little silver watch. They would be just about at Thompson's Crossing
now, she thought, glancing out of the window. But _that_ wasn't
Thompson's Crossing! They were drawing into a big bustling station that
Helen didn't recognize in the least. Men were darting about hurriedly,
and trucks were clattering by her. What did it mean? She clutched at the
sleeve of a brakeman going down the aisle, and questioned him nervously.
"Oh yes. Thank you." He passed on. Then that was it. She was going to
Uncle 'Gene's, after all, in spite of herself! In her hurry and mental
perturbation she had boarded the wrong train at the Junction, and it had
been the one not going home to Motherdie and the Arabs. She had said
"good-by" too. All her brave fighting in vain--no, it wasn't either. She
would stay at Uncle 'Gene's a day, and then go home. When that was fully
decided, Helen felt better, and began to rather enjoy the fun and
complication of it all. Uncle 'Gene and Bab met her at the depot, and
overwhelmed her with cordial welcoming.
"There's a letter up home for you, Helen," Bab announced. "I guess
they're homesick and want you back."
"But they won't get you, you know," Uncle 'Gene said, fiercely, tucking
her under his arm.
"No more they won't!" answered Bab.
Helen took the little home message up stairs with her into her pretty
new room. She opened it wonderingly. Why, what was this?
"Dear Nell," father said. "This is for a bit of a welcome and
surprise, to make you feel quite contented and easy about us all.
Did you think the mother and I didn't notice your
conscience-stricken little face, and know just how troubled you
were? But we took a notion to make it a real surprise to you--that
Aunt Dolly is coming to help Mahala out. There, now, open your
eyes wide, my dear, and shut all the windows and squeal! Aunt
Dolly's coming, as sure as you live. She has given up her boarder
and rented her little nest, and is this blessed minute on her way
usward. So you will not worry about us any more, for Aunt Dolly's
a host in herself, and _almost_ as good as our Helen (the Arabs
would scalp me!), only, if you please, I'll swap her for Helen
when the year's up!"
Helen forgot to shut the windows, but she squealed. A great weight of
care slipped off her shoulders on to Aunt Dolly's.
"She won't forget the patch or the clothes-pins or _any_thing!" she
exclaimed. "Aunt Dolly's remember is miles, miles long!"
Downstairs a door opened, and through it was wafted up to Helen a low,
sweet strain of music, that grew, second by second, fuller and deeper,
till it seemed to embody all her own glad feelings, and to bear up on
its wings beautiful, prophetic hints of the joy that was on its way to
her.
SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.
BY KIRK MUNROE.
CHAPTER XXVII.
LOST IN THE FOREST.
It was not difficult to find the Fox River, for it was the first stream
flowing into the Pelly on the right, and as the ice in the latter river
was much smoother than it had been on the Yukon, our sledge travellers
turned into it on the second day after leaving Harper's.
"Now," said Phil, "we must keep a sharp lookout for Cree Jim's cabin;
for as no one seems to know exactly where it is located, we may find it
anywhere between here and the head of the stream. At any rate, we can't
afford to miss it."
They did miss it, though, and after camping one night on the river,
reached its head in a lake that they knew must be the Fox. Although the
day was but half spent, Phil decided to camp at that point.
"You and I, Serge," he said, "must go back down the river, one on each
side, making long detours away from it, in hopes of finding either the
cabin or some trail leading to it. At the same time we must keep a sharp
lookout for game. Anything from a bear to a rabbit would be acceptable
now, for if we don't replenish our stock of meat pretty soon we shall
lose our dogs."
"All right," replied Serge. "Only, Phil, do be careful and not get
lost."
"Never you fear on that score," laughed the young leader. "I'll look out
for myself; but see that you do the same."
So the two lads set forth, leaving Jalap Coombs to prepare camp and boil
the oatmeal porridge, which, mixed with a small quantity of fish, now
formed the dogs' daily meal.
Phil plunged directly into the forest, deciding to start out with one of
the detours that he had planned. Once within shelter of the trees, he
found the snow so deep that but for his snow-shoes he could have made no
progress. By their aid he was able to push forward at a fair rate of
speed, which he determined to maintain, on as straight a line as
possible, until within half an hour of sunset. Then he would bend to the
left until he reached the river, which he was certain could not be very
far away, and which he could follow back to camp even in the dark.
So for several hours he plodded sturdily forward, keeping a sharp
lookout for any trail of man or beast, and making as little noise as
possible in the hope of surprising something worthy of a shot. All at
once the surprise came from the other side; for, with a rush from behind
a clump of young hemlocks, a huge brown animal, with great palmated
horns, crossed his path only a few rods ahead, and dashed away at right
angles, flinging the snow to both sides like a rotary railroad plough.
Rapid as were his movements, Phil got in one flying shot just as he
disappeared.
"It was a moose!" thought the excited lad; "biggest one I ever saw. And
I hit him!" he cried aloud, a minute later, as he examined the broad
trail left by the flying beast. "Hit him hard, too," he added, as,
noting blood stains on the snow, and forgetful of everything else, he
set forth in hot pursuit of his stricken game. "He can't hold that pace
long, wounded, and through snow as deep as this," he reflected, "and I
shouldn't be surprised if I found him at bay inside of a mile. Oh, if I
can only get him, it will settle the food question for the rest of the
trip!"
So, with high hopes, and with all his hunting instincts fully aroused,
Phil followed that blood-stained trail, not only for one mile, but for
several more, though without catching another glimpse of the flying
moose. Nor could he discover any sign of slackened speed or diminished
strength on the part of his huge quarry. The strides were just as long
as at first, and the snow was flung just as far on either side of the
trail. But for the crimson stains betokening a steady loss of blood Phil
would long since have given up the chase. They encouraged him to keep
on. "For surely," he said to himself, "no animal, not even a moose can
stand a drain like that forever."
All at once he stopped short and gazed about him with startled glances.
The trail was growing dim; stealthy shadows were creeping through the
forest. The day was spent and night was at hand. "Now I _am_ in for it?"
he cried, bitterly. "Here I am miles from camp without an idea of its
direction or that of the river. My only guide to either is the trail by
which I have just come, and I should lose that in the darkness before I
had gone half a mile. The only thing to do is make a hungry camp, and
make it quick, too, before the light is wholly gone."
Thus deciding, Phil left the trail and hastened towards a bunch of dead
timber that stood a short distance to one side. He scraped the snow from
a prostrate log, and then, using one of his snow-shoes as a shovel, dug
out a small space down to the ground beside it. A little pile of dry
twigs and bark and a few sticks of larger wood were hastily collected
and heaped against the log. When he got his fire well started he would
gather more. Now to whittle a handful of shavings, and then for a blaze.
Oh, how good it would seem! How it would drive away the horrid
loneliness, push back the encroaching shadows, and replace the deadly
chill of the on-coming night with its own genial warmth! It could not
furnish food, of course, and he must endure long hours of hunger, but
even that could be borne with its cheery aid.
And now to light it. Phil had a match-safe in one of his inner pockets,
where he always carried it for just such emergencies as this, and at
length, after a struggle with his close-fitting parka, he drew it forth.
As he opened it and gazed into its empty interior a chill penetrated his
very marrow.
"What a fool I am! what a miserable careless fool!" he cried, in tones
of despair. "I knew it was empty two days ago and meant to refill it.
But I didn't, and now I must suffer the consequences. What shall I do?
What shall I do? A night in this place without a fire will drive me
crazy, even if I don't freeze to death before morning."
As Phil gazed about him in a very agony of apprehension his glance
rested on his rifle leaning against a tree, and a ray of hope entered
his heart. There was fire if he could only capture and control it. How
was it that wrecked sailors, and lost hunters, and all sorts of people
always managed to obtain fire from a gun, or rather from a pistol, which
was practically the same thing? He tried to recall what he had read of
such experiences. Oh yes! It was by flashing powder in the pan. But his
gun hadn't any pan. He had never seen one that had, unless it was
Kurilla's flintlock. Of course, now he remembered, it did have a place
into which the Indian used to pour a little powder every time he wanted
to fire his old blunderbuss. How Phil wished his Winchester were a
flintlock musket just at that moment. But it wasn't, and it didn't have
any pan, and loose powder was not used in connection with it. But there
was plenty of powder encased in its metallic cartridges if only he could
get at it, and could contrive some plan for adapting it to his purpose.
All these ideas passed like a flash, and Phil had hardly thought of
powder before he was examining one of his cartridges, and trying to dig
the bullet out of its metal shell with the point of his knife. But it
was held too tightly, and he only pricked his fingers.
Then another plan came into his mind. He laid his rifle on the ground.
Over its stock he spread a square of cotton cloth, such as he and Serge
were accustomed to tear from the great piece provided among their stores
whenever they needed clean handkerchiefs. On the cloth Phil laid a
cartridge, that he held in position with the sharp edge of his knife
blade, placed so that it would cut just at the base of the bullet. Then
he struck the back of the blade a smart blow with a billet of wood, and
the job was done. He had got at the powder.
He poured out two-thirds of the precious mixture, and rubbed it well
into one side of the cloth, which he doubled twice and used against the
log. Then, after stopping the open end of the shell with a tiny wad of
lint to keep the remainder of the powder from running out, he inserted
it in the chamber of his rifle. Aiming it at the cloth, with the muzzle
about one foot away, and trembling with cold, or excitement, or anxiety,
or with all three, he pulled the trigger.
The report that followed was hardly as loud as that of a small
fire-cracker, but the success of the scheme was instant. The little
flame poured from the muzzle of the rifle into that powder-impregnated
square of cotton cloth ignited it at once. A moment later it was nestled
amid the bundle of twigs and shavings, while Phil, on hands and knees,
was puffing at it like a pair of bellows.
In two minutes more his fire was a certainty, the black shadows were
already beginning to retreat before its cheery attack, and Phil Ryder's
spirits had jumped from zero almost to the figure that represents
light-heartedness.
Throwing off his fur parka, that he might the better appreciate its
warmth later, and seizing a snow-shoe, he cleared the whole space
between the first log and another that lay a few yards beyond. Into this
opening he dragged all the logs and dead branches he could find, working
with such energy that at the end of an hour he had a fine large pile,
and was in a glow from the exercise. Now he built another fire against
the further log, and piled his spare wood so that it was beyond reach of
either flame.
He next spread a few spruce and hemlock boughs on the ground between the
two fires, selected a medium-sized chunk of wood for a pillow, donned
his parka, drew its great hood over his head, and, with his rifle by his
side, lay down on a much warmer and more comfortable couch than he had
dared anticipate a couple of hours before.
Phil meant to keep awake so as to tend his fires, but instead of so
doing he fell asleep within an hour, and slept soundly right through the
night. When he at length awoke and sat up, he was chilled and stiff with
cold, for the fires were very nearly extinguished by a fall of snow that
had sifted down through the forest while he slept. As the poor lad
discovered this, he became filled with terror, for he knew that the back
trail was obliterated, and that all hope of regaining camp by its means
was cut off. Now he was indeed lost. As he gazed hopeless and bewildered
about him he caught sight of something that he at first took to be a dog
sitting only a few yards away, and regarding him hungrily. He spoke to
it and the animal started to sneak away. Then he saw that it was a wolf,
and hastened its movements with a rifle shot.
As it was not yet light enough to commence his search for the river, or
for some stream that would lead him to it, he began to throw wood on the
fires that he might at least get warm before starting. While thus
engaged he was startled by a cry apparently in the voice of a child that
rang dolefully through the silent forest. Again he heard it, plaintive
and long-drawn, and this time nearer than before. It was so weird a cry
to be heard in that place and at that time that he shuddered as he
listened for its repetition. Its very humanness added to its terror. At
its third utterance Phil seized his rifle, cocked it, and faced the
direction of the sound, expecting in another moment to be confronted by
the tawny form of a mountain-lion.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
PHIL ASSUMES A RESPONSIBILITY.
Phil had never met nor even seen a mountain-lion, but he had often heard
that its cry sometimes imitates that of a child so closely as to deceive
the most expert of hunters. He had heard too of its ferocity, its
boldness in attacking human beings, and its terrible strength. In some
respects it is even more to be feared than that monarch of the North
American wilderness the grizzly bear, for the former, belonging to the
cat family, is a famous tree-climber, which the latter is not.
These thoughts, together with all the stories he had ever read of
mountain-lions, flashed through the lad's mind in the few minutes that
elapsed between the first and third of those terrible cries. Before it
could utter another the fearful beast would be upon him, and with tense
muscles he braced himself for the coming conflict. He would not have a
chance for more than one shot. If it failed him, all would be lost.
The sound of the third wailing cry had hardly died away when, with a
gasp half of relief that the suspense was ended, half of dread, Phil
caught a momentary glimpse of a brown furry object moving through the
trees. It would next appear from behind yonder clump of bushes. The
rifle was slowly lifted, a deliberate sight was taken along its shining
barrel, and then, as the furry object appeared at the precise point
where it was expected, the forest echoed with its ringing shot. But the
bullet had not been allowed to fulfil its fatal mission. One blessed
instant had been granted, even as the trigger was pressed, in which to
give the barrel a slight upward jerk, and deflect the leaden messenger
from its deadly course.
The rifle fell from Phil's nerveless hand, as weak and faint he leaned
against a friendly tree trunk. As he stood there, staring with still
unbelieving eyes, a little fur-clad child, not more than four years old,
walking on the tiniest of snow-shoes, came close to him, smiled
trustfully up in his face, and, holding out a small mittened hand, said:
[Illustration: "COME, MAN. COME WIF NEL-TE. MAMMA SAY COME."]
"Come, man. Come wif Nel-te. Mamma say come."
If Phil had been nearly paralyzed with horror to discover, as his eye
glanced along the levelled rifle-barrel, that he was aiming at a human
being, he was almost equally staggered at hearing the fur-clad atom who
called himself Nel-te, address him in English. How could it be? Who was
he? How came he there, alone in that vast wilderness of trackless
forest, ice, and snow? Where had the child spent the night just passed,
that had been so filled with terrors to him? How had he lived through
it? Where was his mother?
All these questions and more he asked the child, as he sat on a log,
and, drawing the little one to him, gazed at him as though he were
unreal, and might at any moment vanish as mysteriously as he had come.
But the child evidently had neither the time nor the inclination for
explanations. He gravely repelled all the lad's friendly advances, and
turned to go away, as though confidently expecting him to follow. As
Phil hesitated for a moment he looked back, and in a voice that had a
slight tremble, together with a lower lip that quivered just a little,
he repeated:
"Come. Mamma say come."
And Phil, picking up his rifle, followed after the unique little figure
like one who is dazed. A happy smile lighted the child's face at this
compliance with his wish, and after that he plodded sturdily onward
without turning his head, as though satisfied that his mission was
accomplished. After thus going something less than a quarter of a mile,
they emerged from the forest, and came to a log cabin standing on the
bank of a small stream.
Though fairly well built, this cabin did not differ in outward
appearance from ordinary structures of its kind in that country, save
that its single glass window was hung with white curtains. These caught
Phil's eye at once, but ere he had time to speculate concerning them his
little guide had reached the door. Slipping off the small snow-shoes he
pushed it open and entered. Phil followed, but had not taken a single
step into the interior ere he started back in dismay.
On the floor close beside the threshold lay an Indian--a tall handsome
fellow, but with a terrible gash in one side. From it his life's blood
had evidently drained some time before, for it needed but a glance to
show that he was dead.
From this startling sight the lad's gaze wandered across the room. It
caught the white curtains, a few poor attempts at ornamentation of the
walls, an empty hearth, on which was no spark of fire, and then rested
on a rude bed in one corner, to which the child had just run with a
joyful cry.
On the bed lay a woman, and, to Phil's utter amazement, she was a white
woman, who was feebly speaking to him in English. Her bloodless face,
terribly emaciated, was surrounded by a wealth of dark brown hair, and
her great eyes were fixed on him with a pitiful eagerness.
"Thank God! thank God, sir!" she said, in a voice so near a whisper that
Phil was obliged to bend his head to catch the words. "Now that you've
come, I can die in peace, for my Nel-te will be cared for. I prayed, oh,
how I prayed! But it seemed as if my prayers were to be of no avail,
until at length the answer came in the report of your gun. Then I sent
the child to find you. And oh, sir. I do thank you for coming. I do
thank my Heavenly Father for sending you. And you will care for my baby?
You will take him far from here, where he may grow to be a good and
useful man? You will, won't you, sir? Promise me. Promise me you will."
"But you mustn't die," answered poor Phil, who was so bewildered by the
perplexities of the situation that he knew not what to say. "I have two
companions who will know what to do for you, and we will stay until you
get stronger. What does it all mean, anyway? Are you wounded? Did that
Indian attack you?"
"He was my husband, my Jim," whispered the woman, again opening her
eyes, which had closed wearily after her recent effort at talking. "He
died for me, and I am dying for him."
Here she was interrupted by a terrible fit of coughing, and a gush of
blood from some internal hemorrhage.
After a few minutes she continued: "He shot a moose, and with its last
strength it charged on him. When he did not come home I went in search
of him. I found them lying together. Jim still breathed. Somehow I
managed to bring him home on my back. But he was dead when I got him
here, and the strain had been too great for me. I had burst a blood
vessel, and had barely strength to crawl to the bed. That was two days
ago. I should have died that first night, but fought with death for
Nel-te's sake. Now I can go, and I am glad, for I am so weary--so
weary."
This pitiful story was told in whispers, with many pauses and many
struggles for breath. When it was finished the great pleading eyes again
closed, and the woman lay so still that Phil thought she must be dead.
He tried to feel of her pulse, but started at the touch of her hand, for
it was like ice. The chill of it seemed to reach his very heart, and he
shivered in the deadly cold of the room.
"I can at least make a fire," he thought, and he began to search for
matches. There were none, and finally bethinking himself of the blaze he
had left in the woods he set forth to fetch fire from it. In a few
minutes he returned with a couple of burning brands. Then he brought in
wood, and, after a little the great fireplace was filled with leaping
flames.
Nel-te came to him and begged for water. Phil had noticed several times
that the child was eating snow, and now berated himself for not
realizing that the little fellow was thirsty. He melted snow in a
kettle, and the boy drank eagerly. Then from some hiding-place he
produced a smoked salmon that he began to eat ravenously. After a little
he paused, looked hesitatingly at Phil, and then shyly, but with inborn
hospitality, held out the fish to his guest, saying: "You hungry?"
"Indeed I am, little chap," answered Phil, who was just remembering how
very hungry he was, "and I shall be only too glad to take a bite with
you." So he cut off a piece of the fish, and as the two ate their
strange meal in company Phil knew that the little stranger had won his
heart; for never had he felt so drawn to any child as to this one.
While they were thus engaged, the woman again unclosed her eyes, and
made a slight movement. Phil held a cup of water to her lips, and she
drank thirstily. It seemed to give her strength, for she said:
"You have not promised me, lad. But you will-- I know you will; for God
has sent you in answer to my prayers. You will care for my baby, and try
to love him, and never let him forget his mother. You will promise, and
I know I can trust you, for you have a brave face and honest. You will
promise me?"
"I do promise," said Phil, solemnly, "that if you are taken from your
boy I will care for him to the best of my ability, and be to him a
brother and--"
"That's enough, lad. Now hand him to me, for I canna see him. His name
is Nelson McLeod."
This last came in so faint a whisper that Phil barely caught the words;
but as he lifted the little one to the bed the woman seemed to gain new
strength, for she flung her arms about the child, strained him to her
breast, and kissed him.
Then the wasted arms unclosed. She fell back, a smile glorified her
face, and the great brown eyes opened for one parting look at her boy.
In another moment, with a sigh of content, she fell into the sleep that
knows no waking; and Phil, recalling the long-ago story of the
missionary, knew that the sorrows of Ellen McLeod were ended.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A MINIATURE RAILROAD SYSTEM.
[Illustration: CHICAGO, AND THE SKEW BRIDGE.]
One of the most interesting models perhaps ever made, in a popular way,
has been prepared by an English clergyman, the Rev. H. L. Warneford, of
Windsor, England. Dr. Warneford has a small yard in the rear of his
house, surrounded by an ordinary brick wall, which may be seen in each
of the illustrations accompanying this article. Along the rear end of
the garden he has built a railroad from wall to wall, in that distance
overcoming the inconveniences of the ground which usually require the
mechanical ability of railroad builders. The road runs from a little
station called Chicago at one end to a small station at the other end
known as Jericho. It is complete in every detail, and as thoroughly so
as if it were one of the great lines that run across England. The two
stations even have advertisements pasted over them, as any ordinary
station does; and the terminal facilities, though they are small and
rather simple, are in their way as complete as in any full-size
railroad.
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN TRESTLE BRIDGE AND TUNNEL ENTRANCE.]