Meg of the Hills.
"Meg of the Hills! Meg of the Hills!" So called the bear in a loud
voice; very loud, indeed, yet in the tone of the voice was something
which Sprigg had not before observed there, so deep and mellow and
musical was it. In answer to the summons, forth into the luminous
circle, from some mysterious depth of the cavern, soon came gliding a
bearess, who seemed in every way a match for the bear, excepting that
she was of a smoother, gentler type.
"Meg of the Hills, have all come home,
From mountain climb and forest roam,
From river mist and ocean foam,
From moon-rise white and sun-set red,
From elk-stag lair and bison bed,
From panther ambush still and dread,
All, all returned?"
To which the bearess answered:
"Yes all returned to Manitou den,
Save those who walk by night with men.
To bring the deeds in darkness done,
To the dread light of the tell-tale sun."
Then suddenly assuming a tone of voice as different from the former as
fiddle from violin, and with a particular eye to our hero, where he
still kept his seat on his charger's back, or rather was kept there by
the unlocked arms of Manitou-Echo, the bearess added:
"And you did find the little runaway, sure enough, Nick?"
"Aye, that did I, and a stiff-necked, strong-backed, hard-muzzled cub of
a human thing do I find him, too! Tough! Tough!"
"Then all the accounts we have heard of him are but too true," sadly
observed the bearess, whom the bear called "Meg."
"But too true!" echoed the bear, whom the bearess called "Nick."
Meg. "Is it really a fact, then, that his thoughts by day and his dreams
by night are so taken up with red moccasins that he is in a fair way to
make a monkey of himself?"
Nick. "Really a fact."
Meg. "A fact, too, that he had no thanks in his heart for the beautiful
moccasins, which his kindest of fathers gave him one night last week?"
Nick. "A fact, too!"
Meg. "A fact, also, that his thoughts are so wrapped up in the moccasins
that he has none left for his prayers?"
Nick. "A fact, also!"
Meg. "And, likewise, a fact that he sneaked off, like a spit-thief dog,
when his best of mothers had told him and told him, times and times,
that he ought not, and he should not?"
Nick. "Like--wise--a--fact!" slowly pulling the words, as if he could
hardly find it in his heart to testify to behavior so shabby.
Meg. "But, Nick," and she looked earnestly at her lord, as if hoping
that for this one time, at least, he would vary his affirmative echoes
just a little, "that slip of the tongue on the fence, which Manitou-Echo
reported to us--surely, now, you can't say 'yes' to that?"
But Nick said neither "no" nor "yes." He answered never a word! All mum,
he hung his head, and but for the hair on his face he would have been
seen to blush up to the very eyes.
Meg. "I spare you the verbal answer. I read it but too plainly in your
looks. Hard is it for us poor Manitous to imagine how a boy--a
Christian, human boy, who knows his catechism--could be so false to the
mother that bore him! Using the very breath she gave him to tell her a
lie! Then we can no longer doubt that, in addition to all, he did
actually curse the red moccasins, when he spurned them from him up there
on Manitou Hill. The beautiful moccasins he had so earnestly longed for,
and which had been procured for him at such cost, and had borne him so
bravely through wood and swamp, over hill and dale!"
Nick. "My dear, to give the round sum of the matter, it is all precisely
as Manitou-Echo has reported. But, if you need additional evidence to
set your doubts at rest, know, then, that the boy himself has made a
clean breast of it to me, and the two stories tally from beginning to
end--tally as nicely as our two tails."
Meg. "What! Not to leave out those secret designs on--what did
Manitou-Echo call them--the boy and the girl?"
Nick. "Young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant."
Meg, "Not to leave out his secret designs on young Ben Logan and little
Bertha Bryant? The boy to lose his life for envy; the girl her senses
for love--all because of the beautiful moccasins!"
Nick. "Well, well, Meg, mum's the word just there. He's human, remember,
and you know they say that 'Adam's fall made fools of all;' and so, with
their tails up, here they come; and, with their tails down, there they
go--in that respect resembling dogs, who, in their turn, acquired the
habit from their human masters. But I am deviating, and I perceive that
you are wishing to make some further inquiry. What is it, my dove?"
Meg. "I was longing to ask if--what's his name?"
Nick. "Sprigg."
Meg. "If Sprigg has not manifested the deepest sorrow and repentance for
what he has done to-day. Does he not mourn to think of the pain and
distress which, by his most undutiful conduct, he is causing his dear
father and his dear, dear mother?"
Nick. (With a sad shake of the head.) "Not with heart-grief, I fear;
not with heart-grief! He mourns over the ills which he has brought upon
himself by his undutiful conduct, rather than over the wrong thereof, or
because of the pain and distress which it must be causing his dear
mother and his dear, dear father!" And again Nick shook his head, as
were it a desperate case almost beyond hope.
Meg. (With almost as hopeless a shake of the head as Nick.) "Ah, me! who
would have thought it? Who could have thought it? Why, Nick, he is as
bad as Robinson Crusoe, is he not?"
Nick. "Oh, worse than Robinson Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe, it is true, ran
away from home against the command of his father and the prayers of his
mother. But he used no deception in the matter. Robinson did not go
a-sneaking off, with a lie in his mouth and his shoes in the water
bucket; a-sneaking off like a spit-thief dog, to use your own expressive
words. And yet, even his case was considered serious enough for a
putting through on a desert island. Yes! A good deal worse than Robinson
Crusoe, else no need were there of putting him through so."
Meg. "But come, now, Nick; you can't stand there and tell me that Sprigg
is as bad a boy as Jack Bean-Stalk?"
Nick. "Well, no; not so bad as that. Not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk. Jack
Bean-Stalk was so near the very tipping-over edge of total depravity
that I have often wondered since--in fact, wondered at the time--that it
did not require a more tremendous putting-through than sliding up and
down, between earth and moon, for developing such a hard case of a boy
into an honest man. Perhaps, the man in the moon, while the rogue was up
there, lent us a helping hand, not suffering him to come down to earth
again, excepting on condition that he would thenceforth keep his shadow,
as much as possible, in the sunshine; as little as possible in the
moonshine; sow no more wild oats, plant no more wild beans."
Meanwhile, the subject of this moral confab remained comfortably seated
upon his charger's back. The matter and the manner of the confab smacked
so much of the kind he was used to, that he was beginning to feel
himself quite at home, and fancied that he could have little to fear for
life or limb, so long as he found himself in the company of people, with
feeling so home-like in their hearts, and with words so home-like on
their lips. Therefore, the more home-like grew the moralizers, the more
Sprigg-like grew the subject. But, bearing in mind how sensitive he was
to ridicule, you can well imagine how he winced to hear himself compared
to a "spit-thief dog;" and how he squirmed to find his secret designs on
young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant, which he had not openly owned
to himself, thus come popping out into the tell-tale light of
Will-o'-the-Wisp. The wispy lamp was now not only burning as a living
flame, but twinkling like a living eye, which winked or blinked or
stared at the boy, as were it perfectly cognizant of all that was
passing among them. But if it was all a dream, as Sprigg by this time
was half persuaded it must be, what mattered it, though Will-o'-the-Wisp
did snuff his lamp into a tell-tale brightness, for Meg of the Hills to
show a "spit-thief dog" in, or for Nick of the Woods to hold up a
bug-bear lie in? It was only a dream, which, coming soon to an end,
should be wondered over for a moment, then forgotten. Yes, and in the
like sense, so is life.
"Then, dear Nick," answered Meg at length, after they had shaken their
heads for some moments in silence, "as Sprigg's case is not so bad as
Jack Bean-Stalk's, it is not yet too late to bring the poor, stray cub
back to his milk again. But he must first be made, not only to see, but
to feel and acknowledge the error of his ways before we can hope to
amend them. Now, how is this to be brought about? How is this case to be
treated?"
"My dear Meg, that is the very question I have been asking myself all
this time, and to find the answer I must be allowed a few hours' privacy
for thinking the matter over. So you and the children go to bed and
leave me to my reflections, and in the morning we will hold another
consultation."
So saying, the bear, with the look of one preparing himself for deep
thought, and all unconscious of what he was doing, seated himself upon
his haunches. Whereat, Manitou-Echo suddenly quitted his seat, when,
with a swift, sleek slide down his charger's back, plump to the ground
came Sprigg, still in a sitting posture, his straddled legs as nicely
adjusted to the bear's broad rump as spur to heel.
"Bless a body," cried the bear, glancing 'round at our hero, where he
sat with his face all crumpled up for a cry; not that he was hurt in the
least, but that Manitou-Echo and Will-o'-the-Wisp were laughing at him,
as he could see (for he could not hear them) by the fantastic capers of
their moccasins and by the lantern bobbing up and down. "Bless a body!
But it had quite slipped my mind that the cub was on my back. There,
now! Don't rub so hard, and save your brine for your sins."
"He-he-he!" laughed Manitou-Echo, now aloud.
"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Will-o'-the-Wisp.
"Ho-ho-ho!" Elfin laughter resounding now from every side. The boy
looked quickly about him. To his astonishment, he found the floor of the
cave, as far as the light of the bobbing lantern allowed him to see,
alive, so to speak, with red moccasins, all dancing about on tip-toe, or
kicking gleefully into the air.
"Hush, children, hush!" cried Meg of the Hills, in a voice of gentle
remonstrance. "Do you not see how it hurts the poor boy to be laughed
at? Hush, I charge you!"
The elfin laughter ceased at once. But straight, the void thus left was
filled by a long, calf-like howl from our hero, who, now that he had
found there some one capable of understanding what a human boy could
suffer, must need give vent to his wounded feelings--laugh who would.
His lamentation had not reached the modulating point, when, from the
hollow depths around, there came, first, a big buzz, then a hoarse hum,
and then a mumbling, rumbling, grumbling sort of a noise, which striking
his ear as no empty echo, caused him to cut short his longest howl in
the middle, to listen and glance about him.
"It's only a trick," drily observed the bear. "Our old house is in the
habit of playing our guests, when they sing or laugh too loud."
"Or, rather a fashion," gently observed the bearess, "our old house has
of reminding us when it is time we were putting our weary guests to bed.
Here, Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo, show our young guest to bed,
and be so courteous as to allow him the choice side, and charge the cubs
not to crowd him or hug him, as he is an only child, and not accustomed
to our litterish way of sleeping."
So, with Manitou-Echo on one side and Will-o'-the-Wisp on the other, the
young guest was shown, in quite a stately style, to bed. The bed he
found to be as nice and snug as the cleanest of leaves and grass and the
most velvety of moss could make it, and was already occupied by three or
four young bears; while close beside it, ranged in a row, were three or
four pairs of red moccasins. At first this circumstance struck the boy
as somewhat curious, but on perceiving that Will-o'-the-Wisp and
Manitou-Echo had kicked off their moccasins, and set them in the same
row with the others, and now, in the likeness of two young bears, were
lying side by side in bed, the mystery was made as clear to him as the
light of Will's lamp, which still hung in the air where he had left it.
As Sprigg stood hesitating whether to turn in or not, Meg came up behind
him, and with a gentle push of the nose against his back, said: "There's
your bed, and there are your bedfellows. So in with you, my stout one,
and make yourself comfortable." As he still hesitated, the bearess
brought him a soft dab of her paw on his back with a somewhat stronger
push, which left him no alternative but to turn in as he was bidden and
make the best of it. Then, humming a low, lullaby sort of a tune, Meg
went 'round the bed, softly pushing up and smoothing down the grass and
moss, all in a motherly way, which was so like dear mam that it brought
the tears to the lost boy's eyes--the softest, the sweetest tears he had
ever shed. He would fain have kept them back, but in spite of all he
could do they would come stealing out and trickling down. But Meg was
glad to see them, hailing them as precious indications that, hard as he
seemed, there was still enough of human affection in his nature to
encourage the hope that he might be easily won over to the side of love
and truth.
With the blossom-like odors and the water-like murmurs still in the air
around him, the little castaway was dropping off to sleep, when that
voice, so like his mother's, which he had heard on the hill at twilight,
came again to his ear, repeating the same words: "You have but too much
need of rest! Then, sleep, poor child, sleep!"