Part 13

They were too bewildered by the blaze to make any noise, and before they could recover their self-possession sufficiently to exclaim at so extraordinary an apparition, the other boys had stepped behind them, and with quick, deft movements slipped the big sacks over their heads, thus reducing them at one bold stroke to helpless captives.

The poor turkeys struggled and "gobbled" a good deal in their narrow quarters, but all to no purpose; and full of terror, no doubt, at their strange treatment, were hurried out of the shed into the lane, and thence through dark and silent ways to the rear of the squire's building. Here the conspirators paused for breath and consultation.

"Now, fellows," whispered Harold Kent, "we needn't all go inside, you know. I'll take the lantern, while the three biggest of you carry the gobblers, and the rest will stay here until we come back."

Somewhat reluctantly this was assented to, for all wanted to share the danger as well as the fun; and then Harold, lantern in hand, followed by Dick Wilding, Sam Shaw, and Frank Cushing, each bending beneath a bag of struggling, "gobbling" turkey, climbed in through the low window, crept softly in stocking feet along the narrow hall and up the creaking stairs; while their companions, with hearts beating like trip-hammers, shrank close together in the darkest corner outside and anxiously awaited their return.

It was no easy task that the four boys had in hand. True enough that the building was uninhabited at night, but there were people living next door, and any unusual noise could hardly fail to be heard through those thin wooden walls; while, late as the hour was, the sound of footsteps on the plank side-walks would ever and anon send a chill of terror through the anxious watchers below.

Moreover, to carry three big turkeys up a flight of stairs and deposit them in an empty room without filling the whole place with their noise was the hardest part of all. Nevertheless they succeeded admirably.

Five minutes after they disappeared they rejoined their companions, trembling but triumphant, having left their captives in good order and condition in the front room, just across the room from Squire Hardgrit's office, where they would be certain to make themselves seen and heard in the morning.

This done, the boys scattered to their homes, creeping back noiselessly to their beds, in which, being thoroughly tired out, they slept as soundly until morning as if they had not been up to any mischief whatever.

The great gathering-place of the Westville boys was the blacksmith's forge, which stood across the road from Mrs. Grundy's, and thither the conspirators came one by one the following morning in expectation of seeing the fun.

Nor were they disappointed. Their enemy thought too much of her precious turkeys to intrust any person else with the duty of feeding them, and so every morning carried them a big dish of corn-meal mush after she had finished her own breakfast.

"There she goes!" exclaimed Dick Wilding presently, as the boys were laughing and talking somewhat nervously together.

And, sure enough, Mrs. Grundy's portly figure emerged from the house and went slowly toward the shed.

Soon after a sharp cry of "Susan! Susan!" cut the still morning air, and the prim maid-servant was observed to hurry to her mistress.

A moment later the two women could be observed running hither and thither through the garden and orchard, calling, "Turkey! turkey! turkey!" at the top of their voices.

Great indeed was Mrs. Grundy's concern, and soon the whole neighbourhood was made aware of her loss.

"It's those rascally gipsies, sure's I'm alive," she cried. "Who else would steal my beautiful gobblers, that I wouldn't sell even to the squire? I'll have every one of them sent to jail, see if I don't. Just wait till the squire comes!"

And so she stormed while awaiting the arrival of the squire at his office.

The moment he appeared she poured her woful tale into his ears, while a curious crowd gathered outside, eager to see what the majesty of the law could effect.

Most prominent in the crowd were, of course, the boys, who alone held the clue to the mystery, and were now eagerly expecting the grand _denouement_.

It was not long in coming. Mrs. Grundy had only about half finished her confused recital of facts, suspicions, and theories to the gravely listening squire, when a vigorous "Gobble-gobble-gobble!" was distinctly heard coming from somewhere near at hand, just as a shout broke in from the street of,--

"There they are--up in Squire Hardgrit's room! Look at them!"

Before the squire could take in the situation, his excited client sprang to her feet, rushed out of the office, across the hall, threw open the door into the opposite room, and there, behold! as large as life, and as cross as three gobblers could be, were her missing turkeys, who, the instant the door was opened, charged straight through it, almost upsetting their mistress, and went flapping violently downstairs and out into the street, where they were greeted with a shout of laughter from the surprised spectators.

It would be impossible with either pen or pencil to give an adequate conception of the old lady's countenance as she returned to the squire's office, and met that worthy magistrate just rising from his chair.

Surprise, suspicion, indignation, and wrath chased one another swiftly across her features, and, once her feelings found utterance, there was poured upon the amazed squire such a torrent of reproach and contumely that he was fairly stunned into silence; and before he could recover himself sufficiently to make his defence, his accuser, with a scornful swing of her ample skirts that was simply magnificent, flounced out of the office, while he sank back into his chair, the very picture of helpless bewilderment.

That he, Squire Hardgrit, the incorruptible guardian of the people's rights, should be suspected of having stolen, or causing to have stolen for him, the turkeys of a neighbour, whose situation as a lone widow was such as to make the crime seem particularly heinous--that any person should for one moment suspect anything so abominable; and not only suspect it, but charge him to his face with his supposed guilt before the whole village (for the squire was well aware that Mrs. Grundy's shrill utterances had been audible clear across the street), it was awful, perfectly awful, and not to be borne for a moment! He must see Mrs. Grundy immediately, and compel her to listen to him.

Accordingly, away he posted to the widow's cottage, where he arrived just in time to check the poor dame from going off into a fit of hysterics.

Her turkeys being once more safely in her yard, and her anger pretty well abated, Mrs. Grundy was quite willing to listen believingly to the squire's indignant denials, and graciously accept his assurance that no pains would be spared to ferret out the real delinquents.

The former harmony was restored, and an alliance, offensive and defensive, sealed with a glass of gooseberry wine, for both were strongly of the opinion that "those wicked wretches of boys" were at the bottom of the whole mischief.

Thanks to those same boys holding their tongues, however, neither Mrs. Grundy nor the squire could ever get hold on any evidence more solid than their own suspicions, and they both had too much sense to take any action upon them.

But the nocturnal travels of the turkeys were not in vain; for their mistress, realizing that the boys, if pressed too far, might do something worse next time, thought it wise to mitigate her severity toward them, and even softened to the extent of calling a lot of them into her orchard that very autumn to fill their pockets with the windfalls.

This stroke of diplomacy was not lost upon the boys, who reciprocated after their own fashion: and thus matters went smoothly on, until at length most harmonious relations were established, and in all the countryside no creatures were safer from the youngsters' mischief than Mrs. Grundy's gobblers.

*ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE SNOW-RIDGE.*

One of the Fur Commissioners of the Hudson Bay Company at Winnipeg was entertaining a number of the factors and other officials at Christmas dinner, and after the successive courses had received appreciative attention, the guests settled themselves at ease about the table to enjoy the excellent cigars and one another's conversation.

Made up as the gathering was of men who had for ten, twenty, thirty years or longer, in the pursuance of their vocation, experienced most moving adventures by flood and field, good stories followed fast. One told of a thrilling trip through the dangerous rapids of the Portage of the Drowned; another, of the narrow escape from meeting death at the hands of a grizzly among the foot-hills of the Rockies; while a third held the attention of all as he graphically described the fearful struggle that he had with a wounded bull bison in the valley of the Bow River.

Thus the story-telling went around until it reached Hugh M'Kenzie, one of the oldest officials in the active service, who, in response to a unanimous demand, spun the following interesting yarn of mountain-sheep hunting.

"It was in the third year of my clerkship, and they had sent me away out to Fort George, right in the heart of the Rockies. I would rather have stayed on the plains, where the buffalo were in plenty; but you're not asked as to what you'd like best in the company. You're just told to go, and there's an end of it. I found it very dull at Fort George, and to while away the time I did all the hunting I could. To help me in this I had two fine dogs, of whom I was extremely proud. They were half-bred collies, not particularly handsome creatures, but full of pluck, and as knowing animals as ever wagged tails.

"Having had pretty good luck with bear and other game to be found in the neighbourhood of the fort, I became possessed of a strong desire to secure the head of one of those Rocky Mountain sheep which have their home high up among the peaks, and are as difficult animals to hunt as there are in the world.

"Again and again I went out without success, although my dogs, Bruce and Oscar, seemed as eager to get sheep as I was myself; but instead of becoming disheartened, I grew all the more determined, and longed for the winter to come, when the snow, by covering their higher pasturing grounds, would drive the sheep lower down the mountain, and thus make them more getatable.

"The winter began with a series of heavy snowfalls which shut us all up in the fort for several weeks, and it was early in December before I thought it safe to have another try after the sheep.

"Then one fine, bright morning I started off, feeling very hopeful that I would return with my much-coveted prize. The dogs, of course, went with me, but I had no other companion, nobody else having sufficient sporting ardour to share in the risks of my expedition; for it certainly was full of risks, and had I been older and wiser I would never have undertaken it. But I was young and strong and full of spirit, and my eagerness to obtain a set of horns had become a bit of a joke against me with the fellows; so that I was not in the mood to soberly weigh the pros and cons of the matter.

"Thinking it possible I might be out all night, I rolled up some provisions and matches in my thick plaid, and strapped it on my shoulders. With hatchet and hunting-knife in my belt, a full powder-horn at my side, snowshoes on feet and rifle in hand, I set out amid the good-humoured chaffing of my fellow-clerks.

"Up into the mountains I climbed, keeping a keen look-out for signs of the game I was seeking, while Bruce and Oscar ranged right and left, so that we covered a good deal of ground between us. By mid-day the climbing became so steep and difficult that I had to take off my snow-shoes, and strapped them on my back. They were no longer necessary, at any rate, for the snow was covered with a crust which bore me up admirably, and made easy going for my moccasined feet.

"It was not until afternoon that the first sheep were sighted, and, much to my delight, they seemed not far away, and easy to get at. There were five in the flock: a huge ram with superb horns--just the thing I hankered after--and four fine ewes, which, however, had nothing to fear from me.

"Calling the dogs to heel, I proceeded to stalk the unsuspecting creatures with all the skill I possessed. It proved a harder job than I thought. They were on a kind of ledge several hundred feet above me, and in order to get a proper shot without giving them warning, it was necessary to make a wide circuit, so as to reach a point opposite their ledge from which a capital chance might be had.

"By dint of great exertion, however, I reached the point all right, and was just waiting a moment to catch my breath before taking aim at the ram, when Oscar's impatience overcame him, and he gave a sharp bark. Instantly the whole live animals started to flee. I threw the rifle to my shoulder and pulled the trigger. It was nothing better than a snap-shot, yet it did not miss; for with the report the ram sprang into the air, stumbled as he came down, and then dashed off again, leaving behind him a plain trail of blood-drops on the white snow.

"With an exultant shout I sent the dogs forward, and followed as fast as I could. I had to go down into a ravine and get up the other side before reaching the bloody trail. Forgetting everything else in my wild excitement, I pressed on, guided by my dogs' sharp barking. It was terribly hard work, and I had many a slip and stumble; but the red splashes in the snow grew larger the further I went. Bleeding at the rate he was, the ram surely could not keep up his flight for any great distance.

"Presently I came to a place that at any other time would have brought me to a full stop. A ridge of hard frozen snow stretched between two rocky ledges. On the one side it reached down to the edge of a precipice, which then fell away abruptly into an unknown depth. On the other side, in one unbroken sheet, it sloped down full five hundred feet to a level upon, which the snow lay in great drifts. The ram was already half-way across the ridge, although evidently in distress, and the dogs were hard at his heel, barking fiercely, for they knew that victory was not far off.

"Throwing all considerations of prudence to the winds, I set out to follow them. So narrow was the ridge that I could not stand erect, but had to sit astride it, and push myself forward by using both hands and feet. I never glanced below me, lest I should lose my head; and at length, almost completely exhausted, I succeeded in making the other side.

"Here awaiting me was my quarry, standing at bay against the cliff, and butting off the dogs that were springing for his throat. It was some minutes before my nerves were sufficiently steadied for me to use my rifle; then one shot was sufficient. With a convulsive spring the noble animal scattered the dogs and fell dead at my feet.

"Oh, but what a proud moment for me! The horns were splendid. A man might not get a finer pair in a lifetime. With the utmost care I detached the head, and then, for the first time since the chase began, sat down to rest.

"I was so tired that I would have been glad to camp here for the night. But there was absolutely nothing in the way of shelter, and it promised to be bitterly cold and windy. I must get back to the lower level before darkness came on.

"Securing the ram's head on my shoulders, where I must say it felt abominably heavy, I returned to the ridge. Not until then did I realize into what a critical position my reckless ardour had brought me. One look at that perilous passage-way was sufficient to assure me that in my wearied and unnerved condition to recross it was a feat utterly impracticable. My dogs--two clever, sure-footed creatures as they were--shrank back in evident dismay, although I sought to urge them forward; yet for me to remain on that exposed ledge meant death by freezing before morning.

"I was in a terrible predicament. Little more than an hour of daylight remained. Whatever was to be done needed to be done right away. While I stood there bewildered and irresolute, Oscar again ventured out a little distance on the ridge, but, becoming frightened, tried to turn back. In so doing he lost his footing, and, despite desperate efforts to regain it, shot swiftly down the slope that ended in a level five hundred feet below.

"With keen concern I watched him through the waning light rolling helplessly over and over until after a final tumble he landed in a great drift, out of which, to my great joy, he emerged the next moment, shook himself vigorously, and sent back a brisk bark as though to say, 'Come along; it's not so bad as it looks.'

"Instantly I caught the idea. If my dog made the descent uninjured, why could not I? Great as the risk might be, it was, after all, no worse than staying on the ledge all night. To think was to act. Loosening the ram's head from my back, I sent it down after Oscar. It sped to the bottom and buried itself in a snow-bank. Next I tied my rifle, hatchet, and hunting-knife on one of the snow-shoes, and despatched them. They, too, made the trip all right, and vanished in the snow. Then came my turn. Rolling up the plaid I lashed it on the remaining snow-shoe, and committed myself to this extemporized toboggan.

"What followed is more than I can tell. So steep was the slope that I seemed to drop into space. I was not conscious of touching anything, but simply of being shot through the icy air, blinded by particles of snow, and choking for lack of breath, until I was hurled like a stone from a catapult into a mass of loosely-packed snow, and lost consciousness.

"When I came to myself, Bruce and Oscar were both beside me, licking my face with affectionate anxiety. At first I could not move, and my whole body was so full of pain that I feared I had been seriously injured. But, after lying still awhile, I made shift to get upon my feet, and to my vast relief found myself none the worse of my wild descent, save for a scratched face and a severe shaking.

"My next thought was for the horns. I had no difficulty in extricating them or the rifle from their snowy bed, and found both were uninjured. Strapping them once more on my shoulders, and adjusting my snow-shoes, I set off down the ravine.

"To get back to the fort that evening was, of course, out of the question, but I hoped to find some cavity in the cliff where I could spend the night safely. Just before dark I discovered a snug little place, perfectly protected from the wind; and there, with my plaid wrapped tight around me, and my dogs curled up close against me, I put in quite a comfortable night. As soon as the day broke I started for the fort, and reached it by noon, half starved and very tired, but as proud of my trophy as David was of Goliath's head."

A hearty round of applause followed the conclusion of the old Scotchman's story, and by general consent it was voted the best told during the evening.

*THROUGH THE TRACKLESS FOREST.*

The two features of nature in which her might, her majesty, her mystery, find fullest expression, are the ocean and the forest. Regarding their vastness and their unchanging character, in our weak endeavour to find terms for the infinite we have made them symbols of eternity. Irresistible, perennial is the fascination they possess for man, and all-satisfying the measure with which they respond to his demands. On ocean's bosom or in the forest's heart he finds free play for his noblest qualities. In making them subservient to his will he has achieved his grandest development.

Nowhere round the globe are the forests finer than on this continent of ours. Boundless in extent and endless in diversity, the eye never wearies of resting upon them or seeking to penetrate their depths. Happily free as they are from the dense matted undergrowth that makes progress through the forests of the tropics a continuous penitential pilgrimage, they present glorious vistas of silvan shade, shot through with golden shafts of sunlight, down which you may wander at your ease in unchecked communion with nature.

By way of comparison just place these two pictures side by side.

Seeking to give some conception of the interminable Congo forest, in which he spent so many months of misery, Stanley exclaims: "Take a thick Scottish copse dripping with rain; imagine this copse to be a mere undergrowth, nourished under the impenetrable shade of ancient trees, ranging from one hundred feet to one hundred and eighty feet high; briers and thorns abundant; lazy creeks meandering through the depths of the jungle, and sometimes a deep affluent of a great river. Imagine this forest and jungle in all stages of decay and growth--old trees falling, leaning perilously over, fallen prostrate: ants and insects of all kinds, sizes, and colours murmuring around; monkeys and chimpanzees above, queer noises of birds and animals, crashes in the jungle as troops of elephants rush away; rain pattering down on you every other day in the year; an impure atmosphere, with its dread consequences, fever and dysentery, gloom throughout the day and darkness almost palpable throughout the night."

Turn now to Parkman, who knows and loves his forests as Miss Murfree her mountains, and who has once and for all time painted the picture of the great American forest: "Deep recesses, where, veiled in foliage, some wild, shy rivulet steals with timid music through breathless caves of verdure; gulfs where feathered crags rise like castle walls, where the noonday sun pierces with keen rays athwart the torrent, and the mossed arms of fallen pines cast wandering shadows on the illumined foam; pools of liquid crystal turned emerald in the reflected green of impending woods; rocks on whose rugged front the gleam of sunlit waters dances in quivering light; ancient trees hurled headlong by the storm to dam the raging stream with their forlorn and savage ruin; or the stern depths of immemorial forests, dim and silent as a cavern, columned with innumerable trunks, each like an Atlas upholding its world of leaves, and sweating perpetual moisture down its dark and channelled rind--some strong in youth, some gouty with decrepit age, nightmares of strange distortion, gnarled and knotted with wens and goitres, roots intertwined beneath like serpents petrified in an agony of contorted strife: green and glistening mosses carpeting the rough ground, mantling the rocks, turning pulpy stumps to mounds of verdure, and swathing fallen trunks, as, bent in the impotence of rottenness, they lie outstretched over knoll and hollow like mouldering reptiles of the primeval world, while around, and on, and through them springs the young growth that fattens on their decay--the forest devouring its own dead. Or, to turn from its funereal shade to the light and life, to the open woodland, the sheen of sparkling lakes, and mountains basking in the glory of the summer noon, flecked by the shadows of passing clouds that sail on snowy wings across the transparent azure."

No pestilent fever or insidious deadly miasma lurks in our forests. On the contrary, their pure, piny breath brings back health to many an ailing mortal, and beneath their feathery hemlocks and aromatic spruces one may lie down at night in sweet security from snakes, or centipedes, or other crawling horrors that make each night in a tropical forest a period of peril.