Part 9

“We were down at the hole under the willows where we fished in summer and the boys set traps for muskrats in winter. It was getting colder, and I told Charlie I thought I’d go on to the house instead of going with him to the cabin in the sugar grove where he and Truman were keeping their skins that winter. The cabin was convenient to the traps, and Truman had put a good lock on the door and he and Charlie each had a key. I wanted to go to the house to play with brother Joe’s baby and see whether anyone else had come and to find out how the dinner was coming on. So Charlie told me to go ahead and he would come as soon as he skinned a couple of muskrats he had caught in his traps.

“There were so many of us and so much confusion that I did not notice until dinner was nearly over that Charlie was not there. When I called Mother’s attention to it, she said he was probably around somewhere and would eat presently. It took a long time to serve dinner that day, and afterward a sled load of neighboring young folks came in and there were games and music and a general good time. No one missed Charlie but me, and I didn’t miss him all the time, either.

“But about four o’clock in the afternoon Mother came out to the kitchen where some of the girls were popping corn and asked anxiously if anyone had seen Charlie. Belle said he hadn’t come in for any dinner.

“‘I can’t imagine where he is,’ Mother said. ‘He never did a thing like this before. He may have met the Orbison boys and gone home with them, but I can’t understand it at all. It isn’t like Charlie.’

“Just then Truman came up from the cellar with a big basket of apples we had polished the previous day.

“‘What about Charlie?’ he asked. ‘Where is he? What’s the trouble?’

“Mother explained that Charlie had gone to his traps early that morning and hadn’t been at the house since, nor been seen by any one since he had started for the cabin with two muskrats to skin.

“Truman just stared at Mother.

“‘You say Charlie went to the cabin this morning?’ he repeated slowly as if he couldn’t believe it. ‘Well, then, by jingoes, Mother, that’s where he is right now!’ And he went on to tell how when he was coming from feeding the stock on the upper place he had noticed that the door of the cabin was shut, but the lock was not snapped. He supposed Charlie had forgotten to tend to it as he had one other night, and so he had snapped it shut and come along home. Charlie had evidently been busy and had not heard the lock click.

“‘Oh, the poor boy!’ cried Mother. ‘Go see about him at once, Truman.’ And she began putting things in the oven to heat.

“And, sure enough, that was where they found Charlie—he had been locked up in the cabin all day. When he found he was locked in, he had tried to pry the windows open, but they were securely nailed down. He had shouted himself hoarse and had even attempted to climb up the chimney and get out that way.

“A little later, when he was thoroughly warmed and had had a good wash and sat at the kitchen table eating his dinner, with Mother piling up good things on his plate and Charlie eating as if he were afraid some one would snatch it away before he got enough, Father came out of the sitting room and stood looking down at him.

“‘Well, son,’ he said, ‘have you thought of anything special to be thankful for yet?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ Charlie answered, grinning. ‘I’m thankful for something to eat and a fire.’

“Well, well, if it isn’t bedtime already!”

TAKING A DARE

The next evening when Bobby and Alice and Pink came to Grandma’s room, she was astonished to behold an ugly black-and-blue lump on Bobby’s forehead, right over his eye.

“Why, what’s this?” Grandma asked, laying down her knitting and examining the bruise. “Wait till I get the arnica, and then you can tell me all about it.”

And while she bathed Bobby’s swollen forehead with the arnica, Bobby told her how another boy had dared him to hang by his toes from the scaffolding of a half-finished house and how his feet had slipped and he had had a fall.

“He said I was afraid to try,” said Bobby, “but I showed him!”

“And you got hurt into the bargain,” remarked Grandma, taking up her knitting again. “Don’t you know, my dear, that it is sometimes braver to take a dare than not? There is a time to say ‘no,’ and the boy or girl who doesn’t know when to say ‘no’ is often foolhardy rather than brave. I didn’t always know that, though, and I’ll tell you how I learned it. When I was little I played so much with brother Charlie that in many ways I was like a boy. One of Charlie’s codes was that he would never take a dare, and so of course it became my code, too.

“One Friday night Betty Bard came home from school with me to stay until Saturday afternoon. It was in the fall, and the nuts were ripe. On the meathouse floor, spread out to dry, were chestnuts, walnuts, hazelnuts, hickory nuts, and butternuts. Betty’s grandfather was our preacher. There were no nuts of any kind on the ground belonging to the parsonage, so we had been giving Betty some of our nuts. She had already gotten hickory nuts and chestnuts, and this evening we had gathered a bag of walnuts and we were out in the wood lot shelling them.

“We each had a flat stone to lay the nut on and another stone to hit it with. We wore old leather gloves to protect our hands, for the walnut juice makes an ugly brown stain. We would lay a nut on the flat stone, hit it hard with the other stone, and the green outer covering or shell would come off easily, leaving the walnut, which would then have to be dried.

“Not far from us Charlie sat cracking walnuts, left over from the year before, for the chickens. He would crack a nut and throw it to the chickens and they would pick the meat out with their beaks. Mother said walnut meats were good for the chickens and made the hens lay, and we often had to crack walnuts for the chickens. But this evening Charlie did not want to do it. He wanted to go on the hill to look at some traps he had set for rabbits, and he offered to give me his new slate pencil if I would crack the walnuts. Any other time I should have jumped at the chance of getting a new slate pencil so easily. But this evening, I wanted to help Betty shell her nuts so we would have time the next day to play and go down to the persimmon tree.

“‘Very well,’ declared Charlie. He said that if I wouldn’t help him, he wouldn’t go with us to the persimmon tree. And without him to shake the tree, how would we get the persimmons? We had an especially fine persimmon tree that my great-grandfather had planted, and Betty and I wanted to get the fruit that was in the top branches. Charlie had promised to climb the tree for us, but now he said he wouldn’t do it unless I would finish cracking the walnuts.

“‘All right, you needn’t,’ I replied. ‘We don’t want you. I’ll climb the tree myself. But really I did not think for a moment I would do any such thing, for, of all the trees around, grandfather’s persimmon, as we called it, was the hardest to climb.

“Charlie laughed mockingly.

“‘I dare you!’ he cried. ‘I double dare you!’

“I jumped up, and so did Betty, and we threw our gloves to the ground and started for the persimmon tree.

“‘Are you sure you can do it?’ whispered Betty.

“I had my doubts myself by this time, for, though I could go all over the gnarled old apple tree in the side yard and climb the cherry trees and the peach trees and any reasonably high tree, to climb to the top of grandfather’s persimmon was a different undertaking.

“Charlie saw us talking and thought I was weakening.

“‘If you can’t do it, Sarah,’ he said, ‘of course I’ll let you off.’

“‘I can do it all right,’ I answered grimly, but I wished with all my heart I hadn’t said I would do it in the first place.

“The lower limbs of the persimmon were so high from the ground that for a while it looked as if I shouldn’t even get into the tree at all. Charlie offered to boost me, but I scorned his help. When finally, with the aid of a fence rail and by ‘cooning,’ I reached the lowest branch, my hands were scratched and swollen and hurting dreadfully. But after that it wasn’t as hard. As I went up, slowly and carefully, Betty and Charlie, under the tree, watched me.

“‘Be careful, Sarah,’ Betty cautioned every little bit. ‘Do be careful.’

“‘Higher, higher!’ Charlie kept calling.

“At last I reached the top and looked down, and then the most dreadful thing happened: I got awfully sick—sick and dizzy. I closed my eyes tight and held to the trunk of the tree and felt as if I should fall any minute. If I should fall to the ground and be killed, then every one would say it was Charlie’s fault. And it wouldn’t be at all, for I should have known better than to try to climb the old tree. I thought about the new blue delaine dress which I had never worn—they could bury me in that. And then I tried to say my prayers, but I was so dizzy, oh, so dizzy, that I couldn’t remember a single word of them.

“I told Charlie and Betty I was dizzy and that I was afraid I’d fall.

“At first they thought I was fooling, but they soon saw I was in earnest.

“‘Hold on tight!’ Betty screamed. ‘Keep your eyes shut. Don’t be afraid, Sarah, we’ll save you.’

“Charlie ran around as if he were crazy, crying and shouting, ‘It’s my fault, it’s all my fault! Hold on tight, Sarah. I’ll bring Stanley. He’ll get you down. Hold on!’

“‘No, no!’ cried Betty when Charlie started off at a run. ‘Come back, Charlie. We mustn’t leave her that way, she might fall. You’ll have to tie her in the tree.’

“Betty had on a new pinafore made out of strong gingham. She took it off and with Charlie’s knife they slit it into strips from neck to hem and knotted them together and Charlie climbed the tree and tied the gingham around my waist and to the trunk of the tree so that I couldn’t fall out.

“Then Charlie ran to the house for help, and it didn’t take Father and Stanley long to get there. Stanley carried me down to the lower branches and handed me to Father, and in a little while I felt all right again.

“I thought Father would think I was brave, but he didn’t at all. He was cross because Charlie had urged me to do such a foolish thing and because I hadn’t had courage to say I was afraid. He said we would have to take our own money to buy gingham for another apron for Betty. We did, and Aggie made it, and it was prettier than the one she had torn up, for Aggie worked a cross-stitch pattern in red around the hem.

“For a long time I could not bear to go near grandfather’s persimmon tree, and I have never forgotten the lesson I learned that day.”

DOGS

Bobby wanted a dog. He never remembered having wanted anything so much in all his life before. If he had his choice, he would prefer a mahogany-colored bull terrier, he told Grandma, but would gladly take any kind of a dog—even a common yellow dog.

“It’s a shame you can’t have a dog,” said Grandma sympathetically. Every boy should have a dog, I say. We always had dogs—collies and hounds and ordinary dogs, and once we had a wonderful fox terrier. He belonged to brother Charlie, who loved dogs as much as any one I ever knew, though I had some claim on him, too. The way we got Sport, that was his name, well—you might like to hear about that.

“Mother was going to the city to visit Uncle John, and Charlie and I were going along. Neither of us had ever been on the steam cars before, and we were all excited about it. We talked of nothing else for days. I hardly noticed my new buttoned shoes or my velvet bonnet. Mother was excited, too, at the last. She wore a brown dress with a great many buttons up the front and a bonnet with a plume. I thought she looked beautiful, and I think Father did, too, for when he had put us in the train at Clayville it seemed as if he couldn’t leave us. He took us into the train and found us seats, and told Mother over and over where she was to change cars and what to do if Uncle John shouldn’t be there to meet us, and gave her so many directions that Mother got nervous.

“‘Yes, yes, dear, I know. Do go now or the train will start before you get out.’

“Father laughed and got off. Then he came rushing back all out of breath just as the train was starting because, after all he had forgotten to give Mother the tickets.

“With a ringing of bells and a puffing of the engine we were off, and Charlie and I settled down to a day of solid enjoyment. We had a nice lunch that the girls had packed—chicken and pickles and election cake, with apples and cookies to eat between times. Everything seemed wonderful! The fine red plush seats, the conductor in his blue uniform and brass buttons, the rushing at such a swift pace through the country—it was like fairyland to me.

“But I got car-sick, and then pretty soon Charlie got a cinder in his eye. Poor Mother had her hands full. She made a pillow for me with the wraps and I lay down, but I didn’t get any better. A lady across the aisle handed Mother a piece of stiff writing paper and told her to pin it inside my dress. Mother did, but it only scratched my chest and didn’t help me. Mother got a flaxseed out of her bag and put it in Charlie’s eye. It worked the cinder out, but his eye was red and swollen, and we were all glad when we came to the city. Uncle John was waiting for us, and we got on a horse car and rode to within a short distance of his home.

“The next morning we felt fine and started out to explore with our cousins, Lily and Tom. The street was lined on each side with horse-chestnut trees, and children were picking up the glossy, brown nuts in baskets. But Charlie and I didn’t think much of picking up nuts we couldn’t eat. Charlie didn’t like the city at all. The houses were too tall and dark to suit him and the back yards too little and the grass not meant to be trodden on. A fellow couldn’t whistle or make a bit of noise without annoying some one, and there were no dogs, except an occasional fat pug or a curly poodle.

“Lily and Tom took us to the park at the end of the street for a walk. Charlie said it wasn’t as big as our cow pasture, and Tom said he knew it was and that anyhow we had no seats in our cow pasture. Just then a horse car went along, and after that Charlie wouldn’t do anything but sit on a bench and watch the horse cars come and go. He had found one thing he liked in the city, though he said that if he owned the cars he would have nice, sleek, well-fed horses like Father’s instead of such skinny ones.

“Sometimes Lily and I would play in the park with our dolls. One afternoon, a couple of days before we were to start for home, I was sitting on the bench beside Charlie when what should come running around the corner but a dirty, little, white dog with black spots! Not that we could see the black spots then. He was too dirty for that, all covered with mud and blood. His tongue was hanging out, and he ran as if he were exhausted, in a zigzag line, blindly. He was limping, too.

“I think Charlie would have run right out and picked the poor dog up, but he saw us almost as soon as we saw him. And when Charlie gave a low whistle, he ran over and crawled under the bench we were sitting on. He was hardly out of sight when around the same corner came a crowd of boys and men, waving sticks and clubs, and led by a policeman, brandishing a revolver, all of them yelling, ‘Mad dog! Mad dog! Mad dog!’

“There was some shrubbery behind the bench, but still if they came over they would be sure to see the dog. I was so frightened that I hardly breathed while they poked with their sticks around the low bushes that grew in clumps here and there. The fact that we sat so quietly saved the dog’s life, for they thought we had not even seen the dog. They went hurrying on and were soon all out of sight—or we thought they were. But it happened that a boy had fallen behind and turned back home just in time to see Charlie get poor Sport out from under the bench.

“He gave the alarm, and Charlie and I, with the dog wrapped in Charlie’s coat, had hardly reached the kitchen and explained things to Tom, who was making a kite in the back yard, when we could hear shouting down the street.

“We looked around for a hiding place. There was none. Then Tom thought of the attic. He and Charlie and the dog would hide in the attic. Up the back stairs they rushed and on up to the attic. I slipped into the sitting room where Lily was practicing and picked up a book just as there came a loud knocking at the front door.

“Aunt Mary went to the door, and she was very indignant and cross when a policeman asked her to give up a mad dog. Whoever heard of such a thing? A mad dog, indeed! She had no dog at all, nor ever had had a dog, she said. He was welcome to come in if he wanted to and look for himself. But Aunt Mary was so sincere that the officer apologized for troubling her and went away, taking the crowd with him.

“When the boys came down from the attic and brought the dog, Mother and Aunt Mary were frightened and didn’t know what to do with him. But Tom found a big box and they put him in that until Uncle John came home.

“‘Is he really mad, John?’ asked Aunt Mary anxiously as Uncle John examined the little dog.

“‘No more mad than I am,’ Uncle John answered, and he declared that he was a valuable little dog, too, but that if he were turned over to the police he would be shot. He didn’t know what to do with him, as they had no room for a dog.

“Charlie begged so hard to take the dog home with us, and he was so pretty and cute after he had had a bath and a rest, licking our hands and wagging his stubby tail, that Mother finally consented. Charlie named him Sport because he said that name suited him.

“And going home Charlie and I rode most of the time in the baggage car with Sport, and we were so busy taking care of him that we were not sick a bit and didn’t get any cinders in our eyes.”

THE LAST INDIAN

“Last summer,” began Alice one evening when the children came to Grandma’s room, “when we were in the country we went to the valley where the last Indians in this county were seen—the last wild Indians, I mean.”

“Were there any wild Indians around when you were a little girl, Grandma?” asked Bobby eagerly.

“Well, no,” said Grandma thoughtfully. “But my Father remembered very well when bands of Indians went through the country on hunting expeditions. They were thought to be of the Delaware tribe, but were called Cornplanter Indians, probably because they cultivated large fields of corn as well as hunted and fished for their living. It was customary, during the winter, for bands of these Indians to hunt deer and other game in the forests. They would follow the chase for weeks at a time. Father said that as each deer was killed it was carefully dressed and hung high in some near-by tree, beyond the reach of wolves and dogs. At the close of the hunting season the carcasses were gathered together and taken to the Indian camp.

“But though the Indians were gone when I was a little girl, there were many things left to remind us of them. Old trees, blazed to mark Indian trails, still stood, and arrowheads and darts were often ploughed up in the fields. My brothers had quite a collection of them, and they also had a tomahawk that looked very much like a hatchet.

“And there was one Indian left, too. I almost forgot about him—old John Cornplanter. He was supposed to have belonged to the Cornplanter Indians, but no one knew much about him. He lived alone on an unsurveyed piece of land and was seldom seen except when he brought his skins to sell or came to the store for occasional supplies. He lived as his forbears had lived, by hunting and fishing, and, like them, he had a cornfield.

“He made few friends because he was gruff and short of speech and surly in manner. He had a quick temper which flared up at the least thing, and some of the men and boys teased him on purpose to make him angry. Father said it wasn’t right.

“One day when Father and my brother Stanley were coming through our woods they heard a noise like that of some one groaning. Hunting around, they presently found the Indian, John Cornplanter, helpless and unconscious, with what turned out to be a broken leg. They carried him into the cabin in the sugar grove and Stanley went for the doctor. The doctor set his leg. For a time they thought he would die, for he had been exposed to the weather for hours before Father found him. But he got better, though slowly, and for weeks he lay on one of the bunks in the cabin, and Father took care of him and Mother sent him things he liked to eat.

“At first I was afraid to go near the cabin, but after a while I got brave enough to venture in with Father. Then it wasn’t long till Charlie and I were visiting Cornplanter every day, carrying him food and cool drinks.

“When he got better, he wove pretty baskets and carved things out of wood and made Charlie a bow and arrow. After he got well and went home, he often came back to see us, bringing presents of fish or game, or maybe a basket of wild strawberries or early greens. Charlie and I liked to walk back with him through the woods as far as the edge of our farm, and sometimes he would build a fire and we would have a meal of some kind of game, cornbread baked on a stone heated in the fire, and wild honey.

“He taught Charlie new ways to set traps and cure skins, and he showed me where the first trailing arbutus was to be found, hiding, fragrant and pink, under the brown leaves. He knew where the mistletoe grew and where the cardinal built her nest, and he could mimic any kind of a bird or animal.

“But no one knew John as we did. As he grew older his manner became gruffer and his temper shorter. People were afraid of him, and there was some talk of making him leave the country.

“In the winter he would go for miles and miles hunting and trapping, for even then game was not so plentiful as it had been. One winter Cornplanter brought a deer he had shot and dressed to Orbison’s woods and hung it in a tree, just as his people before him had done, until he should be ready to take it the rest of the way home.

“That night there was a light fall of snow. The next morning some boys on their way to school spied the deer hanging in the tree and, thinking to tease John, they moved the deer to the very top of the tree and fastened it there. Then they went on to school, not thinking but that the Indian would immediately discover the deer.

“But Cornplanter was old and his sight was poor. When he came along a little later, he saw only that the deer was not where he had left it, and, thinking that it had been stolen, he set out to follow the tracks the boys had made in the snow.

“Mr. Carson, on his way to the store, saw John stalking along, head down, in the direction of the schoolhouse, but thought nothing of it. When he got to the store he would not have mentioned the fact had he not found the men there gravely shaking their heads over the joke the boys had played on John Cornplanter. It wasn’t safe to joke with John, they said. Bud McGill, who had helped move the deer, had gone around to the store and told about it. So when Mr. Carson said he had seen John going in the direction of the schoolhouse, they were all greatly disturbed. Several men started immediately for the schoolhouse. No telling what John might do!

“In the meantime John had arrived at the schoolhouse and opening the door without knocking, stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it. He was a forbidding figure, dressed in furs from head to foot, a gun at his side, a dark frown on his face. He looked at the teacher.

“‘Where deer?’ he demanded. ‘Where deer?’