoted to
his new friends, and looked forward with dread to the time when they
must part. All too speedily, then, that date drew on apace, until the
morning set for their last pleasant tramp dawned. The Professor and
Washington started early, while at noon Jean and Royal met them on the
hills above Stonycliff, climbing the last rough incline, that being too
steep for the horses and carriage, which were left with the driver at a
small clearing part way down the mountain.
"And just think, papa," cried Jean, "we found the squatter's wife at the
log house below in sore trouble. Yesterday that horrible eagle, of which
we have heard so much, swooped down and carried off her milch-goat
almost before her very eyes, and now what she is going to do for milk
for her baby she does not know."
"Well, that is a misfortune truly," said the Professor, "and we must see
what we can do to help her, but I wish I had been here to have a peep at
that abnormal bird. I imagine the stories regarding it are much
exaggerated, but if not, it cannot be an eagle, must belong to the
semi-vulturine family, though those are rarer than white black-birds in
this part of the world. I really am curious to get a glimpse of the
creature." And as it chanced, he was destined to have his curiosity
satisfied in a way he little dreamed of.
The collation eaten that day under the trees was an unusually bountiful
one, reflecting credit on mine host of the Spring House, and after it
the ornithologist stretched himself out to enjoy an afternoon cigar,
while Jean, followed by her small brother, wandered off to sketch a
charming view that had taken her fancy. Meanwhile Wash cleared away the
remains of the feast, packing the dishes in the hamper, and carefully
saving any fragments of good things for the little ones at home.
He had just completed his task, when a frightened cry of "Sister, oh,
sister!" and a blood-curdling shriek from the girl made him snatch up
his fowling-piece and fly in the direction the young Stuarts had taken.
The Professor also sprang to his feet and followed suit, while, as they
emerged from the shadow of the wood, both were almost paralyzed by the
sight they beheld. For there stood Jean, white to the very lips, but
bravely endeavoring with her climbing-staff to beat off an enormous
bird, in whose great cruel talons struggled little Royal, upon whom had
been made a sudden and fierce attack.
"My goodness! it's the demon!" gasped Wash, while the father, overcome
by a sickening horror, fell back against a tree. Even too, as they
approached, the huge, repulsive creature spread its big dusky wings and
began slowly to rise, bearing off in its claws the poor child, who
stretched out his tiny hand, sobbing piteously, "Oh, papa, save me!"
There was one terrible nightmarish second, when nobody had power to
move, and then the Professor, with a wild lunge forward, caught at his
vanishing boy. But the gay kilt slipped through his fingers, and still
the bird of prey soared relentlessly upward and onward.
But at that moment Granddaddy Saunders's old rifle was raised and
levelled at the monster.
"Oh, Wash, pray be careful: you may hit the wee laddie," cried Jean,
sinking down and covering her face.
[Illustration: "MAY OLD 'SALLY BLAZERS' NOT MISS FIRE THIS TIME!"]
No one knew the danger better than the mountain-bred youth, but he held
himself well in hand and kept cool. "I must only maim, not kill, the
critter outright," he thought, "and may old 'Sally Blazers' not miss
fire this time!"
Then he took careful aim, a bullet whistled through the air, and the
"demon's" left wing dropped powerless at his side. They could see the
wrathful red gleam in the creature's eyes as it paused, wavered, and
careened to one side, but the right pinion still flapped vigorously, and
kept it up, while it still retained its clutch on the little fellow, who
no longer screamed, but now appeared ominously quiet and white.
"Ef he gits over the precipice all is lost," murmured the young
sportsman, with a glance toward the edge of the cliff upon which they
stood, and he wasted no time in reloading and firing again. And oh, joy!
again he winged his victim, which, uttering an unearthly, discordant
cry, began to flutter slowly downward. But now a fresh danger threatened
Royal, for the bird, maddened by pain, suddenly released its hold, and
the fair little head must surely have been crushed on the jagged rocks
beneath, had not Wash been prepared for this, and, springing forward,
caught him in his strong young arms, although the precipitancy with
which the child came almost flung both to the ground. There was just an
instant, too, in which to stagger to one side, before, with a whirl and
a whir, the mighty fowl was upon them, striking the stony ledge with a
dull, sickening thud. Wounded, but by no means dead, was the
Snaggle-Tooth demon, and he fought desperately with beak and claws, and
beat himself against the granite, until a third shot from old "Sally
Blazers" finally ended his career forever.
Meanwhile poor little Royal lay stretched on a bed of moss, pale and
unconscious, his garments torn to tatters, and blood streaming from his
chubby legs and arms.
"He is dead; my bonny wee laddie is dead, and how ever shall I tell his
mother?" sobbed the Professor, completely unnerved; but Jeanie never
stopped chafing the dimpled hands, and bathing the white forehead with
cold water; until, after what seemed an eternity, a low sigh issued from
between the child's pale lips.
"No, papa dear, he is breathing, and it is Wash, good brave Wash, who
has saved him"; and when the young girl turned and thanked him, and her
eyes filled with grateful tears, the uncouth backwoods boy, though he
could only stammer and blush, felt it to be the proudest moment in all
his fifteen years of life.
Soon Royal regained consciousness, but seemed so dazed and frightened,
clinging to his sister and imploring her to "hide him from the awful,
scratching claws," both father and daughter looked worried. "For it will
kill mamma to see him in this condition," groaned Jean.
"Oh, then," put in Wash, eagerly, "jest tote him down to our house.
Monny would admire to hev yer, 'n' she's a fust-rate nuss."
"Do you think so? Would your sister really not object?"
"'Deed no; she will be plumb right glad."
So it was decided, and so the young Stuarts made the acquaintance of
Monongahela, Jemima Calline, Dallas Lee, and the baby, and slept in the
room with the "rag kyarpet and the curtings," which was hastily prepared
for the unexpected guests, while by the fitful light of six pine knots
the killing of the Snaggle-Rock demon was rehearsed again and again.
Monny lost her heart to gentle, ladylike Jean, and concocted such a bowl
of "yarb tea" for Royal that he slept soundly all night, and awoke his
own bright, bonny, little self.
"It has been a strange conclusion to a most satisfactory summer," said
Mr. Stuart, when he appeared at the cottage the next day. "And but for
you, Washington, would have been a very tragic one."
But when he attempted to reward the boy with money, he stiffened in a
moment. "No, thankee, sir," he said. "I can't take it. Why, I love that
leetle R'yal most as much as I do Dallas Lee, 'n' I won't be paid for
rescuin' him. Besides, I had a grudge agin that air eagle, on my own
account, all along of Cotton Ball."
"That vulture, you mean; for I was not mistaken. It belongs to the
vulture family, though sometimes erroneously called the 'golden eagle.'
Well, I am not sure but you will get a nice little sum for that
specimen, as it is a rare and unusually large one. Suppose I take it to
the city, and see what I can do for you?"
To this Wash agreed, and the huge bird of prey, which was found to
measure fourteen feet from tip to tip of its broad wings, after lying in
state, and being visited by half the county, was shipped to New York,
while the amount returned by the Professor for the great carcass seemed
a veritable fortune to the Saunders, whom the neighbors say are more
"ticky" than ever.
Certainly St. George never won more local fame by his dragon slaying
than did Washington Beauregard by his lucky feat, and he is proud of the
handsome silver-mounted Winchester rifle, the gift of "his grateful
friend Royal Stuart," that hangs side by side with the ancient gun which
shot the voracious bird of prey now adorning a city museum, labelled
"_The Lammergeir, or Bearded Vulture_," but which in the West Virginia
mountains will go down to history as the Demon of Snaggle-Tooth Rock.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Ginseng.
OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.