Part 5

If Grace, or Susie, or Prudy went up to him, he made no sign. It was only when he saw his little master that he would wag his tail for joy; but even that effort seemed to tire him, and he liked better to lick Horace's hand, and look up at his face with eyes brimful of love and agony.

Horace would sit by the half hour coaxing him to eat a bit of broiled steak or the wing of a chicken; but though the poor dog would gladly have pleased his young master, he could hardly force himself to swallow a mouthful.

These were sad days. Grace put down now and then a "B.W." in the blue book; but as for disobedience, Horace had just now no temptation to that. He could hardly think of anything but his dog.

Pincher was about his age. He could not remember the time when he first knew him. "O, what jolly times they had had together! How often Pincher had trotted along to school, carrying the satchel with the schoolbooks in his teeth. Why, the boys all loved him, just loved him so."

"No, sir," said Horace, talking to himself, and laying the dog's head gently on his knee: "there wasn't one of them but just wished they had him. But, poh! I wouldn't have sold him for all the cannons and firecrackers in the United States. No, not for a real drum, either; would I, Pincher?"

Horace really believed the dog understood him, and many were the secrets he had poured into his faithful ears. Pincher would listen, and wink, and wag his tail, but was sure to keep everything to himself.

"I tell you what it is, Pincher," Horace burst forth, "I'm not going to have you die! My own pa gave you to me, and you're the best dog that ever lived in this world. O, I didn't mean to catch your foot in that trap! Eat the chicken, there's a good fellow, and we'll cure you all up."

But Pincher couldn't eat the chicken, and couldn't be cured. His eyes grew larger and sadder, but there was the same patient look in them always. He fixed them on Horace to the last, with a dying gaze which made the boy's heart swell with bitter sorrow.

"He wanted to speak, he wanted to ask me a question," said Horace, with sobs he did not try to control.

O, it was sad to close those beautiful eyes forever, those beseeching eyes, which could almost speak.

Mrs. Clifford came and knelt on the stone hearth beside the basket, and wept freely for the first time since her husband's death.

"Dear little Pincher," said she, "you have died a cruel death; but your dear little master closed your eyes. It was very hard, poor doggie, but not so hard as the battlefield. You shall have a quiet grave, good Pincher; but where have they buried our brave soldier?"

*CHAPTER X*

*TRYING TO GET RICH*

With his own hands, and the help of Grasshopper, who did little but hold the nails and look on, Horace made a box for Pincher, while Abner dug his grave under a tree in the grove.

It was evening when they all followed Pincher to his last resting-place.

"He was a sugar-plum of a dog," said Prudy, "and I can't help crying."

"I don't want to help it," said Grace: "we ought to cry."

"What makes me feel the worst," said sober little Susie, "he won't go to heaven."

"Not forever'n ever amen?" gasped Prudy, in a low voice. "Wouldn't he if he had a nice casket, and a plate on it neither?"

The sky and earth were very lovely that evening, and it seemed as if everybody ought to be heart-glad. I doubt if Horace had ever thought before what a beautiful world he lived in, and how glorious a thing it is to be alive! He could run about and do what he pleased with himself; but alas, poor Pincher!

The sun was setting, and the river looked uncommonly full of little sparkles. The soft sky and the twinkling water seemed to be smiling at each other, while a great way off you could see the dim blue mountains rising up like clouds. Such a lovely world! Ah! poor Pincher.

It looked very much as if Horace were really turning over a new leaf. He was still quite trying sometimes, leaving the milk-room door open when puss was watching for the cream-pot, or slamming the kitchen door with a bang when everybody needed fresh air. He still kept his chamber in a state of confusion,--"muss," Grace called it,--pulling the drawers out of the bureau, and scattering the contents over the floor; dropping his clothes anywhere it happened, and carrying quantities of gravel upstairs in his shoes.

Aunt Louise still scolded about him; but even she could not help seeing that on the whole he was improving. He "cared" more and "forgot" less. He could always learn easily, and now he really tried to learn. His lessons, instead of going through his head "threading my grandmother's needle," went in and stayed there. The blue book got a few marks, it is true, but not so many as at first.

You may be sure there was not a good thing said or done by Horace which did not give pleasure to his mother. She felt now as if she lived only for her children; if God would bless her by making them good, she had nothing more to desire. Grace had always been a womanly, thoughtful little girl, but at this time she was a greater comfort than ever; and Horace had grown so tender and affectionate that it gratified her very much. He was not content now with "canary kisses;" but threw his arms around her neck very often, saying, with his lips close to her cheek,--:

"Don't feel bad, ma; I'm going to take care of you."

For his mother's grief called forth his manliness.

She meant to be cheerful; but Horace knew she did not look or seem like herself: he thought he ought to try to make her happy.

Whenever he asked for money, as he too often did, she told him that now his father was gone, there was no one to earn anything, and it was best to be rather prudent. He wanted a drum; but she thought he must wait a while for that.

They were far from being poor, and Mrs. Clifford had no idea of deceiving her little son. Yet he _was_ deceived, for he supposed that his mother's pretty little porte-monnaie held all the bank-bills and all the silver she had in the world.

"O, Grace!" said Horace, coming downstairs with a very grave face, "I wish I was grown a man: then I'd earn money like sixty."

Grace stopped her singing long enough to ask what he meant to do, and then continued in a high key,--

"Where, O where are the Hebrew children?"

"O, I'm going as a soldier," replied Horace: "I thought everybody knew that! The colonels make a heap of money!"

"But, Horace, you might get shot--just think!"

"Then I'd dodge when they fired, for I don't know what you and ma would do if _I_ was killed."

"Well, please step out of the way, Horace; don't you see I'm sweeping the piazza?"

"I can't tell," pursued he, taking a seat on one of the stairs in the hall: "I can't tell certain sure; but I may be a minister."

This was such a funny idea that Grace made a dash with her broom, and sent the dirt flying the wrong way.

"Why, Horace, you'll never be good enough for a minister!"

"What'll you bet?" replied he, looking a little mortified.

"You're getting to be a dear, good little boy, Horace," said Grace, soothingly; "but I don't _think_ you'll ever be a minister."

"Perhaps I'd as soon be a shoemaker," continued Horace, thoughtfully; "they get a great deal for tappin' boots."

His sister made no reply.

"See here, now, Grace: perhaps you'd rather I'd be a tin-peddler; then I'd always keep a horse, and you could ride."

"Ride in a cart!" cried Grace, laughing. "Can't you think of anything else? Have you forgotten papa?"

"O, now I know," exclaimed Horace, with shining eyes: "it's a lawyer I'll be, just like father was. I'll have a 'sleepy partner,' the way Judge Ingle has, and by and by I'll be a judge."

"I know that would please ma, Horace," replied Grace, looking at her little brother with a good deal of pride.

Who knew but he _might_ yet be a judge? She liked to order him about, and have him yield to her: still she had great faith in Horace.

"But, Grace, after all that I'll go to war and turn out a general; now you see if I don't."

"That'll be a great while yet," said Grace, sighing.

"So it will," replied Horace, sadly; "and ma needs the money now. I wish I could earn something right off while I'm a little boy."

It was not two days before he thought he had found out how to get rich; in what way you shall see.

*CHAPTER XI*

*THE LITTLE INDIAN*

Prudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they'd "better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round."

"Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she, "and she's got a black man's hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her."

Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an Indian woman, who had no idea of harming anyone.

"What are Nindians?" asked the child.

Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red men." The country had once been filled by them; but the English came, a great many years ago, and shook off the red men just as a high wind shakes the red leaves off a tree; and they were scattered about, and only a few were left alive. Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came round making baskets; but they were quiet and peaceable people.

Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they were strolling up the river, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sat a little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his hand, in the act of firing.

Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might; but as Horace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at something across the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look at the odd little stranger, who turned partly round and returned his gaze. His eyes were keen and black, with a good-natured expression, something like the eyes of an intelligent dog.

"What's your name, boy?" said Horace.

"Me no understand."

"I asked what your _name_ is," continued Horace, who was sure the boy understood, in spite of his blank looks.

"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."

"Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"

No answer, but a shake of the head.

"I reckon they call you _John_, don't they?"

Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.

"His name no _John_! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo! short name, speak um quick!--Jaw-awn. Great long name!" drawled she, stretching it out as if it were made of India rubber, and scowling with an air of disgust.

"What does she mean by calling 'John' _long_?" thought Horace.

The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her brown, stockingless feet and gay moccasins.

Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her shoulders and into her eyes. Horace concluded she must have lost her back-comb.

While he was looking at her with curious eyes, her daughter came to the door, feeling a little cross at the stranger, whoever it might be; but when she saw only an innocent little boy, she smiled pleasantly, showing a row of white teeth. Horace thought her rather handsome, for she was very straight and slender, and her eyes shone like glass beads. Her hair he considered a great deal blacker than black, and it was braided and tied with gay ribbons. She was dressed in a bright, large-figured calico, and from her ears were suspended the longest, yellowest, queerest ear-rings. Horace thought they were shaped like boat-paddles, and would be pretty for Prudy to use when she rowed her little red boat in the bathing-tub. If they only "scooped" a little more they would answer for teaspoons. "Plenty big as I should want for teaspoons," he decided, after another gaze at them.

The young girl was used to being admired by her own people, and was not at all displeased with Horace for staring at her.

"Me think you nice white child," said she: "you get me sticks, me make you basket, pretty basket for put apples in."

"What kind of sticks do you mean?" said Horace, forgetting that they pretended not to understand English. But it appeared that they knew very well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered to go with him to point out the place where the wood was to be found. Grasshopper, who had only hidden behind the trees, now came out and joined the boys.

"Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr. Parlin's grounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some tall silver poplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing eyes.

"Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me make you basket."

"Would you let him, Grasshopper?"

"Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care."

"Perhaps he might; you don't know," said Horace, who, after he had asked advice, was far from feeling obliged to take it. He ran in great haste to the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes, thinking, "If I ask, then I shan't get marked in the blue book anyhow."

In this case Horace acted very properly. He had no right to cut the trees, or allow anyone else to cut them, without leave. To his great delight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off a few branches where they would not show much.

When Horace got back and reported the words of his grandfather, Wampum did not even smile, but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow.

"Me no hurt trees," said he gravely; and he did not: he only cut off a few limbs from each one, leaving the trees as handsome as ever.

"Bully for you!" cried Horace, forgetting the blue book.

"He's as spry as a squirrel," said Grasshopper, in admiration; "how many boughs has he got? One, two, three."

"Me say 'em quickest," cried little Wampum. "Een, teen, teddery, peddery, bimp, satter, latter, doe, dommy, dick."

"That's ten," put in Horace, who was keeping 'count.

"Een-dick," continued the little Indian, "teen-dick, teddery-dick, peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin, teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin, peddery-bumpin, jiggets."

"Hollo!" cried Grasshopper; "that's twenty; jiggets is twenty;" and he rolled over on the ground, laughing as if he had made a great discovery.

Little by little they made Wampum tell how he lived at home, what sort of boys he played with, and what they had to eat. The young Indian assured them that at Oldtown "he lived in a house good as white folks; he ate moose-meat, ate sheep-meat, ate cow-meat."

"Cook out doors, I s'pose," said Grasshopper.

Wampum looked very severe. "When me lives in wigwam, me has fires in wigwam: when me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass;--keep off them things," he added, pointing at a mosquito in the air; "keep smoke out tent," pointing upward to show the motion of the smoke.

Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion that he resolved to treat him to a watermelon. So, without saying a word to the hoys, he ran into the house to ask his grandmother.

"What! a whole watermelon, Horace?"

"Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum."

Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace had adopted a new friend.

"You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like to have you play much with a strange boy."

"He's going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren't Indians and negroes as good as white folks? 'Specially _tame_ Indians," said Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoeknife in hand, to cut the watermelon.

This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum. For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild life of this Indian family. He was made welcome at their tent, and often went in to see them make baskets.

"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. If you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are very young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."

The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one over another: these were the beds which were spread out at night for the family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various directions, like a clothesline.

It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work! It brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business for him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.

For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, and really went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poor Wampum after a lesson in "baker."

He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one--red, white, and blue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green, the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into "the Pines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no reason to forget it, surely.

"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy; "but I never knew till yesterday what had 'come of it."

"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant took that! I forgot all about it."

What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for the money, since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was fond of joking with little boys.

"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted concern you've got on your arm, and we'll call it square."

"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present, and I couldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you one--see if I don't!"

Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that Horace would ever think of the matter again; but in truth the first article the boy tried to make was a horse-basket.

"Me tell you somethin'," said little Wampum, next morning, as he and Horace were crossing the field together. "Very much me want um,--um,--um,"--putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner which signified that he meant something to eat.

"Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in English."

"Very much me want um," continued Wampum, in a beseeching tone. "No tell what you call um. E'enamost water, no _quite_ water; e'enamost punkin, no _quite_ punkin."

"Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace: "should think you'd remember that as easy as pumpkin."

"Very much me want um," repeated Wampum, delighted at being understood, "me like um."

"Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine."

"O, yes. Ugh! you've got 'em. Melon-water good! Me have melon-waters, me give you moc-suns."

"I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."

Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.

"You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns! Me no want _een_--me want bimp--bumpin--jiggets."

Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied moccasins very much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, "very much he wanted them." How handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit!

But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue book which his mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out.

"It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told me _not_ to give the watermelons."

"No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.; _that_ stands for stealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father, _steal_! A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said, 'Remember God sees all you do'!"

"Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk! Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave me a bushel of 'em."

After this Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not remembering that there are a great many excuses to be made for a half civilized child. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper proved to be very bad. If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would have dropped his society all the same; because after Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play with him any longer.

Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horace did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps he remembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him the beautiful present which he had received from the Indians.

"It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one," stammered he, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square."

"Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub; that's a little too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow. Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it back, my fine little shaver."

To say that Horace was very happy would not half express the delight he felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownest own," beyond the right of dispute.

The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothing surprising that, the very next morning after they left, Grandpa Parlin should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothing left on the vines but a few miserable green little melons.

*CHAPTER XII*

*A PLEASANT SURPRISE*

"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?"

"Pick berries," suggested Grace.

And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with Susie and Aunt Madge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not help missing Pincher very much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a happier day than the one he and Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines." He was beginning to find, as all children do, how hard it is to get up "a good time" when you are pricked by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to be happy when you are doing right.

They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and reached home quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly full of berries.

When Horace timidly told Aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted to sell all they had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the fruit if they wished, but wondered what they wanted to do with the money: she supposed it was for the soldiers.

"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he did not wish his Aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than three bills in her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take care of her."

"Ah," said Aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a secret drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it. She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, for your mother wouldn't deceive you."

"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turned half a somersault, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drum would cost.

The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs. Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were the letters "D.," "B.W.," "B.G.P.," and "F.," on separate lines, one above another. But there were no figures before the letters but the "B.W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller, as you could see by looking carefully.

"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of the fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."

"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that you never talk anything worse than lingo."

"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies."

"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've forgotten, and slammed doors, and lots of things; but you know I didn't set that down."