Part 2

A French peasant whom Dr. Morris, in his delightful book of dog stories, speaks about, came home from market with a well-filled pocket-book in his knapsack, and his poodle at his heels. Imagine the poor fellow's grief when, on reaching his house, he discovered a hole in the knapsack, through which his purse must have fallen to the ground! But also picture his delight, an instant later, on seeing his faithful little companion enter the room, carrying the lost treasure in his mouth! He had seen it fall, quietly picked it up, and followed the whole distance with it.

Did you ever think how many queer old proverbs there are concerning dogs? "Love me, love my dog;" "Give a dog a bad name, and hang him;" "A living dog is better than a dead lion;" "A dog's life;" "Going to the dogs;" these are phrases we often hear. Uncomplimentary as many such are, they can not alter the truth that the dog is the most faithful, loving, and pleasant of all man's four-footed friends, and one who, if he can not talk, must in some sense think, reason, and--just not talk.

THE CANOE FIGHT.

AN INCIDENT OF THE CREEK WAR.

BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.

The smallest naval battle ever fought in the world, perhaps, was fought on the Alabama River on the 13th of November, 1813, between two canoes, and this is the way in which it happened.

The United States were at war with Great Britain at that time, and a war with Spain was also threatened. The British had stirred up the Indians in the Northwest to make war upon the whites, and in 1813 they persuaded the Creek Indians of Alabama and Mississippi to begin a war there.

The government troops were so busy with the British in other quarters of the country that very little could be done for the protection of the white settlers in the Southwest, and for a good while they had to take care of themselves in the best way they could. Leaving their homes, they gathered together here and there and built rude stockade forts, in which they lived, with all their women and children. All the men, including all the boys who were old enough to pull a trigger--and frontier boys learn to use a gun very early in life--were organized into companies of volunteer soldiers.

At Fort Madison, one of the smallest of the forts, there was a very daring frontiersman, named Samuel (or Sam) Dale--a man who had lived much with the Indians, and was like them in many respects, even in his dress and manners. Hearing that the Indians were in force on the southeastern bank of the Alabama River, the people in Fort Madison were greatly alarmed, fearing that all the crops in that region--which were ripe in the fields--would be destroyed. If that should occur, they knew they must starve during the coming winter, and so they made up their minds to drive the savages away, at least until they could gather the corn.

Captain Dale at once made up a party, consisting of seventy-two men, all volunteers. With this force Dale set out on the 11th of November, taking Tandy Walker, a celebrated scout, for his guide. The column marched to the Alabama River, and crossed it at a point about twenty miles below the present town of Claiborne.

Once across the river, Dale knew that he was among the Indians, and knowing their ways, he was as watchful as if he had been one of them himself. He forbade his men to sleep at all during the night after crossing the river, and kept them under arms, in expectation of an attack.

No attack being made, he moved up the river the next morning, marching most of the men, but ordering Jerry Austill, with six men, to paddle up in two canoes that had been found. This Jerry Austill--who afterward became a merchant in Mobile and a State Senator--was a boy only nineteen years of age at the time, but he had already distinguished himself in the war by his courage.

At a point called Peggy Bailey's Bluff, Dale, who was marching with one man several hundreds of yards ahead of his men, came upon a party of Indians at breakfast. He shot one of them, and the rest ran away, leaving their provisions behind them. Securing the provisions, Dale marched on for a mile or two, but finding no further trace of Indians, he concluded that the country on that side of the river was now pretty clear of them, and so he set to work to cross to the other side, meaning to look for enemies there.

The river at that point is about a quarter of a mile wide, and as there were only two small canoes at hand, the work of taking the men across was very slow. When all were over except Dale and about a dozen others, the little remnant of the force was suddenly attacked.

The situation was a very dangerous one. With the main body of his command on the other side of the river, where it could give him no help, Dale had to face a large body of Indians with only a dozen men, and as only one canoe remained on his side of the river, it was impossible for the whole of the little party to escape by flight, as the canoe would not hold them all.

Concealing his men in the bushes, behind trees, and under the river-bank, he replied to the fire of the Indians, and kept them at bay. But it was certain that this could not last long. The Indians must soon find out from the firing how small the number of their adversaries was; and Dale knew that as soon as the discovery was made, they would rush upon him, and put the whole party to death.

He called to the men on the other side of the river to come over and help him, but they were panic-stricken, probably because they could see, as Dale could not, how large a body of Indians was pressing their commander. The men on the other bank did indeed make one or two slight attempts to cross, but these came to nothing, and the little party seemed doomed to destruction.

Bad as matters were with Dale, they soon became worse. An immense canoe, more than thirty feet long and four feet deep, came down the river, bearing eleven warriors, who undertook to land and attack Dale in the rear. This compelled the party to fight in two directions at once. Dale and his companions kept up the battle in front, while Jerry Austill, James Smith, and one other man fought the warriors in the canoe to keep them from landing. One of the eleven was killed, and another swam ashore, and succeeded in joining the Indians on the bank.

Seeing how desperate the case was, Dale resolved upon a desperate remedy. He called for volunteers for a dangerous piece of work, and was at once joined by Jerry Austill, James Smith, and a negro man whose name was Cæsar. With these men, he leaped into the little canoe, and paddled toward the big Indian boat, meaning to fight the nine Indians who remained in it, although he and his canoe party numbered only four men all told.

As the two canoes approached each other, both parties tried to fire, but their gunpowder was wet, and so they grappled for a hand-to-hand battle. Jerry Austill received the first attack, being in front. No sooner did the two canoes touch than an Indian sprang forward, and dealt the youth a terrible blow with a war club, knocking him down, and making a dent in his skull which he carried through life. Once down, he would have been killed, but for the quickness of Smith, who, seeing the danger his companion was in, raised his rifle. With a single blow he knocked over the Indian with whom Austill was struggling.

Then Austill rose, and the fierce contest went on. Dale and his men rained their blows upon their foes, and received blows quite as lusty in return, but Cæsar managed the boat so skillfully that, in spite of the superior numbers of the Indians, the fight was not very unequal. He held the little boat against the big one, but kept it at the end, so that the Indians in the other end of the big canoe could not reach Dale's men.

In this way those that were actually fighting Dale, Austill, and Smith never numbered more than three or four at any one time, and so the three could not be borne down by mere force of numbers. Dale stood for a time with one foot in each boat; then he stepped over into the Indian canoe, giving his comrades more room, and crowding the Indians toward the end of their boat.

One by one the savages fell, until only one was left facing Dale, who held Cæsar's gun, with bayonet attached, in his hand. This sole survivor was Tar-cha-chee, an Indian with whom Dale had hunted and lived, one whom he regarded as a friend, and whom he now wished to spare. But the savage was strong within the Indian's breast, and he refused to accept mercy even from a man who had been his comrade and friend. Standing erect in the bow of the canoe, he shook himself, and said, in the Muscogee tongue, "Big Sam, you are a man, I am another; now for it."

With that he rushed forward, only to meet death at the hands of the friend who would gladly have spared him.

The canoe fight was ended, but Dale's work was not yet done. His party on the bank were every minute more closely pressed, and if they were to be saved, it must be done quickly. For this purpose he and his companions at once began clearing the big canoe of its load of dead Indians. Now that only the white men were there, the Indians upon the bank directed a galling fire upon the canoe, but by careening it to one side Dale made a sort of breastwork of its thick gunwale, and thus succeeded in clearing it. When this was done, he went ashore and quickly carried off the party there, landing all of them in safety on the other side.

The hero of this singular battle lived until the year 1841. The whole story of his life is a romance of hardship, daring, and wonderful achievement. When he died, General John F. H. Claiborne, who knew him intimately, wrote a sketch of his career for a Natchez newspaper, in which he described him as follows:

"In person General Dale was tall, erect, raw-boned, and muscular. In many respects, physical and moral, he resembled his antagonists of the woods. He had the square forehead, the high cheek-bones, the compressed lips, and in fact the physiognomy of an Indian, relieved, however, by a firm, benevolent Saxon eye. Like the red men, too, his foot fell lightly upon the ground, and turned neither to the right nor left. He was habitually taciturn, his face grave, he spoke slowly, and in low tones, and he seldom laughed. I observed of him, what I have often noted as peculiar to border men of high attributes, he entertained the strongest attachment for the Indians, extolled their courage, their love of country, and many of their domestic qualities; and I have often seen the wretched remnant of the Choctaws camped around his plantation and subsisting on his crops."

It is a curious fact that after the war ended, when Weatherford (Red Eagle), who commanded the Indians on the shore in this battle with Dale, was about to marry, he asked Dale to act as his best man, and the two who had fought each other so desperately stood side by side, as devoted friends, at the altar.

ARTIE'S "AMEN."

BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

They were Methodists twain, of the ancient school, Who always followed the wholesome rule That whenever the preacher in meeting said Aught that was good for the heart or head, His hearers should pour their feelings out In a loud "Amen" or a godly shout.

Three children had they, all honest boys, Whose youthful sorrows and youthful joys They shared, as your loving parents will, While tending them ever through good and ill.

One day--'twas a bleak, cold Sabbath morn, When the sky was dark and the earth forlorn-- These boys, with a caution not to roam, Were left by the elder folk at home.

But scarce had they gone when the wooded frame Was seen by the tall stove-pipe aflame; And out of their reach, high, high, and higher, Rose the red coils of the serpent fire.

With startled sight for a while they gazed, As the pipe grew hot and the wood-work blazed; Then up, though his heart beat wild with dread, The eldest climbed to a shelf o'erhead, And soon, with a sputter and hiss of steam, The flame died out like an angry dream.

When the father and mother came back that day-- They had gone to a neighboring church to pray-- Each looked, but with half-averted eye, On the awful doom which had just passed by.

And then the father began to praise His boys with a tender and sweet amaze. "Why, how did you manage, Tom, to climb And quench the threatening flames in time To save your brothers, and save yourself?" "Well, father, I mounted the strong oak shelf By help of the table standing nigh." "And what," quoth the father, suddenly, Turning to Jemmy, the next in age, "Did _you_ to quiet the fiery rage?" "_I_ brought the pail, and the dipper too, And so it was that the water flew All over the flames, and quenched them quite."

A mist came over the father's sight, A mist of pride and of righteous joy, As he turned at last to his youngest boy-- A gleeful urchin scarce three years old, With his dimpling cheeks and his hair of gold. "Come, Artie, I'm sure _you_ weren't afraid; Now tell in what way you tried to aid This fight with the fire." "Too small am I," Artie replied, with a half-drawn sigh, "To fetch like Jemmy, and work like Tom; So I stood just here for a minute dumb, Because, papa, I was frightened some; But I prayed, 'Our Father'; and then--and then I shouted as loud as I could, 'Amen.'"

MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]

[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

BY JAMES OTIS,

AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.

CHAPTER V.

MEETING THE CIRCUS.

After considerable preparation in the way of polishing his clappers on the cuff of his jacket, and fingering the keys of his accordion to make sure they were in proper working order, Leander extracted with one finger a few bars of "Yankee Doodle" from the last-named instrument, and gave an imitation of a drum with the clappers in a manner that won for him no small amount of applause.

"Now we'll go home," said Toby, "'cause Uncle Dan'l will be waitin' for me an' the cows, an' to-morrow I'll meet you down town where the circus pictures be."

Then he helped Abner on to his crutches, and walked beside him all the way, wishing, oh, so much! that he could save the poor boy from having to go out to the poor-farm to sleep.

"You come in just as early as you can in the mornin', Abner, an' you shall eat dinner with me," he said, as he parted with the boy at Uncle Daniel's gate, "an' perhaps you'll make so much money at our circus that you won't ever have to go out to the poor-farm again."

Abner tried to thank his friend for the kindness he had shown him; but the sobs of gratitude came into his throat so fast that it was impossible, and he hobbled away toward his dreary home, while Toby ran into the house to tell the astounding news of the coming of the circus.

"So all the people who were so kind to you will be here next week, will they?" said, rather than asked, Aunt Olive. "Well, Toby, we'll kill one of the lambs, an' you shall invite them up here to dinner, which will kind of encourage them to be good to any other little boy who may be as foolish as you were."

Toby lay awake a long time that night, thinking of the pleasure he was to have in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Treat, old Ben, and little Ella eating dinner in Uncle Daniel's home, and of how good a boy he ought to be to repay his uncle and aunt for their loving-kindness to him.

Operations were almost entirely suspended by the would-be circus managers in view of the coming of the real show. It would have been commercial folly to attempt to enter into competition with it; the real circus would, without a doubt, prove too strong a rival for them to contend against; and by waiting until after it had come and gone they might be able to pick up some useful ideas regarding the show they proposed to give.

This delay would be to their advantage in a great many other ways. The band would have so much time for practice that he might learn another tune, or even be able to play with more than one finger; their acrobat would have so many rehearsals that he could, perhaps, double his present allowance of hand-springs, and Joe would be able to bring his horses to a more perfect state of training.

Mr. Douglass, having no use for his horse, was perfectly willing he should remain under Joe's tuition, providing it was done in Uncle Daniel's pasture; but matters were not in so good a condition regarding the pony.

Chandler Merrill was anxious to have his property returned to him, and not willing to go after it. Besides, Mr. Douglass's horse was in great danger of being kicked to death so long as the vicious little animal remained in the same pasture.

Very many were the discussions the boys had on the subject; but nothing could be suggested which promised any relief, after Bob's brilliant idea of driving the pony out, and letting him find his way home as best he might, was tried without success. The pony not only refused to go out, but he actually drove the boys away by the liberal use he made of his heels.

Slowly the time passed until the day before the one on which the circus was to arrive. Toby had almost been counting the hours, and Abner, who was to see the interior of a circus tent for the first time in his life, was quite as excited as he.

The lamb had been killed, as Aunt Olive had promised, and a rare store of good things in the way of apple pies, cake, doughnuts, and custards had been prepared, until the pantry looked like a large-sized baker's shop just opened for inspection.

Everything was ready for the guests who were to be invited to dinner next day; and when Toby went to bed that night, it seemed as if he would never get to sleep for thinking of all the friends he was to see.

Abner was in quite as sleepless a condition as Toby. Aunt Olive had invited him to remain overnight, so that he might see everything that was going on, and as he lay in the soft geranium-scented bed, his eyes were kept wide open by his delight with what seemed to him the magnificence of the room.

It seemed as though each boy in the village considered himself Toby's particular and intimate friend during the week that preceded the coming of the circus, and the marbles, balls, and boats that were showered upon him in the way of gifts would almost have stocked a small shop.

Then, on this day before the circus, all the boys in town were most anxious to know just where Toby proposed meeting the cavalcade, at what time he was to start, and other details, which showed quite plainly it was their intention to accompany him if possible.

When Toby went to bed, it was with the express understanding with Uncle Daniel that he was to be called at daylight, in order that he might start out to meet the circus when it stopped to prepare for its entrance into the town. The place where the procession was usually formed, was fully two miles from town, and as Abner could hardly walk that distance, and certainly could not walk so fast as Toby would want to go, he had agreed to drive the cows to pasture, after which he was to go to the tenting ground, where his friend would introduce him to all the celebrities.

Uncle Daniel seemed quite as anxious as Toby that he should leave the house in time to meet his circus friends before the entrée was made, and Aunt Olive afterward said, he didn't sleep a wink after two o'clock for fear he might not waken in time to rouse the anxious boy.

It was fully an hour before sunrise when Uncle Daniel awakened Toby, and cautioned him to eat as much of the lunch Aunt Olive had set out as possible, insisting that what he could not eat he should put into his pocket, as it would be a long while before he would get his dinner.

The two miles Toby was obliged to walk seemed very short ones, and at nearly every house on the road one or more boys were watching for him quite as eagerly as for the show itself, so that by the time he arrived at the place where two or three of the wagons had drawn up by the side of the road he had as many as a hundred boys for an escort, all of whom were urging him to get the manager to take out a few lions and tigers for their inspection before starting for the village.

Toby could hold out no promise to them; on the contrary, he insisted that he hardly knew the manager, save by sight, and explained to them that they were unwise to come with him on any such errand, since none of the curiosities could be seen there, and if old Ben were still with the company, he should ride back with him.

But the boys put very little faith in what he said, seeming to have the idea that he simply wanted to get rid of them, and instead of going away, they surrounded him more closely.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE VAIN SPARROWS.

Once upon a time, so many days ago that it really makes no difference as to exactly when it did happen, a very respectable and industrious couple by the name of Sparrow lived a short distance in the country. They had a cozy little home in a tree so stout that there was no need of insuring it against damage by wind, and they were not only contented with their lot in life, but were very happy.

They were by no means ignorant of the city, which could be seen from the topmost branches of their home, for they had lived there in their younger days, moving into the country only when they felt it absolutely necessary to their comfort to get away from the bustle and confusion that almost distracted them.

Their friends and acquaintances all said they were very foolish to hide themselves in such a quiet place, even if it was cozy, and tried to persuade them to move back to town; but they paid very little attention to such talk, hardly even making any answer, and when they had two little fluffy children, Mrs. Sparrow declared that nothing could tempt her to leave their country home. You see, she thought it would be better to keep the children at that place, where she could be sure that they would not be out late at night, or get into mischief, than to take them where they might make bad acquaintances, for she loved these two boys of hers very dearly, even though they had got only about half as many wing and tail feathers as they would have when they were older.

But the strangest portion of the story is that these two young Sparrows not only thought they knew quite as much as their parents did, but they had an idea that the only place for Sparrows with any degree of spirit to live in was the city, and almost from the time their noses were poked out of the shell they coaxed their father and mother to move into town, where there was more to be seen and enjoyed. Whenever the children teased, old father Sparrow would shake his head knowingly, as if he did not even dare to tell how wicked the great city was, and mother Sparrow would offer to show them a nice fat worm if they would try and be contented at home, instead of wanting to go where they had no business, and where they would not be nearly so comfortable.

The Sparrow boys always took the worm their mother offered, and they winked at each other while they were eating it, as if to say that their father was getting entirely too old to know what was best for boys, while they were very certain they knew exactly what they should or should not do.

They thought so much about the city, and how nice it would be to live there, that they talked of very little else, and on several occasions even neglected to oil their feathers as they had been taught, which caused them to look anything rather than neat.