NORMAN WORKS IN A STUMP-FIELD.
Norman made a wiser choice than he realised at the time in seeking Mr.
Archibald Stark, or “Old Archie,” as he was generally called, though
he was then only forty-seven years old. This Mr. Stark, the father of
Johnny, who figured in our hero’s adventure with the wildcats, was
a native of Glasgow, Scotland. When a young man he had emigrated to
this country, settling first in Nutfield, but afterward moving to Old
Harrytown, upon a lot he had bought of a grantee of the Massachusetts
province. The Stark homestead contained about five hundred acres of
land, of better quality than the land below it, and extended for about
half a mile along the east bank of the river above the falls. Mr. Stark
was an educated man, and his wife a beautiful, kind-hearted woman.
They had seven children, four boys and three girls, and as there were
no schools in the vicinity at that time, these were taught at home.
It was under that kindly and unselfish instruction John Stark got the
education which was so much help to him in the important part he was
to act in the coming wars against Indians and foreign enemies.
Imbued with the true spirit of progress and a hard worker, Mr. Stark
was the best farmer in Harrytown. He had chosen his location with
happier results than many of the Tyng men, who had been obliged to get
theirs by lot, and he bent his whole attention to improving his land,
and gave but little time to fishing and hunting.
“The abundance of fish in the river and game in the woods,” he used
to say, “is both a blessing and a curse to the settlers. It is a
blessing, as it affords a means of sustenance to some who might go
hungry; a curse, as many spend their time on the hunt when they should
be improving the soil and their homes. The spade and the hoe are the
staffs of life, not the fishing-pole and the gun. Living by the hunt is
well enough for the savages, but it is not the true way for civilised
people. I am sorry that my boys have such an inclination for living in
the woods. I do believe that Johnny had rather tramp all day through
the wilderness in pursuit of a deer than to eat a good meal of victuals
when he is hungry.”
Norman found Mr. Stark at work, with his two older boys, William and
Johnny, on a new lot he was clearing off. Johnny was driving a yoke of
oxen, “twitching off” some fallen trees, which had to be drawn together
to be burned.
Archie Stark and Mr. MacDonald had been on intimate terms ever since
the latter had come to Harrytown, and he was perfectly familiar with
the old Highlander’s sorrows and anxieties. He knew the sad story of
the massacre of Glencoe, as well as the siege of Londonderry, and even
of the mistaken course of Archie McNiel, though he never hinted of the
latter to Norman, whom he respected none the less for the mistakes of
his parent. His greeting, on this August afternoon, was in keeping with
his genial nature:
“Ho, me lad! come to give an old man a lift? I was thinking of you this
morning and wondering where I could find a likelier lad to help me
clear away these stumps and trees, so as to get this into fit mowage.
I tell you, my lad, it has got to be done, let them fish who will.
Civilised men and women need bread and butter, and oxen and cows must
have hay these long, cold winters. I’ll give you three shillings a day.
Is it a bargain?”
Three shillings is equal to seventy-five cents, as we reckon it, but
colonial money of those days was of less value than the pound sterling
of Great Britain, which would reduce that amount to about fifty cents a
day.
Though this offer had come most unexpectedly to Norman, it instantly
appealed to his judgment as an opportunity too good to be lost.
“I thank you, Mr. Stark; I think I will accept. But I must free my mind
of another matter before I can begin work. I am sorry to――”
“Tut――tut, lad! don’t let any excuses trouble you. Take a seat on this
fallen tree and tell me all about it. It is always best to have a free
mind. It is too hot this weather to keep at it all the time. Let the
oxen rest, Johnny. Billy, you run down to the spring and get a gourd of
cool water. Now, go ahead, my lad, and mind you make a clean breast of
it.”
Encouraged with these kindly words, Norman at once began his account of
the shooting of the deer, and of Gunwad’s subsequent course of action,
the other listening without interruption until he had finished.
“Well, lad,” said Mr. Stark, “I can see why you worry; but cast that
off. I am willing to allow that this Gunwad has it in his power to work
you evil, if his plans succeed. You, or your grandfather, which amounts
to the same, got your lot of a New Hampshire grantee, while I got mine
of a Massachusetts party, one of which had just about as good a title
as the other. But you are in the way of these Tyng colonists. This
Gunwad has bought the right or title, or whatever you may call it, of
the Tyng man who drew that lot. Now he, Gunwad, claims it, and warns
you off. Several others have done the same, and cases are in the court
unsettled. In fact, they cannot be settled until this boundary line
has been settled. If the lower province (Massachusetts) makes good her
claim, you will have to lose your home, always supposing you will get a
little for improvements.”
“So you advise grandfather and me to move away?”
“Hold right on, lad! I advise nothing of the kind. These Tyng grantees
have shouldered a burden they little thought of at the outset.
Though they are carrying matters with a high hand now, it is by no
means certain they are going to win in the end. Candidly, I do not
think Gunwad’s warning will amount to much at this time. At the next
Proprietors’ Meeting a vote may be passed to sustain such action, for
he will have the township behind him. But even then, with the boundary
line settled to their satisfaction, there is something concerned
with their success here which few seem to have taken into serious
consideration. In getting these grants the colonists have certain
conditions to carry out, in order to hold their title. They have
got to build a house of seven foot stud, that is wall, and eighteen
feet square; have got to clear four acres of ground and help build a
church within four years. Now none of these conditions were complied
with by the grantee of the lot you occupy. Neither has Tyng Township
yet built any meeting-house or settled a minister, though they can
be excused for this on account of the failure of any one to raise a
mill, as was expected. The mill is now nearly done, and I expect the
lumber will be sawed in season to build the meeting-house this fall. I
mention these facts that you may understand the exact situation. Within
a year I believe this boundary dispute will be settled for ever. If
Massachusetts loses, these grants of Harrytown will not be worth a fig
to these Tyng men.”
“What will happen then?” asked Norman.
“The Scotch-Irish grant from New Hampshire will hold the territory,
all except the reserve about Namaske. Your homestead comes in that
territory, but I think you will have no trouble. I have been studying
the situation considerably, and these are my honest convictions.
Wait and see what Gunwad’s next move will be. Now I come back to my
question. Are you going to help me this month, beginning to-morrow?”
“I shall be glad to do so, as there is not more at home than grandfather
can do.”
“I am glad of it, as I want to get this lot cleared before the fall
rains. I mean to sow a piece of winter rye. And while you are coming
here to work, and after, I want Rilma to attend our studies. She can go
home with you, if she comes up in the afternoon.”
Norman thanked Mr. Stark for his kindness, and returned home in better
spirits than when he had left. His report, too, awakened the hopes of
Mr. MacDonald.
The following morning he began work in Mr. Stark’s stump-field,
beginning by driving the oxen to draw off the fallen trees and uproot
the stumps, learning a lesson of patience and fortitude from those
useful creatures he never forgot.
Mr. Stark worked busily in the new clearing with his help, always
willing to take hold of the butt end of the log if it happened to come
nearest to him. Nothing seemed to fret him, except a shirk. He despised
a lazy person.
On the second day that Norman worked for him Zack Bitlock came
shambling into the lot, to begin work. He was still barefooted, his
lank figure clothed in earth-coloured shirt and trousers. He was
accompanied by a youth of fifteen, the exact counterpart of the father,
even to the bare feet, the sunburned face, the shirt and trousers. He
led, by a piece of deer thong, a lean, lank dog, clay-coloured, like
the clothes of its master. Its most remarkable feature was its ears,
which were of such enormous size as to flop up and down with a sort of
“gushy” noise as the creature jogged along at the heels of its human
companions.
“Gol dang yit, ’squire!” greeted the new arrival, Goodman Bitlock,
senior, “seen the cur’usist sight an’ heerd the cur’usist noise down
yander on th’ sand piles ye ever sot eyes an’ ears on. Me an’ Lige an’
th’ tarnal dorg――Lige w’u’d take ther critter erlong――wuz comin’ erlong
when th’ dolefulest sound ye ever sot hearin’ on come frum th’ side o’
th’ road. Sez I to Lige, sez I: ‘Wot in creation mought thet be?’ An’
th’ dorg pricked up his ears, an’ when thet dorg pricks up his ears set
yit down fer good an’ all there’s sumthin’ round!
“Wul, Lige an’ me looked, but all I c’u’d see was a leetle albiner
squirrel a-sottin’ on th’ sand pile, but I c’u’d see th’ leetle runt
wuz cryin’ so yit had los’ yit’s pa an’ ma an’ other ’lations. I wuz
natcherly struck by yits ’pearance, an’ I says, says I:
“‘Whut’s th’ tarnal trubble, leetle feller?’
“Then th’ poo’ thing rubbed th’ tears erway with one fore paw, an’ yit
says, says yit:
“‘Mister, ye air kind, but ye can’t hel’ me.’
“‘But I can show ye my good-will,’ says I, I says, ‘so pipe erhead, my
eetle fri’nd.’
“Then yit give yits big, sorrerful eyes anuther dab with yits paw, an’
says, says yit:
“‘Ye can’t hel’ me, mister. Me pa died yesterday an’ he willed me th’
hull o’ Ol’ Harrytown, but yit wuz with th’ perwision thet I live in
yit, an’ I,’ givin’ ernuther dab fer yits eye with yits paw, ‘_I hev
got to starve to death!_’
“Gol dang ef I don’t think thet poo’ albiner wuz erbout right. Ef we
don’t all starve to death on these sand heaps yit’ll be becos we hev
got so dried up thet th’ wind will blow us erway.”
“That’s a pretty good story, Zack,” declared Mr. Stark. “If you were as
good in breaking in stump-land as you are at story-telling, you would
be worth your wages.”
“Which is saying as much thet I ain’t now. Go erlong, ’squire, ef I
weren’t so tarnal good-natured I’d git mad.”
Norman had now turned the oxen over to Johnny Stark, and with Goodman
Bitlock was helping Mr. Stark fell the big trees growing on the edge of
the clearing, which the owner wished to make larger. These pines, many
of them of huge size, after being felled had to have their branches cut
away, so the cattle could pull them together. In some cases they had to
be chopped in twain before the stout oxen could draw them. Those best
suited to his purpose Mr. Stark was saving to be hewn for the timbers
of a sawmill he was intending to build at an early day.
Lige Bitlock, though he was older and bigger than the Stark boys, did
not offer to do any work. He spent the most of his time following his
dog through the adjacent growth, or fishing from the bank of the river.
“If I had such a shiftless boy as that of yours, Goodman Bitlock,”
said Mr. Stark, bluntly, “I’d tie a deer thong around his neck and
throw him over the falls.”
“Go easy, ’squire, go easy. Thet boy ain’t no fool, an’ he says, says
he, he’s goin’ to make a big hunter like Woodranger.”
“Got a mighty poor showing, then. What would a whole regiment of
Woodrangers amount to? The more we have of such men the less there is
done in improvement.”
“Woodranger fit with Lovewell,” replied Bitlock, in whose mind such a
deed made a man a hero fit to worship afar off. “If my Lige c’u’d ’a’
fit with Lovewell――”
“He’d been killed long before this, and that would have been a wise
dispensation of Providence to get rid of refuse matter. But if he is so
smart I want him to go down to Mr. Perham’s, and get my long deer rope
which he borrowed more than six months ago. I do wish men would return
as readily as they borrow. We shall need the line in pulling over the
leaning pine up yonder. It will give the oxen more than they can pull
if it falls back over the ridge.”
“Is th’ rope heavy, ’squire?”
“Weighs about half a ton! Perhaps you think Johnny had better go along
with him. I can’t spare him. If I could I would send him alone. The
oxen must be kept to work.”
“Why can’t Archie go?” asked Bitlock.
Archie was two years younger than Johnny, and, as he was not at work,
his father did not object to his going.
“Min’ ye, Lige, ye come right back,” said his father. “Don’t go off
inter th’ woods, ’cos ye know erbout thet wildcat screech we heerd.”
Lige promised to return as quickly as possible, and with his dog at his
side, and little Archie Stark following behind, he set out down the
road.
“Dunno but I oughter gone with thet boy,” muttered Bitlock, as he gazed
after his hopeful son, scratching his head with sluggish movements.
After standing five minutes looking vacantly at the space where he had
last seen Lige, Goodman Bitlock leisurely picked up his axe, and, after
spending five minutes more in flicking off an accumulation of dirt with
a pine bough, he got to work again.
When it was getting to be time for the boys to return, he began to cast
anxious glances down the road, until he was startled by the sight of a
well-known figure approaching at a swift run. It was Lige, and he was
startled because it was unusual to see him running at that rate, unless
he was in pursuit of a squirrel or some frightened denizen of the
woods. Lige showed, too, that he was labouring under great excitement,
while his dog kept close beside him, uttering quick, short yelps.
“Why! whut’s happened now?” cried Bitlock, dropping his axe, and
standing with extended arms and wide-opened mouth. “Whut’s scart ye so,
Lige?”
By this time all in the clearing had stopped work, to learn what the
trouble was.
“I ain’t scart, dad!” replied Lige, as soon as he could get his breath
enough to speak. “I ain’t a bit scart, dad; and I’ve come right back,
as ye tole me.”
Goodman Bitlock drew a breath of relief, while the others resumed work.
The proud father said, in a complimentary tone:
“Ye’re a smart boy, Lige, an’ ye’ll ermount to sumthin’. How ye mus’
hev run to git hyur so soon.”
“I did, dad.”
He said nothing of Archie or the rope, and Mr. Stark, thinking his son
would soon appear with the deer thong, asked no questions, until five
minutes had passed without bringing the missing boy.
“We want that rope,” declared Mr. Stark, impatiently. “Why didn’t you
bring it along, Lige?”
“I left it with Arch.”
“Where is Archie?”
“With th’ rope, mister. I had to run to get hyur right back.”
Mr. Stark grumbled a little because of the non-appearance of Archie,
but for fifteen minutes more nothing wrong was suspected. Then, upon
being questioned more closely, Lige blurted out:
“I don’t know but th’ b’ar eat him up! I had to run ’way from him to
git right back.”
Mr. Stark’s inquiries grew more pointed, and the frightened youth
explained that a big bear had attacked them, and that he had barely
escaped by running for his life.
“And what has become of my poor boy?” cried the distracted father.
Though realising that it was too late to save Archie, if he had fallen
into the clutches of the bear, Mr. Stark, Norman, and the others at
once started down the road as fast as they could run.