CHAPTER XI.
THE LITTLE INDIAN.
Prudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they'd"better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round."
"Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she, "and she's got a blackman's hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her."
Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an Indianwoman, who had no idea of harming any one.
"What are Nindians?" asked the child.
Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red men." The country had oncebeen filled by them: but the English came, a great many years ago, andshook off the red men just as a high wind shakes the red leaves off atree; and they were scattered about, and only a few were left alive.Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came round making baskets; but they werequiet and peaceable people.
Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they were strolling up theriver, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sata little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his hand, inthe act of firing.
Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might; but asHorace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at something acrossthe river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look at the odd littlestranger, who turned partly round and returned his gaze. His eyes werekeen and black, with a good-natured expression, something like the eyesof an intelligent dog.
"What's your name, boy?" said Horace.
"Me no understand."
"I asked what your _name_ is," continued Horace, who was sure the boyunderstood, in spite of his blank looks.
"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."
"Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"
No answer, but a shake of the head.
"I reckon they call you _John_, don't they?"
Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.
"His name no _John_! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo;short name, speak um quick!--Jaw-awn! Great long name!" drawled she,stretching it out as if it were made of India rubber, and scowling withan air of disgust.
"What does she mean by calling 'John' _long_?" thought Horace.
The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her brown,stockingless feet and gay moccasons.
Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her shoulders and into hereyes. Horace concluded she must have lost her back-comb.
While he was looking at her with curious eyes, her daughter came to thedoor, feeling a little cross at the stranger, whoever it might be; butwhen she saw only an innocent little boy, she smiled pleasantly, showinga row of white teeth. Horace thought her rather handsome, for she wasvery straight and slender, and her eyes shone like glass beads. Her hairhe considered a great deal blacker than black, and it was braided andtied with gay red ribbons. She was dressed in a bright, large-figuredcalico, and from her ears were suspended the longest, yellowest,queerest, ear-rings. Horace thought they were shaped like boat-paddles,and would be pretty for Prudy to use when she rowed her little red boatin the bathing-tub. If they only "scooped" a little more they wouldanswer for tea-spoons. "Plenty big as I should want for tea-spoons," hedecided, after another gaze at them.
The young girl was used to being admired by her own people, and was notat all displeased with Horace for staring at her.
"Me think you nice white child," said she: "you get me sticks, me makeyou basket, pretty basket for put apples in."
"What kind of sticks do you mean?" said Horace, forgetting that theypretended not to understand English. But it appeared that they knewvery well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered to go withhim to point out the place where the wood was to be found. Grasshopper,who had only hidden behind the trees, now came out and joined the boys.
"Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr. Parlin'sgrounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some tall silverpoplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing eyes.
"Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me make you basket."
"Would you let him, Grasshopper?"
"Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care."
"Perhaps he might; you don't know," said Horace, who, after he had askedadvice, was far from feeling obliged to take it. He ran in great hasteto the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes, thinking, "If Iask, then I shan't get marked in the blue book anyhow."
In this case Horace acted very properly. He had no right to cut thetrees, or allow any one else to cut them, without leave. To his greatdelight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off a fewbranches where they would not show much.
When Horace got back and reported the words of his grandfather, Wampumdid not even smile, but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow.
"Me no hurt trees," said he, gravely; and he did not: he only cut off afew limbs from each one, leaving the trees as handsome as ever.
"Bully for you!" cried Horace, forgetting the blue book.
"He's as spry as a squirrel," said Grasshopper, in admiration; "how manyboughs has he got? One, two, three."
"Me say 'em quickest," cried little Wampum. "Een, teen, teddery,peddery, bimp, satter, latter, doe, dommy, dick."
"That's ten," put in Horace, who was keeping 'count.
"Een-dick," continued the little Indian, "teen-dick, teddery-dick,peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin, teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin,peddery-bumpin, jiggets."
"Hollo!" cried Grasshopper; "that's twenty; jiggets is twenty;" and herolled over on the ground, laughing as if he had made a great discovery.
Little by little they made Wampum tell how he lived at home, what sortof boys he played with, and what they had to eat. The young Indianassured them that at Oldtown "he lived in a house good as white folks;he ate moose-meat, ate sheep-meat, ate cow-meat."
"Cook out doors, I s'pose," said Grasshopper.
Wampum looked very severe. "When me lives in wigwam, me has fires inwigwam: when me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass;--keep off themthings," he added, pointing at a mosquito in the air; "keep smoke outtent," pointing upward to show the motion of the smoke.
Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion, that he resolved totreat him to a watermelon. So, without saying a word to the boys, he raninto the house to ask his grandmother.
"What! a whole watermelon, Horace?"
"Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum."
Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace hadadopted a new friend.
"You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like to haveyou play much with a strange boy."
"He's going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren't Indiansand negroes as good as white folks? 'Specially _tame_ Indians," saidHorace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoe-knife in hand, tocut the watermelon.
This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum.For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild lifeof this Indian family. He was made welcome at their tent, and often wentin to see them make baskets.
"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. Ifyou ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, orsteals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are veryyoung, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."
The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one overanother: these were the beds which were spread out at night for thefamily. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hungon a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in variousdirections, like a clothes-line.
It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over thewhite strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work!it brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business forhim, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horacewas to instruct the little Indian in spelling.
For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, andre
ally went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poorWampum, after a lesson in "baker."
He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one--red, white, andblue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green,the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into "thePines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no reason to forget it,surely.
"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy; "but Inever knew till yesterday what had 'come of it."
"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant took that!I forgot all about it."
What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for the money,since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was fond of jokingwith little boys.
"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted concernyou've got on your arm, and we'll call it square."
"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present, and Icouldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you one--seeif I don't!"
Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that Horace wouldever think of the matter again; but in truth the first article the boytried to make was a horse-basket.
"Me tell you somethin," said little Wampum, next morning, as he andHorace were crossing the field together. "Very much me wantum,--um,--um,"--putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner whichsignified that he meant something to eat.
"Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in English."
"Very much me want um," continued Wampum, in a beseeching tone. "No tellwhat you call um. E'enamost water, no _quite_ water; e'enamost punkin,no _quite_ punkin."
"Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace: "should think you'd rememberthat as easy as pumpkin."
"Very much me want um," repeated Wampum, delighted at being understood;"me like um."
"Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine."
"O, yes. Ugh! you've got 'em. Melon-water good! Me have melon-waters, megive you moc-suns."
"I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."
Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.
"You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns! Me no want _een_--me wantbimp--bumpin--jiggets."
Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied moccasinsvery much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the colorsof the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, "very much hewanted them." How handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit!
But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue book whichhis mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out.
"It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told me _not_ to givethe watermelons."
"No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.; _that_ stands forstealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father,_steal_! A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said,'Remember God sees all you do!'"
"Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk!Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave mea bushel of 'em."
After this, Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not rememberingthat there are a great many excuses to be made for a half-civilizedchild. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper proved to be verybad. If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would havedropped his society all the same; because, after Wampum proved to be athief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace's part to playwith him any longer.
Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horacedid one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps heremembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the injuredwatch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, andoffered him the beautiful present which he had received from theIndians.
"It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one," stammeredhe, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square."
"Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub; that's alittle too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow.Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it back, my finelittle shaver."
To say that Horace was very happy, would not half express the delight hefelt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownestown," beyond the right of dispute.
The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothingsurprising that, the very next morning after they left, grandpa Parlinshould find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothingleft on the vines but a few miserable green little melons.
CHAPTER XII.
A PLEASANT SURPRISE.
"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to makebaskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?"
"Pick berries," suggested Grace.
And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with Susy and auntMadge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not help missing Pinchervery much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a happier day than theone he and Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines." He was beginning tofind, as all children do, how hard it is to get up "a good time" whenyou are pricked by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to be happywhen you are doing right.
They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and reachedhome quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly full ofberries.
When Horace timidly told aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted to sell allthey had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the fruit ifthey wished, but wondered what they wanted to do with the money: shesupposed it was for the soldiers.
"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he didnot wish his aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than three billsin her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take care of her."
"Ah," said aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a secretdrawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it.She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, foryour mother wouldn't deceive you."
"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turnedhalf a somerset, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drumwould cost.
The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs.Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were theletters "D.," "B. W.," "B. G. P.," and "F.," on separate lines, oneabove another. But there were no figures before any of the letters butthe "B. W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller,as you could see by looking carefully.
"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the badwords aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of thefellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."
"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that younever talk anything worse than lingo."
"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies."
"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've forgotten, andslammed doors, and lost things; but you know I didn't set that down."
I wish all little girls felt as much interest in their younger brothersas this sister felt in Horace. Grace had her faults, of which I mighthave told you if I had been writing the book about her; but she lovedHorace dearly, kept his little secrets whenever she promised to do so,and was always glad to have him do right.
Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the blue book, and kissedHorace and Grace, saying they grew dearer to her every day of theirlives.
* * * * *
One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for themail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A crowd of menwere sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and counter, listening tothe news, which some one was reading in a loud, clear voice.
Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and anewspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horacerolled the paper into a hollow tube, pe
eping through it at the largetree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horseshitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out.
He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late battle,thinking of his dear father, as he always did when he heard war-news.But at last remembering that his grandfather would be anxious to havethe daily paper, he started for home, though rather against his will.
"I never did see such a fuss as they make," thought he, "if anybody'smore'n a minute going to the office and back."
"Is this all?" said aunt Madge, as Horace gave a letter to grandma, oneto aunt Louise, and the paper to his grandfather.
"Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace, faintly. It did seem, tobe sure, as if Mr. Pope had given him three letters; but as he could notfind another in his pocket, he supposed he must be mistaken, and saidnothing about it. He little knew what a careless thing he had done, andsoon went to bed, forgetting post-offices and letters in a strangedream of little Wampum, who had a bridle on and was hitched to a post;and of the Indian girl's ear-rings, which seemed to have grown into apair of shining gold muskets.
A few mornings after the mistake about the letter, Mrs. Clifford satmending Horace's raglan. She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-hooks,jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still something rattledwhen she touched the jacket; it seemed to be paper. She thrust in herfinger, and there, between the outside and lining, was a crumpled, wornletter, addressed to "Miss Margaret Parlin."
"What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford. "Horace must have carriedthe letter all summer."
But upon looking at it again, she saw that it was mailed at Washingtonabout two weeks before--"a soldier's letter." She carried it down toMargaret, who was busy making cream-cakes.
"Let me see," said aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's shoulder,and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do youknow somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?"
Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and carried theletter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it withtrembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingerstrembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed toreel about.
There was no bad news in the letter, you may be sure of that. She satreading it over and over again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, andthe sunshine in her eyes dried them again. Then she folded her handstogether, and humbly thanked God for his loving kindness.
When she was sure her sister Maria had gone up stairs, she ran out tothe kitchen, whispering,--
"O, mother! O, Louise!" but broke down by laughing.
"What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin, laughing too.
Margaret tried again to speak, but this time burst into tears.
"There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so happy that it's reallydreadful. I'm afraid somebody may die of joy."
"I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity," said aunt Louise: "dospeak quick."
"Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said Margaret: "that's the blessedtruth! Now hush! We must be so careful how we tell Maria!"
Mrs. Parlin caught Margaret by the shoulder, and gasped for breath.Louise dropped into a chair.
"What do you mean? What have you heard?" they both cried at once.
"He was taken off the field for dead; but life was not quite gone. Helay for weeks just breathing, and that was all."
"But why did no one let us know it?" said Louise. "Of course Maria wouldhave gone to him at once."
"There was no one to write; and when Henry came to himself there was nohope of him, except by amputation of his left arm; and after thatoperation he was very low again."
"O, why don't you give us the letter," said Louise, "so we can see forourselves?"
But she was too excited to read it; and while she was trying to collecther ideas, aunt Madge had to hunt for grandma's spectacles; and thenthe three looked over the surgeon's letter together, sometimes alltalking at once.
Captain Clifford would be in Maine as soon as possible: so the lettersaid. A young man was to come with him to take care of him, and theywere to travel very slowly indeed; might be at home in a fort-night.
"They may be here to-night," said Mrs. Parlin.
This letter had been written to prepare the family for CaptainClifford's arrival. It was expected that aunt Madge would break the newsto his wife.
"It's such a pity that little flyaway of a Horace didn't give you theletter in time," said Louise; "and then we might have had some days toget used to it."
"Wait a minute, dear," said aunt Madge, as Susy came in for a drink ofwater: "please run up and ask aunt Maria to come down stairs. Now,mother," she added, "you are the one to tell the story, if you please."
"We can all break it to her by degrees," said Mrs. Parlin, twisting herchecked apron nervously.
When Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen, she saw at once that somethinghad happened. Her mother, with a flushed face, was opening and shuttingthe stove door. Margaret was polishing a pie-plate, with tears in hereyes, and Louise had seized a sieve, and appeared to be breaking eggsinto it. Nobody wanted to speak first.
"What do you say to hearing a story?" uttered Louise.
"O, you poor woman," exclaimed Margaret, seizing Mrs. Clifford by bothhands: "you look so sorrowful, dear, as if nothing would ever make youhappy again. Can you believe we have a piece of good news for you?"
"For me?" Mrs. Clifford looked bewildered.
"Good news for you," said Louise, dropping the sieve to the floor: "yes,indeed! O, Maria, we thought Henry was killed; but he isn't; it's amistake of the papers. He's alive, and coming home to-night."
All this as fast as she could speak. No wonder Mrs. Clifford wasshocked! First she stood quiet and amazed, gazing at her sister withfixed eyes: then she screamed, and would have fallen if her mother andMargaret had not caught her in their arms.
"O, I have killed her," cried Louise: "I didn't mean to speak so quick!Henry is _almost_ dead, Maria: he is _nearly_ dead, I mean! He's justalive!"
"Louise, bring some water at once," said Mrs. Parlin, sternly.
"O, mother," sobbed Louise, returning with the water, "I didn't mean tobe so hasty; but you might have known I would: you should have sent meout of the room."
This was very much the way Prudy talked when she did wrong: she had afunny way of blaming other people.
It is always unsafe to tell even joyful news too suddenly; but Louise'sthoughtlessness had not done so much harm as they all feared. Mrs.Clifford recovered from the shock, and in an hour or two was wonderfullycalm, looking so perfectly happy that it was delightful just to gaze ather face.
She wanted the pleasure of telling the children the story with her ownlips. Grace was fairly wild with joy, kissing everybody, and declaringit was "too good for anything." She was too happy to keep still, whileas for Horace, he was too happy to talk.
"Then uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven," cried little Prudy: "hasn't hebeen to heaven at all?"
"No, of course not," said Susy: "didn't you hear 'em say he'd be hereto-night?--Now you've got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if you spotit up 'twill be awful."
"I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that shooted found 'twas uncle Henry,and so he didn't want to kill him down dead."
How the family found time to do so many things that day, I do not know,especially as each one was in somebody's way, and the children undereverybody's feet. But before night the pantry was full of nice things,the whole house was as fresh as a rose, and the parlors were adornedwith autumn flowers and green garlands.
Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil lamps, were filled, andevery candle-stick, whether brass, iron, or glass, was used to hold asperm candle; so that in the evening the house at every window was allablaze with light. The front door stood wide open, and the piazza andpart of the lawn were as bright as day. The double gate had beenunlatched for hours, and everybody was waiting for the carriage to driveup.
br /> The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace had said was like ababy-jumper, would never do for a sick man to ride in: so Billy Greenhad driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and aunt Madge had gonewith him, for she was afraid neither Billy nor the gentleman who waswith Captain Clifford would know how to wrap the shawls about himcarefully enough.
I could never describe the joyful meeting which took place in thosebrilliantly lighted parlors. It is very rarely that such wonderfulhappiness falls to any one's lot in this world.
While the smiles are yet bright on their faces, while Grace is clingingto her father's neck, and Horace hugs his new "real drum" in one arm,embracing his dear papa with the other, let us take our leave of themand the whole family for the present, with many kind good-by's.
SOPHIE MAY'S "LITTLE-FOLKS" BOOKS.
"By and by the colts came to the kitchen window, whichwas open, and put in their noses to ask for something to eat. Flaxiegave them pieces of bread."
SPECIMEN OF OUT TO "FLAXIE FRIZZLE SERIES."]
LITTLE FOLKS ASTRAY.
"This is a book for the little ones of the nursery or play-room. Itintroduces all the old favorites of the Prudy and Dotty books with newcharacters and funny incidents. It is a charming book, wholesome andsweet in every respect, and cannot fail to interest children undertwelve years of age."--_Christian Register._
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AUNT MADGE'S STORY.
"Tells of a little mite of a girl, who gets into every conceivable kindof scrape and out again with lightning rapidity, through the wholepretty little book. How she nearly drowns her bosom friend, andafterwards saves her by a very remarkable display of little-girlcourage. How she gets left by a train of cars, and loses her kitten andfinds it again, and is presented with a baby sister 'come down fromheaven,' with lots of smart and funny sayings."--_Boston Traveller._
_Any volume sold separately._
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Per volume, 75 cents.
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LITTLE PRUDY STORIES.--Six volumes. Handsomely Illustrated. Per volume,75 cents.
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Copyright, 1886, by Lee & Shepard.
SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION FROM "LITTLE MISS WEEZY."]
Copyright, 1833, by Lee and Shepard.
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