Chapter 5

Tot didn't like being kissed quite so much all at a time, if it was by a grandmamma. The chickens, though, were fascinating, and as for some plushy round balls of yellow fuzz, rolling about--little ducks just hatched--Tot had never seen anything at all to compare with them. But there was a dreadful and discordant procession of big ducks that struck terror to Tot's soul, and it was very still and lonely when the night and dark crept on. The crickets and the frogs did their best, but they only made it stiller and lonelier; and the hills gleamed against the sky, and Tot missed her mamma. But yet, Tot was very sleepy, and the next she knew it was morning and she was at grandma's, where Uncle Will lived, and Uncle Will was coming pretty soon, and, better than that, mamma was coming, too; and there was a little girl, a short distance up the road, whom Tot was to play with, and then there were the chickens and the ducks, and old Brindle and the pigs, and the pony and the hay cart, and--yes, it was very delightful at grandmamma's.

Once or twice, during the next few days, Tot asked--preserving that singular reticence regarding her illusions, so common to children--to be taken to Sugar River; but grandpapa was busy haying, and grandmamma said:

"Will will come pretty soon and he will take you."

"When _is_ pwetty soon!" asked Tot, in hopeless tones.

One afternoon grandmamma gave Tot and Susie (that was the name of Tot's little playmate) each a fat hot jumble, and left them playing happily in the yard while she went back to her sewing. Susie was seven, so very safe company for little four-year-old Tot. After a while over ran Susie's brother, to summon her home to go with her mother to the village.

Tot stood at the gate, looking down the long road. Sturdy maples threw curving, interlacing boughs across, through which the sun-light filtered and flickered. How cool and shady it was! Tot all at once felt the little sunny yard grow hot and stupid, and then Susie's mamma drove out of the gate and down the long shady arch over the sun-flecked road. Tot wished she was going to the village, too. Tot wished she was going to--to--Sugar River.

"Run in to grandmamma, little Tot," whispered the still small voice. But Tot never heeded. Tot was tired. Tot was hot. Tot was homesick. Tot would walk down the road just a few little steps. What harm? How delightful! How grateful the cool green shade! How alluring the long level stretch of road under the arching maples! Where did it lead? It led--O, Tot knew--it led to Sugar River.

Step by step, a little and a little further on the tiny white figure glanced. A sense of happy freedom possessed the little girl. A cloud of golden butterflies beckoned on before. Here a dark thread of water crept down over the hills and splashed musically into the great stone trough. All the way an invisible brooklet gurgled and kept her company. Only one bird seemed to sing at a time--first one, then another. Wasn't it charming? And at the end of it all must be--Tot could see it now in fancy--the fluttering blue ribbon uncurling between sunny sloping banks--SUGAR RIVER--fast asleep under the summer sun, on its glittering bed of rock candy. O, rapture! Tot's mouth watered for its sugary delights.

On and on and on, with the brook and the butterflies and the welcoming bird. On, till the maples stopped and could go no further, and so she left them behind. Out into the open sun-light she came, and only the long, hot, and dazzling road stretched on before.

Tot's small feet trudged on, steadily. Just a little further on--Tot was sure--and then--But how long the road grew, how deep the dust lay, how tired the little feet were getting, little feet that can trudge about all day long in play, yet drag so wearily over long straight roads.

"I sood fink I would tum to Soogar Wiver pwetty soon," she sighed.

At last she came to where some cross-roads met, and looking down one she saw the cool green shade again. Not maples this time, but close and clustering shrubbery.

She left the brook gurgling "go-oo-oo-d-by," and the butterflies waving adieu with their golden wings, and went on alone. How sweet and still it was here! The tall grass drooped over two brown beaten paths that horses feet had worn, and a tender green light lay over all. But where was the sweet river hiding? Another meeting of cross roads. Tot looked this way, that. Ah, there it was over the road! Over the meadow. Gleaming, gliding, Sugar River, at last.

"I fought I sood det to it pwetty soon," murmured Tot, triumphantly. "Won't dwandma be glad to get some nice sugar plums? I wis I tood det froo dis fence."

Through she got, with much squeezing and rending. Tot eyed her torn pinafore, ruefully.

"I wis' 'ittle dirl's aprons wouldn't teep tearing on every single fing."

"'Pears to me," doubtfully, putting one little foot down on the soft marshy ground, "it is wather wet."

Rather wet? Yes, Totchen, very wet. Too wet for such little little feet as yours. And see, little one, the sun is getting lower. Crawl back through the fence and run home. The sleepy murmuring river has nothing but trouble for you.

But Tot stumbled on over the marshy ground.

"I don't 'ike to go down so far," sighed Tot, drawing a little drenched boot up from a treacherous bog. "And my new boots is detting all wet."

But Tot had a Spartan soul; and at last, beside the wonderful stream, on the beautiful shore she stood, and--poor, poor little Tot! The little pinafore torn, the pretty, trim boots soaked and soiled, all Tot's little body dragged and weary; yet, it isn't that that makes me say "poor little Tot!" It is to see her standing there at the goal of her childish hopes with such happy, radiant eyes, and know how soon will come to her that "saddest pain of all--to grasp the thing we long for and find how it can fail us."

Up and down she walks, searching for sweetmeat pebbles and sugary stones, and when she finds none--the water running high and close to the grassy ground--she stoops and, dipping her little fingers, she lifts them, wet and dripping, to her longing lips.

"It isn't _vewy_ sweet," she said.

Poor little Tot! Down the stream she came to a ford, and the shallow water had left stones and pebbles bare. Big and little, and half size; white and yellow, and brown and gray.

Here was richness at last. All in a minute Tot's little, nibbling, crunching teeth went on edge on a perverse, grating pebble that sternly refused to be nibbled or crunched. Another and another and another she tried.

"Pwobably," she thought, "they has to be cwacked dus 'ike nuts." And she proceeded to crack, not the stones, but her own little, eager, blundering fingers, instead. O stony, stony-hearted stones and pebbly-hearted pebbles! Tot's cup of bitterness seemed to flow over. She stood up, sobbing. A sudden sense of desolation oppressed her.

"I wis' I was at home wiv dwandma. I wis,' oh, I _wis'_ I hadn't tum!" she sobbed.

Her only thought, now, was to get home. But, first, what do you think she did? She filled her bit of a pocket full of pebbles for grandmamma to crack; then the little weary feet stumbled back again over the weary way.

"My feet's is detting so heavy," she sighed, "and I _fink_ I's detting tired."

Tot was crying piteously now, and no one heard. All alone, mamma's baby, who had never been alone before in all her short cherished life. All alone with the croaking frogs and lonesome crickets. Hark! what was that? A roll of wheels and the clatter of a horse's hoofs.

"Whoa!" called out a boy's shrill voice. Down to the ground dropped the owner of the voice. "What is the matter, little girl?"

"I'se been to Soogar Wiver, and I don't know how to det home aden, I'se so vewy tired, and I toodn't cwack the candy, and I want to see dwandma," and Tot's words ended in a wail of inarticulate woe.

"Where do you live?" asked the boy.

"A dwate, dwate ways off," answered Tot.

"What is your name?"

"Tot Lindsay."

"Lindsay? O, I know! All you've got to do is to jump into this wagon and have a nice ride, and, presently, we'll be there."

And presently, in the gloaming, they stopped before grandpapa's house, and the boy, lifting out Tot in his arms, carried her to the door and bade her good-by, and, jumping into his wagon, rattled away. Empty and silent stood the little house, like the dwelling of the Three Talking Bears, and little Tot might have been Silver Hair herself.

"Dwandma, dwandma!" she called. But no grandmamma replied.

"Perhaps she has dus dorn out a minute," thought she. "I'll det up on dis lounge and tover dis shawl over me, and s'prise her when she tums back."

Something else besides the shawl covered Tot's eyes. Down over the blue orbs drifted the snowy lids. Tired little Tot.

Where was dwandma and the rest all this time? In trouble and confusion. Calling and searching, searching and calling: "Tot, Tot, Tot, little Tot! Where are you?" Grandpapa and grandmamma, and Uncle Will and Tot's mamma.

At last, on the road running beside the river, they had found the fragment of dotted cambric, held fast by a detaining splinter; and then Tot's mamma had run ahead and led them across the meadow, right in the track of Tot's little feet, straight to the river. And then grandmamma had said, quaveringly, that Tot was always asking to go to Sugar River; and then Will's heart had given a great guilty throb, and sank way, way down. He knew so well _why_. And then Tot's mamma had thrown up her two hands, and darted towards a little string of coral beads and picked it up. And, as they stood there, the river's murmur seemed like the murmur of the river of death, and the white fog, beginning to rise, like the folds of a little child's shroud; and Tot's mamma threw up her hands again and fell among all the unfeeling stones and pebbles.

Will ran all the way home and went straight to the barn and harnessed the horse, and then went into the house and into the sitting-room and snatched a shawl from the lounge, and--"Jerusalem Crickets!" was all he had breath enough left to say. Tot had surprised somebody, indeed.

Down by the river, in the dusk and the river damp, as they waited, came Will, striding along with what looked like a bundle of old shawls upon his shoulder; and presently, parting the folds like the calyx of a flower, Tot's rosy face blossomed out.

"Peekabo!" she said, with a sweet sound of laughter. "O mamma, mamma!"

It was wonderful how quickly mamma recovered; and it was more wonderful still how ever Tot escaped sudden death, then and there, from suffocation. But, bless you! You need not worry, it was larks to Tot.

What a triumphal procession home it was. Tot, in her little night-dress sat in her mother's lap, and told her adventures; and Will sat in the darkest corner and said not a word, but resolved that no story more fabulous than that of George Washington and his hatchet should ever again pass his lips. His lip quivered, as much as a boy's lip is ever allowed, when Tot said:

"And I brought home a whole pottet full to cwack."

"Never mind, to-night. Wait till to-morrow," said mamma.

Tot went obediently to sleep, and woke in the morning to find beside her pillow, such lots of candy--her Sugar River candy she thought, all cracked and ready to eat.

"It tastes dus 'ike any tandy," said Tot.

They didn't tell her then, the illusion was so dear to her childish heart. But, when she was a little older, Tot laughed as long and as gleefully as anyone over the story of the little girl who went to Sugar River for sugar plums.

A PIONEER "WIDE AWAKE."

One event in the life of Jacob Lohr qualified him, in my opinion, to be mustered into the army of "Wide Awakes." Let me tell the children the incident and see if they agree with me.

He was a native of the Mohawk Valley near Schenectady, New York, and when about twenty years old, with his young wife, Polly, emigrated to the wilds of Western Pennsylvania. This was more than seventy years ago, when the magnificent forests of that region afforded some of the finest hunting-grounds in America. Here Jacob began clearing a farm, built a log dwelling-house, planted corn and potatoes, and in a few years became a thriving pioneer.

But the pride of his forest farm was his pigs. He had built a strong pen of logs, with a heavy door, in order to protect them in the night from wild animals. It stood about five rods from the house, near the brook, just across which, and not thirty feet from the sty, was the edge of the dense natural forest.

During the day they were permitted to roam at large in the woods eating nuts, by which they fattened for the larder; but when night approached, they were called and zealously secured in the pen, a practice which soon taught the pigs the habit of early retiring. Gradually, however, Mr. Lohr's punctuality in this matter abated, until one evening it had become fairly dark ere he went to shut them in. As he walked down the beaten path, a rustling in the adjacent bushes made him think that the pigs might still be out; and to satisfy himself on the point, he entered the pen and felt around, saying as he did so, "One two, three--all here." Then as he turned to the door, he wondered what caused the rustling across the brook. But as he stooped to go out, his wonder was threateningly answered by a low growl from a dark crouching object, only two or three steps in front of him.

With swift hands he closed the door, shutting himself in; and none too soon, for instantly a heavy animal leaped on the roof over his head and began fiercely scratching at the cover. At the same time a mewing at the door, and a snuffing at the side of the pen, showed him that he was a prisoner, with at least three panthers as his jailors. But unlike jailors generally, these were more eager to get their captive out than to keep him in; while the prisoner, instead of wishing to "break jail," was anxious not to do so.

All night long he was a "Wide Awake," as were also the pigs, for the panthers were growling and screaming, scratching and digging around and upon the pen, trying to tear it to pieces and seize the occupants. Although feverishly excited, he felt quite secure, because the sty was so substantially built.

Yet such lodgings and neighbors, within and without, would not tend to produce very placid slumbers, even if the walls were cannon-proof.

Various plans were tried by Polly, his wife, who had become aware of the situation, to drive away the creatures, but in vain.

She held a torch where it shone toward the pen; she screamed through the narrow casement, and rattled a tin pan at the animals; but she did not know how to load and fire the gun; and as to going outside the door, it is doubtful if even the boldest hunter, well armed, would have dared so much at night, in the face of a whole family of hungry panthers.

Meanwhile, Jacob kept up a lively interest among his jailors.

Discovering that they had scratched at some of the larger cracks between the logs, until they could thrust in their noses, he peeled a piece of tough bark from the side of the pen, and began striking at them, giving them many stinging blows.

And afterward, when relating the story, he would laugh heartily at remembering the sneezing, snarling and grumbling this occasioned. Although he had so much to keep him excited, the night seemed very long.

At last, however, the daylight began to dawn, and he heard his jailors mewing and purring together as if in council, and then all was silent all around the pen.

Half an hour later, Polly called to him that they were gone away.

It was with extreme caution, however, that he opened the door a little and peered out.

A panther is like a cat in slyness or cunning, watching stealthily for prey and springing upon it in the most unexpected way.

And so, before he ventured out, he scanned with sharp eyes the edge of the woods across the brook; for he did not fancy being the mouse for these three great cats. Satisfying himself as well as he could, that the way was clear, he sprang forth, closed the door quickly behind him, and rushed for the house. But no panthers appeared; they had probably retired into the deep shadows of the hemlocks.

His "Wide Awake" night was ended.

Upon investigating the scene of the night's operations, he found the sty amazingly scratched and gnawed in many places, proving the strength of tooth and nail and the ferocity of his jailors. Several long deep gashes on one of the pigs showed where a panther had thrust in his paw by a crack and tried to seize a victim.

But my story is only half told.

* * * * *

An old adage says, "It is a poor rule that won't work both ways;" and so thought Jacob. He resolved in the morning, that if the creatures should come back the next night, as they would be quite apt to do, he would turn the tables and try to teach them the pleasure of being imprisoned in a pig-sty.

Anybody who has lived in a region infested by carnivorous animals, knows how they prowl around the settler's cabin the night after any fat animal, cattle or swine is killed, for the meat. They snuff the blood from afar in the forest, and hasten to the place to have a tooth, or a paw, in the division of the spoils. Knowing this peculiarity of panthers, Jacob and Polly held a consultation, and as it was about time in the autumn to make pork of the pigs, they decided to perform that work during the day. The scent of blood would serve as a double inducement for his visitors to return.

So, in the afternoon, the task was done, the pen and vicinity being the scene of the slaughter, and all the bloody tidbits placed inside the door. Every such thing was arranged to attract the animals into the sty if possible. The meat was placed safely in the garret of the house.

The door of the pen was so constructed as to open and shut something like the lower sash of a window, by sliding up and down, a peg holding it open by day and closed by night. When the door was open, this peg had only to be pulled out, to let it shut down like a flash; and being shut no animal could open it. Jacob went along the brook and obtained a quantity of bark from the moosewood, (_Dirca palustris_,) of which he made a strong cord, long enough to reach from the pen to the house. One end of this he tied tightly to the peg that supported the door, and the other he made fast inside the house.

When night came, he was ready for visitors.

Stationing themselves at the window, he and Polly watched and listened.

Hardly had it become dark, when they heard the mewing of the panthers at no great distance in the forest. Persons who are familiar only with the mewing of cats, have little idea how a panther's stronger, but similar voice will ring through the woods.

In a little time they distinctly heard one of them leap upon the pen and begin scratching as the night before; and in a moment more, by the confined sound of purring and growling, it was evident they had entered the sty and were disputing over the morsels of meat.

Then Jacob gave the bark cord a vigorous jerk and they heard the door drop.

I suppose it would be impossible to describe the excitement of Polly and Jacob at this moment, but the girls and boys can imagine something of it.

They did not dare to go out to see if they had caught the _panthers_, lest, having failed, the panthers might catch _them_.

Before morning, however, they were sure enough that one or more was captured, for there was a great deal of smothered howling, just as it would sound from animals shut in a pen.

Previous wakefulness made sleep necessary during most of the night, but at daybreak they were astir and at the casement to catch the first possible glimpse of the situation. As it became light enough, they discovered a huge, handsome panther stretched out on the roof of the pen, her head lying across her paws, like a cat asleep. By this they knew that others were confined inside, for whose escape this one was waiting. It was but a brief task for Jacob, who was a good marksman, to point his rifle through the window and give her its contents. Without a struggle the splendid animal straightened her powerful limbs and died. Reloading his gun, Jacob walked cautiously toward the pen, watching in every direction, lest there might be another one outside ready to spring upon him, but seeing none, he went up and peered through a crack.

At once two pairs of eyes flashed at him, and fierce growls remonstrated against the state of affairs.

Had Barnum flourished in those days, Jacob might have found a market for the animals alive, but as it was he regarded it safer to shoot them as quickly as possible, through a crevice between the logs.

Upon placing the dead animals side by side near the house he discovered that they were mother and full-grown kittens, all very large and plump, with thick, glossy fur.

I have only to add, that he was paid by the state a bounty of twenty-four dollars apiece for killing the panthers, which was quite a fortune for a pioneer in those days. Their red-brown skins, sewed together, made a larger and nicer lap-robe than the hide of any buffalo; and years after, with Jacob's children, I took many a sleigh-ride under this warm covering.

All in favor of numbering Jacob among the "Wide Awakes," say _aye_!

SURPRISED.

I.

"Mitz" began to cry piteously. "Mieu--mieu--mi-e-e," he cried, and all little Hannah's trotting only made him worse. At that moment "Mitz" was wrapped in a pillow-case, while his head was buried in Hannah's little shawl. His ears were pulled down, and his promising tail was all in a heap, and his resplendent moustache was crushed. Therefore was it a wonder that Mitz howled most dolefully? It is not necessary to say that Mitz was a kitten.

Mitz's mother was sitting in a corner of the fire-place, with tail neatly curled about her paws. Three of Mitz's brothers and sisters were lost somewhere in the shadow about her, and two others the children had put to bed.

It was a queer old room in an old German house; a room large and dim, with two great windows full of diamond-shaped panes, and on the opposite side a huge chimney with a tall, narrow mantel-shelf and a tiled hearth, on which stood two brass griffins, shiny and ferocious. In the depths in the fire-place, behind the griffins, there Mitz was sobbing. I say sobbing because the children were playing "house," and Mitz was supposed to be the baby. What a fine play-house this big fire-place was in summer! It had in turn figured as Aladdin's cave and a school-house; a brigand ambush, and a dwelling with modern improvements. But now it was growing dark in the big, bare room, and you had to look closely into the back of the hearth to see the two little figures--one trotting the baby, and the other rocking the doll's cradle in which two of Mitz's sisters were tied with cord, for their good, of course. But Mitz's piteous cries raised echoes.

"Mieu, mieu!" cried Mitz, trying to claw something under the pillow case. "Mieu, mieu!" chimed in Mitz's sisters, while little Hannah trotted desperately, and the doll's cradle was rocked as if by a small tempest.

"It's no use," said little Hannah, in great perplexity; "all people's children arn't always bad! Mitz--you wicked Mitz!" And she shook that badly-behaved child. "He's been crying ever since we began to play. He wouldn't eat his bread and milk, though I tied on his best new bib. Oh, dear me, Mrs. Liseke, how noisy your children are! Suppose," said little Hannah, vainly endeavoring to pacify the indignant Mitz, "suppose, Mrs. Liseke, we take the children out for a walk?"