Kitabı oku: «Gulf and Glacier; or, The Percivals in Alaska», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XII.
THE “CHICHAGOFF DECADE.”
“We have two whole days before us,” said Kittie the next morning, as she promenaded up and down the deck with Fred, “and the steamer is going right over the same path we took in coming. Can’t we get up something new so as to have some fun?”
“We might have charades, or tableaux,” suggested Fred. “But we should have to stay below, getting ready for them.”
“And we’ve had ’em all before,” interpolated Tom, who was stretched out at his ease in a steamer chair.
“It’s going to be pretty foggy, I’m afraid,” said Randolph, joining the group. “They say that will delay us, for we shall have to run half-speed, or stop altogether. Do you see how thick it begins to look ahead?”
They had left Sitka in the early morning, and had only Juneau to touch at – probably in the night – before reaching the coaling station of Nanaimo, on Vancouver’s Island.
“Why don’t you get up a paper?” suggested Mr. Percival. “That’s what Arctic explorers do, I believe, when they are frozen in for the winter.”
“Good, good!” cried Pet. “And everybody in our party must contribute – except me!”
There was a laugh at this, and Kittie, seizing her friend around the waist, gave her a little impromptu waltz which set her hair flying and eyes dancing more merrily than ever.
“What shall we call it?” was the next question.
“‘The Alaskan Herald.’”
“‘The Northern Light.’”
“‘The Illustrated Totem Pole’” – this from the wounded warrior in the chair.
All these names being rejected, they decided to leave the choice of names to the editor, to which position Mr. Selborne was unanimously chosen.
“All contributions,” he announced, “must be in my hands at five o’clock this afternoon. The paper will then be put to press, and will be read aloud at precisely eight o’clock, on deck, in front of Stateroom 2 (Mr. Percival’s), if the weather permits; if not, in a corner of the lower cabin, after the supper table has been cleared.”
All that day the literary circle thus suddenly formed were hard at work at their manuscripts; and many were the gales of laughter in which the girls indulged, as they compared notes from time to time. The editor, it should be said, had laid down the rule that any contribution might be in verse or prose, but if the latter, it should not contain over twelve hundred words.
One by one in the course of the afternoon, the manuscripts, signed by fictitious names, were dropped into a box provided by the editor, who was busy, meanwhile, not only with his own contribution, but in arranging an artistic heading for the sheet which was to form the first page of the paper. He had also furnished all the aspiring authors and authoresses with sermon paper of uniform size, so that the whole collection might afterward be bound together, if desired.
Evening came at last, and to the gratification of all concerned, the fog lifted, so that there was a bright sunset, which would render out-of-doors reading easy until after ten o’clock. The party accordingly met at the appointed spot on deck, having kept their plan a profound secret among themselves, so as not to have strangers present at the reading.
Mrs. Percival sat just within the door of her stateroom, while the rest grouped themselves outside in various comfortable attitudes. The editor, with a formidable-looking flat package in his hand, took his position on the seat by the rail, where the light was favorable for reading.
“I will first,” he said, “pass round the title page of this unique periodical, merely premising that its simple and musical title was suggested in part by the name of the island, the wood-clad shores of which we were passing when the idea of the paper was first promulgated.”
The title sheet was accordingly inspected and praised, with shouts of laughter, by the circle of authors. Fortunately it has been preserved, and can be given here in fac-simile, just as it came from the hand of Rossiter and of his sister, who, he admitted, had helped him by drawing the lifelike designs with which it was embellished.
The title chosen, as you see, was the “Tri-Weekly Chichagoff Decade.”
“Why ‘Tri-Weekly’?” asked Pet and Mr. Percival together.
“Because,” replied Mr. Selborne, in his gravest tones, “it has greatly interested your editor to see you all try weakly to produce” —
The rest of the sentence was drowned in a chorus of outcries and laughter.
“But,” persisted Mr. Percival, “do you expect to sail these waters again, in just ten years from now? Else, why is it the ‘Decade’?”
“Oh! that, sir, merely indicates that it is a deck aid to cheerfulness.”
Here Tom collapsed and fell over upon Randolph, murmuring that it was enough to give a weakly-chick-a-cough to hear such puns. But such ill-timed levity was promptly suppressed.
Mr. Selborne now squared his shoulders, and opened the reading with a short editorial, which he called his
SALUTATORY
It is seldom that an editor finds himself in the position of one who greets his friends with one hand and bids them farewell with the other; who combines, as it were, his welcoming and his parting bow; who enters the room and backs out of it simultaneously; who, in short, is obliged to write at one and the same moment, his Salutatory and Valedictory.
Such is the novel and mildly exciting task of the present incumbent of the editorial chair of the “Decade.” We greet most heartily the host of subscribers who are sure to flock to its standard; and we beg to assure them of the integrity of its aims, and the sound financial basis of this enterprise. We pledge ourselves to endeavor, at any cost, to maintain the high standard we have set up, and so long as the “Decade” is published, to suffer no unworthy line to disgrace its fair pages.
At the same time we feel obliged to give notice that this is the last issue of the paper. Circumstances over which we have no control compel the proprietors to suspend its publication. The editor, in resigning his position, wishes to express his deep sense of the obligation under which his readers have placed him, in the universal and constant support they have given him and his assistants, from the very inception of the enterprise, and the kindly criticism with which he has always been favored.
The editorial was received with a round of subdued applause, which subsided the more quickly that the little circle around the reader saw curious eyes cast in their direction, and an evident inclination on the part of other passengers to share in the fun, which was, however, of too personal a nature to admit a general public.
“The opening piece,” remarked Mr. Selborne, “is contributed by a noted historian, who of late seems to have given his most serious attention to verse. I am glad to have the opportunity of laying before you this exquisite production, which gives an accurate review of our travels thus far, and, as the dullest reader must admit” (“Don’t look at me!” put in Tom), “blends instruction with poetry with the most delightful result. The poem is entitled – with no reference, I believe, to the farming interests of the Territories —
WESTWARD, HO!
An Historico-Poetical Review
BY HERODOTUS KEATS MACAULAY, A. E
“What does ‘A. E.’ stand for?” asked Mrs. Percival.
“‘Animated Excursionist,’ I presume, ma’am.”
“Alaskan Editor,” “Expatriated Amateur,” and various other suggestions were kindly offered by the boys, but were frowned down by the older members, who now called for the poem itself.
“One bright summer morning in early July
Our party assembled in Boston, to try
Of travels abroad an entirely new version
Afforded by Raymond & Whitcomb’s Excursion.”
“Hold on!” shouted Tom, who was privileged by his lameness. “That’s an ad. Herodotus Keats wants a free ticket next year. Who is he, I wonder?”
“Thomas,” remarked Fred, eying him severely through his glasses, “don’t display your ignorance of the great authors, nor interrupt with ribald comments. Go on, please, Mr. Selborne.”
“I know now, any way,” muttered the Irrepressible. The editor paid no further attention to him, but resumed the reading:
“The train was on hand in a place you all know well,
The Causeway Street depot marked “Boston & Lowell”;
It started, and cheers rose above lamentation
As, waving our hands, we rolled out of the station.
The daisies were white in the fields around Boston,
Like meadows in autumn with garments of frost on;
And fair were the skies over Merrimac’s stream,
As onward, still onward, with rattle and scream,
We flew o’er the rails ever faster and faster,
With never a thought of impending disaster.”
“But there wasn’t any disaster – unless the historian foresaw, in his prophetic soul, a certain bear” —
“Oh! let up, Ran. That’s poetical license. Macaulay couldn’t find anything else to rhyme with ‘faster.’”
“Arriving at Weirs, on Lake Winnepesaukee,
Our iron steed stopped, and became sort of balky,
Backed, snorted and started again with such speed
That some of us nearly ‘got left’ then, indeed!
At the Pemigewasset we halted to dine,
Then northward we sped to the Canada line,
Where Thomas was homesick until pretty soon he
Began to sing sadly of dear ‘Annie Rooney.’
In Montreal all the attractions were seen;
We dizzily whirled down the falls of Lachine
Till we hardly knew whether ’twas Memphremagog or
The turbulent rapids of far Caugnawauga.”
“Oh!” groaned Tom.
“And now came the splendid Canadian Pacific —
Through scenes now sublime, now tame, now terrific,
Past forests of fir, and along the wild shore
And storm-beaten crags of Lake Sup-e-ri-or.
There was such an outcry at this that the captain, who was facing the bridge, looked back to see what was the matter.
“All right, Captain,” sung out Randolph. “No iceberg in sight – only a queer kind of ore.”
“I’m glad it isn’t mine,” remarked Tom.
“The Winnepeg grasshoppers followed Miss Bess
Entangling themselves in each silken tress,
Nor struggled for freedom, for when they were caught
They thought them but meshes the sunbeams had wrought.
“We halted at Banff, where the Bow and the Spray
Come leaping from cradles of snow far away;
And joining white hands, the bridegroom and bride
Glide silently down toward the sea side by side.
“Again we have entered our palace on wheels,
And cry out anew, ‘How homelike it feels!’
The ‘Nepigon’ broad and the stately ‘Toronto’
We can never forget, not e’en if we want to;
Nor ‘Calgary’ sturdy, and fair ‘Missanabie’;
But nearest our hearts, there can no better car be
Throughout the whole world, whatever befall,
Than faithful old ‘Kamloops,’ the dearest of all.
“At Glacier we saw the great river of ice,
And a bear almost ate up a boy in a trice;
While one of the girls gave her poor little ankle
A twist and a wrench, whose twinges still rankle!
At last we arrive at our long journey’s end;
The continent crossed, at Vancouver we send
One glance of regret and a farewell combined
O’er the car we are leaving forever behind.
“At our next stopping place we had to try hard
To pronounce the name of our hotel ‘Dri-árd’;
Victoria’s awfully English, you know,
And nothing that’s ‘Yankee’ was found high or low,
Except our excursionists, everywhere seen
Until they embarked, northward bound, on the Queen.
We sailed and we sailed, through channels and reaches,
Past wild, rocky shores and verdure-clad beeches,
Until we emerged from the tortuous tangle
And moored at the dreary old wharf of Fort Wrangell,
Where many a totem pole reared its proud head,
Once gorgeous in trappings of sable and red.
“At Juneau we halted – ah! how can I tell
Of all the adventures that shortly befell
Two hunters, who started out boldly to kill
Any sort of a beast that roamed on the hill.
Their perils and hardships, when distant from Juneau
And lost in the woods, I am sure that you do know
Enough that on meeting the enemy there,
Venerunt, viderunt, vicerunt– a bear!
“Since then our startling events have been fewer;
We’ve mounted the glacier that’s named after Muir,
And trembled to see its blue pinnacles fall
In fragments before us, like Jericho’s wall.
We saw all we could in the fair town of Sitka,
But could not go far for want of a fit car,
And now we’re sailing o’er Frederick’s Sound,
On board the good Queen safe and well,
Homeward bound!”
The applause which followed this effusion was tremendous. It was suggested that the last half of the journey had been rather slighted; but Mr. Selborne explained that he had it direct from the author that this disproportionate treatment was caused by lack of time in which to fill out the poem as originally sketched.
“The next piece,” he continued, “was in the nature of an epic. It was certainly personal in its bearings; but so was every epic, and too much delicacy in an editor always results in an insipid periodical.”
The curiosity of his auditors having been thus aroused, he gravely read:
THE BEAR-HUNTER’S FATE
BY AN OLD SUBSCRIBER
Tom, Tom, the valiant one,
Shot a bear and away he run;
The bear was fleet,
Poor Tom was beat,
And Bruin stepped upon his feet.
“Is that what Kittie manes by my ‘fate’?” shouted Tom, laughing good-naturedly with the rest. “Sure I knew something was brewin’ when I saw her writing!”
“The contribution I have now to read,” said the editor, as soon as silence was restored, “is accompanied with an apology from the author, stating that for lack of original material he has drawn largely upon such printed sources as were at his command, in giving you a brief account of
MYSTERIOUS ALASKA
BY DARWIN FITZ-AGASSIZ THOMPSON
The interior of Alaska is at present one of the few remaining habitable spots on the surface of the globe, which remain practically unexplored by the white man.
A few years ago Central Africa held this distinction, but Speke, Grant, Du Chaillu, Livingstone, Stanley, and dozens of others have now penetrated those somber jungles, the land of mystery, the fabled abode of hideous monsters, giants and dwarfs, and soon a transcontinental railroad will connect Zanzibar with Stanley Pool and the mouth of the Congo.
Within half a dozen years, Alaska has been similarly assailed, and at this very moment there are bands of intrepid men camping here and there in that lonely interior, and calling upon the hitherto impenetrable forests and desolate tundras to deliver up the secrets they have held for untold ages.
Doubtless many wonderful discoveries await these explorers and their successors. New plants will be found, mountains of precious ore, a vast wealth of timber and water-power, and, it may be, strange creatures hitherto unknown to science.
It is believed by many that the mastodon, whose skeleton rears itself high above the elephant’s, in our museums, is not entirely extinct, but actually roams the tangled thickets of inner Alaska. It is stated that Professor John Muir himself lends countenance to this belief, asserting that he has seen the bones of these mighty animals, with the fresh flesh adhering to them. Certain it is that the great, curved tusks of the mammoth (as it is sometimes called) are found all over the southwestern slope of Africa, and that natives report encounters with huge living animals with similar tusks.
An animal which is unnamed, save by the coast hunters hereabouts, is the “Mt. St. Elias bear,” such as was shot by members of our party last week.
The head is very broad, and the fur a silvery gray. The skin is highly prized, not only for its rarity, but for its beauty, and Indians have been known to refuse a hundred dollars for one. They sometimes hang up such a skin in front of the “big house” of their village, as a talisman to aid them in future hunting, such is its magic power.
Within a few years the American bison, once so familiar in all stories of Western adventure, has become almost wholly extinct. A few individuals are said to lurk in the meadows and high tablelands of Alaska; but soon they must rank with the mastodon.
I have had time to but touch upon the mysteries of our great Northwestern Territories. Little by little its marvels, its wealth, its beauties will unfold to modern research, and the schoolboy of a generation hence will look back with incredulous wonder upon the maps, the charts and the scientific works upon Alaska that alone are available to-day.
“I know who wrote that,” said Randolph, looking meaningly at the editor.
The latter, however, took no notice of the implication, and, turning over the next sheet in the pile, read aloud the following poem, which was unsigned:
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
Only a bird on a bough of fir —
Look, can you see his feathers stir,
And hear his wee notes, soft and low,
Echoes of songs of long ago?
I am not bearing my cross, you see,
For the cross itself is bearing me.
When birds are frightened, or suffer loss,
Alone in the darkness, they fly to a cross,
And never are heard to moan, “I must,”
But always twitter, “I trust! I trust!”
For not a fluttering sparrow can fall
But into His hand, who loveth all.
Lord, hear thy children while they pray,
Make us thy sparrows this Christmas Day.
“Bessie wrote that,” whispered Pet, glancing at the little Captain, who did not deny the authorship, but smiled a little as she nestled closer to her father’s side.
“While I am reading verse,” remarked Mr. Selborne, “I may as well read, though a little out of course, another short poem about sparrows.
SPARROWS
From the orchard, sweet with blossoms,
From the waving meadow-grasses,
From the heated, dusty pavement
Where a tired city passes,
Rise the happy sparrow-voices,
Chirps and trills, and songs of gladness —
Bits of sunshine, changed to music,
Brightening, scattering clouds of sadness.
At the first fair flush of dawning,
At the twilight’s last faint shining,
Sparrows sing, through storm and darkness,
Never doubting nor repining.
Fluttering to and fro, wherever
Faith is fainting, life is dreary,
Bear they each his little message
To the hopeless and the weary:
“Sparrows trust their Heavenly Father;
Centuries ago he told us
We should never fall unheeded;
In his love He would enfold us.
“So we cast our care upon Him,
Never fearing for to-morrow;
And we’re sent by Him to help you,
When your sky is dark with sorrow.”
“I think the assistant editor knows who wrote that,” said Mr. Percival, glancing toward Adelaide with a smile. “Mr. Selborne, it is getting rather late. How many more articles have you in the – ?”
“Three, sir; and one of them is very short, being a four-line poem or quatrain. Shall I read it now?”
“If you please.”
“This poem is printed so neatly that the writer has evidently spent as much time upon it as the producers of some of the longer pieces,” the editor remarked, holding the sheet for all to see.
EXCELSIOR
BY A. M. ATEUR
’Tis said that in life the most exquisite rapture
Lies not in possession, but striving to capture.
Be sure that the proudest success is in vain
That helps not a loftier conquest to gain.
“Very well, Tom,” said Fred Seacomb approvingly. “The sentiment does you credit, my son. I recognize the authorship, however, by the style of print rather than the high moral tone of the poem.”
Tom laughed with the rest, and to cover his retreat called for the next piece, which he knew must be by Pet, as every one else but Mr. Percival was accounted for; and his was pretty sure to be a story.
Mr. Selborne’s voice became very gentle as he read the story of
THE THREE WISHES
“O, dear! I wish I were a tall palm-tree on the borders of a desert, where caravans and missionaries and pilgrims would rest in my shade. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the Pine said.
“O, dear! I wish I lived away up on a mountain-top, where the wind always blows cold and clear, and the snows lie deep in winter. People would come from far countries to visit the mountain, and I would be a guide by the way. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the Palm said.
“O, dear! I wish I were a palm-tree down in the valley, where birds might build their nests in my boughs, and artists would make beautiful pictures of me. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the little stunted Fir said, on the mountain-top.
Days and weeks came and went. The Pine waited impatiently, and rustled all its branches in the autumn winds, and let fall its brown needles, until a thick carpet of them lay about its trunk on the mossy ground. And out from the moss peeped a few rough green leaves. The Pine noticed that they were shivering in the November wind, and pityingly dropped a few more needles around them.
When the storms of winter came, it stretched its broad, evergreen boughs above the leaves, and sheltered them with its shaggy trunk.
The long, cold months passed at last, and it was spring. Still the Pine grieved and sighed because it could be of no use in the world.
To be sure it had protected the timid, furry leaves so well that they had lived, and now bore in their midst a cluster of small pink blossoms.
Just before sunset a man with coarse, roughened features and a bad look in his face, came and threw himself down on the ground beneath the Pine. His fists were clenched, for he was very angry about something, and, although the Pine never knew it, he was being tempted to a terrible crime.
As the man lay there thinking evil thoughts, and almost making up his mind to the wicked deed, he caught a breath of fragrance which made him for a moment forget his anger.
It reminded him of home, of his boyhood, of a wee sister with blue eyes and waving golden hair, with whom he used to wander into the pine-woods near the old farmhouse and gather flowers.
He looked about him, and his eye fell upon the pink flowers.
“Mayflowers!” he murmured half-aloud. And stretching out his hand he gathered them and held their pure, sweet faces up to his own.
The fierce look left his eyes, and a strange moisture came instead. His lips quivered. He was thinking now of his mother. She had left her children for a far country while they were still tiny creatures. But he could remember her face as she lay in the darkened room, resting so peacefully.
And some one – was it the little blue-eyed sister? – had placed a bunch of Mayflowers —
The man rose, and placing a small green spray of pine with the blossoms, carried them away in his big rough hand.
And the wicked deed was never done.
The Palm sheltered many weary travelers; but the greatest good it did was after it died.
One day a stranger arrived and cut the tall tree down. From its broad leaves a hundred fans were made, and many were the fevered, throbbing brows that were cooled by the Palm as its leaves, now hundreds of leagues apart, waved to and fro above the sufferers. So the Palm, although it never knew it, was permitted to do the work of the Master, refreshing and healing those who were sick with all manner of diseases.
As to the Fir, it tried to keep a brave heart, but it became more and more discouraged as not only months but years rolled by, and it grew no bigger, and could not see that it was of any use in the world.
“So homely am I, too!” it whispered to itself, glancing down at its little thick, gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.
Its only comfort was in giving a shelter to such small birds, and even insects, as were blown about on these heights by the fierce mountain tempests. Once it had a whole night of real joy, when a white rabbit, caught by the storm miles away from home, crouched under its boughs and lay there snugly, a warm, sleepy ball of white fur, till the sun called it home in the morning.
“O, Schwesterchen, seh ’auf! ’S ist ein Tannenbaum!”
Of course all firs understand German, and our little friend knew the child said, “O, little sister, look here! It’s a fir-tree!”
The next word it heard filled it with delight. It was the girl who spoke this time, hardly above her breath, “Weihnachtsbaum!” which was only a queer way of saying, “Christmas-tree!”
They were, in fact, the children of a German peasant, who lived in a small hut far down the mountain-side.
The Fir did not know it, but in reality the peasant had been unfortunate of late, and had grown so cross and surly that he declared he would have no Christmas in his house that year. And Hans and Gretchen had wandered away mournfully on the mountain-side to talk it over.
The Fir was so glad they talked German! If it had been French, now, I don’t believe it could have understood them at all.
“It is such a little one!” said Hans.
“And it has such lovely crosses at the end of its boughs!” said Gretchen.
(The Fir never knew before that it had crosses. But there they were, sure enough.)
“Let’s cut it down and try,” said both together.
So Hans swung his small ax sturdily, and down came the tree. That is, it was too short to fall. It just tipped over on its side a little.
Well, to make the story short, the Fir was carried down and decked out in such simple ways as they could provide without spending any money.
When the peasant saw it for the first time on Christmas Eve – they had kept it for a surprise – he clapped his hands with delight, in spite of all his surliness. And that night, for the first time for many weeks, he brought out the old leather-covered Bible and read a chapter before bed-time.
And what chapter was it?
Why, the story of the first Christmas Eve, when Christ was born in Bethlehem.
As there was now but one article left, all knew that it must be Mr. Percival’s.
They therefore composed themselves to listen with much interest to the story entitled
GETTING SQUARE WITH HIM
BY THE OLDEST INHABITANT
“Let that girl alone!”
The speaker was a tall, slightly-built boy of perhaps sixteen. His eyes flashed, and his fists clenched nervously.
“Let that girl alone, I say, or” —
“Well, or what?” sneered a coarse-looking fellow, some two or three years older than the first. “You needn’t think you own this town, Winthrop Ayre, if you did come from Boston!” And he once more advanced toward a neatly-dressed girl, who was timidly cowering in a corner by a stone wall and a high fence, to avoid the touch of her rough tormentor. The latter was supported by two more of his kind, and all three were evidently trying to frighten her by their fierce looks and rude words.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mort Lapham!” exclaimed Winthrop indignantly, placing himself directly in front of the frightened girl. “Deacon Lapham’s son might be in better business than insulting girls in the street.”
“So you want to put your finger in the pie, do you? Here, fellows, let’s give him a lesson!”
Winthrop noticed that the attention of all three was now upon him alone, and motioned to the girl to run. She moved slowly a few steps down the street, and then stopped. Meanwhile the big bully raised his hand and tried to slap the city boy in the face. Winthrop warded off the blow easily, and retreated into the corner where the girl had been. “You’d better keep away, Mort,” he said quietly, though his cheeks were hot; “and you, too, Dick and Phil. I don’t want to fight, and now you’ve let the girl go, there’s nothing to fight about, that I know of.”
“Coward!” cried Mort, enraged at missing his blow. “Don’t you wish you had your Sunday-school teacher here to take care of you! She wouldn’t let any one hurt you, would she, Sonny?”
The color in Winthrop’s face deepened, but he said nothing. He was rapidly turning over the question in his mind, whether Miss Kingsbury would want him to turn his cheek if three boys struck him at once.
A tingling blow on that exact spot put to flight his meditations. His fist drew back impulsively, but he would not strike yet. He was in splendid training, this boy, and still stood entirely on the defense, knowing that the true hero is not he who fights for himself, like a brute creature, but for somebody else.
“Coward!” hissed Mort Lapham once more, cautiously keeping out of reach of the other’s arm. “Hit him again, Phil!”
As the three closed about him, a determined look in their ugly faces, the girl who had lingered irresolutely at a few paces distance, gave a low cry for help, and rushed up to the group as if to protect her protector.
“Take that!” shouted Mort, throwing out his hand and striking her, perhaps harder than he really meant to, full in the face.
Before he had time to see the effect of his blow, there was a crash between his eyes, and the earth seemed suddenly flying up into the sky. As he lay on the ground half-stunned, Winthrop, who felt that it was at last time to act, turned fiercely on his other opponents. Surprised by the suddenness of his attack, they forgot the superiority of their numbers, and started backwards. Another nervous blow from the slender young athlete, and Phil was on his back beside his leader, while Dick Stanwood, tripping over a stone – purposely or not the boys never knew – went down ingloriously with the rest. Above them stood young Ayre, like Saint Michael over his enemies, panting and glowing.
“Oh! are you hurt?” asked the girl, hurrying up to “Saint Michael,” and laying her hand on his arm.
Winthrop laughed. “Well, I’m able to walk,” he said reassuringly. Then: “Let’s leave these rascals to come to their senses. May I see you home?”
The girl flushed prettily in her eagerness. “You are so kind,” she said. “I live just the other side of that hill, and if you’ll come in a few minutes and see grandpa, I’ll be very much obliged.”
“But your forehead,” added Winthrop, as they walked along the dusty road side by side, leaving their three late assailants to sneak off in the opposite direction; “I’m afraid that fellow hurt you, though I don’t believe he meant to strike you so hard.”
“Oh! it isn’t much. I haven’t told you who I am,” she added shyly. “I know about you and your sister Marie, over at the Elms. Your Uncle Ayre and my grandfather are dear friends.”
“Then you must be ‘Puss’ Rowan!”
“Yes,” she laughed; “though it’s rather saucy for you to say it. My real name is Cecilia.”
“Excuse me, Miss Cecilia.”
“O, dear me! Don’t call me that, or I shall think you are speaking to somebody else. ‘Puss’ I’ve always been, and ‘Puss’ I must be, I suppose!” And she gave a comical little sigh, ending in another ripple of laughter, which was very pleasant to hear.
“Yes,” she went on, more soberly, “I’ve heard how your sister was ill, and you brought her here for her health, to stay all summer. May I come and see her? She’s just about my age, grandpa says.”
