A NIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE.—DANGER.
THERE was no moon, but the blue vault above was brilliantly studded
with stars. The little Hunchback lay on the mattress beside the wagon,
his great thoughtful eyes turned skyward. At his back rested Ferdinand
in deep sleep, while the regular breathing of his mother, aunt, and
Georgie, who occupied the mattress in the wagon, assured him that he
alone was awake.
His bodily littleness had been to him, through all his days, one of
his greatest trials. Dwarf! How he hated the word! To be small was to
be despised. He never hinted, even to his mother, the intensity of
grief and chagrin arising from his incomplete stature. Those physically
active and vigorous, and of large frame, he regarded as so many
reflections on his own feebleness and insignificance.
And now, as his clear gaze, wonder-struck, searched the overarching
depths, he felt of less importance than ever, and seemed to shrink to
an atom. Those orbs, world on world, systems of worlds, universes of
universes, what was he compared with them?
Never had he witnessed such a spectacle; never swept with his aspiring
gaze such star-gemmed spaces, undimmed, unobstructed, rolling, in
infinite majesty, from horizon to horizon, the air-medium pure as
crystal, not a veiling vapor, nor a disturbing zephyr's whisper. How
very, very small he felt!
Yet, somehow, this shrinking into nothingness did not wound his
self-respect. He was not measuring himself with his fellow-man, but
with the mighty heavens. And suddenly there came sweeping down to him
the words of the ancient singer,—
"'When I consider the heavens, the work of Thy hands, the sun and the
moon which Thou hast ordained, what is man, that Thou art mindful of
him, and the son of man, that thou visitest him?'"
The dwarf started up. Did a voice repeat that song? No, it was memory,
he said to himself.
As he pondered the words, they filled him—with profound
self-abasement—with deep, unruffled, unresentful humility.
"How great is God, the omnipotent, all-wise Creator and Upholder!"
he said to himself. "Why should He deign to notice me—a mote in His
limitless empire?"
Just then there came floating to his ear the remainder of the royal
hymn.
"'Thou madest him a little lower than the angels. Thou crownedst him
with glory and honor, and didst set him over the works of Thy hands.'"
He raised himself again in increased surprise. Surely it was no
illusion this time. Some tongue recited that passage. But solitude
reigned from the bare prairie to the stars.
"How my brain tricks me to-night!" he said. "What a strange spell is on
me!"
Then his mind was led to meditate upon the singularly-suggested
language.
"'Thou crownedst him.' Then the mighty Maker of the universe has
exalted man," he soliloquized. "Has 'crowned' him—constituted him king,
sovereign of creation."
"And 'you,' dwarf," added the mysterious voice, "are therefore a king!"
"Who is speaking these comforting words to me," asked the dwarf, gazing
around. "How weak I am! It is my own mind."
Yes, queer contradiction, they seemed foreign to himself, yet a part of
himself.
"My head is hot," he ejaculated. "I'll go to sleep." And he closed his
eyes.
"Set him over the works of Thy hands," whispered the voice. "The
elephant is a towering mass of bone and muscle, yet man, king of
nature, captures and governs the huge beast. Oxen are sturdy, but man
yokes them. The horse is swift and strong, yet man puts bits in his
mouth. The fish of the sea, the birds of the air, nay, earth and ocean,
man subdues to his own use."
"Yes," assented the still wakeful dwarf, "man is king of all things."
"And how does he rule?" asked the viewless teacher. "By physical might?"
"Ah, I see," replied the dwarf, "it is through the mind—the soul."
"And you are weak in body, deformed, and small in size; but are you
not, nevertheless, a king? Assert your sovereignty, then; rule by the
intellect with which God has crowned you."
"That's it," said the dwarf, sitting up in bed, and resting his chin
in his small, white hand. "It isn't the body that's monarch, but the
brain. A dwarf may rule as well as a giant."
Did an angel or spirit comfort the deformed child? Or were his rapt
faculties elaborating ideas for his instruction? We do not pretend to
decide. Can you?
The angels brought "tidings of great joy" to the shepherds watching
their flocks by night on the plains of Bethlehem. Perhaps one of the
ministering host may have whispered to little Hunchback as he watched
beneath the immigrant wagon on the star-lit prairie.
One said anciently, "I am little and despised, yet the Lord thinketh
upon me."
A sound startled him from the light slumber into which he had sunken. A
moment more, with a wild cry an Indian shot by on a pony.
"What's wanted?" drowsily muttered Ferdinand, trying to rouse himself.
"Ferdie," asked the mother, drawing aside the blanket that curtained
the wagon-front, "what was that noise? It sounded like a yell. You are
not in a nightmare—are you?"
"It's all right, mother," said little Hunchback. "I'll take care of
Ferdinand; go to sleep."
And the vigilant little dwarf listened long and anxiously, fearing he
knew not what. Then he stole cautiously out to where the savage passed.
There he found a narrow, hard-trodden path. Creeping on hands and
knees, he carefully examined it.
"It is an old Indian trail," said he. "Only one pony been over
it recently. There is no danger. Probably the savage was as much
astonished at seeing our team as I was at seeing him."
And his old-young face expressing entire confidence in this conclusion,
he returned to the mattress, and dropped asleep.
But a confused noise in the direction of the horses led him to rise
again after softly tucking the blanket against Ferdie's back, and go
and see what was the matter. He found that one of them, having been
tied to a small oak, had walked round and round the sapling, till he
had wound himself so closely as to endanger his neck in his frantic
efforts to break away.
The dwarf, with considerable difficulty, disengaged the fractious
animal, and leading it to the wagon, fastened the beast to a hind
wheel. Then, after shortening the rope with which the other horse was
tied,—for it was so long that the beast had its fore leg entangled in
it,—he sat under an oak thinking.
"Next time we camp out," he muttered, "I shall see that the horses are
properly hitched, and that we are not near an Indian trail."
A long while he remained meditating.
"All is quiet. I guess I'll get another nap," said he at length.
He crept quietly under the clothes, so as not to disturb Ferdie. He
was now thoroughly weary and drowsy. He dropped into a deep sleep,
from which he was startled by something cold creeping across his
bare ankles. With lightning quickness, he knew that it was a snake.
Perhaps it was harmless, perhaps it was deadly. By a strong effort at
self-control, he lay motionless. Slowly, the slimy reptile worked its
way along, attracted by the warmth, towards the middle of the bed. What
an age it seemed till the serpent glided from his limb, and nestled
between himself and Ferdie!
The dwarf was now in terror lest Ferdie should awake. What could he
do to rid them of their unwelcome bed-mate? He dared not stir, and he
dreaded, most of all, that Ferdie would. After a while, Ferdie threw
an arm out of bed. Instantly an angry buzz from the reptile was heard.
It was a rattlesnake! Ferdie was quiet again, and the snake ceased its
deadly warning.
Working his big head cautiously round on his pillow, so that he might
look in the direction of the rattling, the dwarf saw the snake. The
blanket had become disarranged, leaving Ferdie's leg bare, and the
venomous creature was lying near the limb, on the unturned covering.
Should Ferdinand move, it was certain death. And that he would remain
quiet long, the dwarf knew was not probable. With singular steadiness
and dexterity, he began to withdraw his own thin limbs, and at the same
time, gradually to raise himself so as to sit up. The snake's head was
from him, which was in the hunchback's favor.
Twice the serpent, irritated gently, shook its rattles. But so wary
and adroit was the dwarf that his snakeship settled again to repose,
till the Hunchback softly sat up, pillow in hand. The snake saw the
movement, and turned upon his adversary. One point, however, had been
gained, namely, to attract the attention of the reptile from Ferdie.
"If I am bitten, it will not matter so much," thought the dwarf.
"Mother couldn't spare Ferdie, he's so well and strong."
The snake's head was erect, and the red, forked tongue played
spitefully. He was preparing to spring upon the dwarf, when, with
unerring celerity, the pillow descended on the snake, and Ferdie was
thrust from the mattress.
"What did you do that for?" demanded the elder brother.
"There's a rattlesnake in the bed," shrilly piped the dwarf. "Here it
is," he added, jumping aside, as the poison-fanged intruder wriggled
out from beneath the pillow at the Hunchback.
But Ferdie, seizing the whipstock, despatched it at a blow.
"When we camp out again," observed the dwarf, "we must fix it so the
snakes can't get into our bed."
But streaks of light in the east heralded the advent of day.
Immediately after, the sun peeped across the prairie, then shot up
fully to view. Georgie said he seemed in a hurry. But our immigrants
were a second time ahead of him, and again he grew red in the face; and
no wonder, the lazy, lubberly fellow, to be lagging behind women and
boys.
Mrs. Willard and her sister were performing their toilet at the stream.
Ferdie and Georgie had set about graining the horses, pouring about two
quarts of meal into each pail, and stirring in water to moisten it.
"I should think the oats would be better for them than this raw, cold
hasty-pudding, without anything on it," said Georgie.
"No," replied Ferdie. "Tom said oats were more stimulating, but they
wouldn't stand by like meal. Meal gives permanent strength."
The dwarf now appeared with an axe on his shoulder.
"Here, Ferdie," he said, "I want you to cut a few sticks. There, those
are just the article," pointing to some forked limbs.
These were driven into the ground a short distance apart, the crotchet
ends up. Across them another stick was placed horizontally. Then an
iron pot was brought from the wagon, and hung from the centre. This was
partly filled with water from the brook, and a fire started under the
kettle.
When the water began to boil, aunt Esther dropped in potatoes; and
Mrs. Willard sliced pork, and commenced frying it in a spider. Plates,
knives and forks, and cups and saucers, were produced. A cloth was
laid on the grass, and the little family were soon, with appreciative
appetite, discussing the simple repast.
"I believe I never got up so much refreshed," observed Mrs. Willard,
"as I did this morning."
"That's because you didn't sleep in a close room," sagely remarked
Georgie.
"I was afraid you'd catch cold," said aunt Esther.
"Folks that live in the open air are not subject to colds," replied the
dwarf.
But he did not allude to the Indian, and he had charged Ferdinand to
say nothing about the rattlesnake.
"It would only frighten the women," said he.