Chapter 4

The hanging woods flourish in full foliage. Cowslips and pond-lilies star the green marshes. Wild strawberries, large, fragrant, and sweet, redden all the knolls, crimson the horses' fetlocks, and cluster in the corners of the fences. Herd's grass and clover struggle into bloom along the trails and wagon roads in the forest; and the native grasses grow scattering and small. Young orchards have shed their snowy blossoms. Corn is past its first hoeing; wheat approaches the ear; flax holds up to the light and dew the bowls of its clear blue blooms. Silver suckers and ruby mullets still linger in the inlets and valley-streams. The horns of the deer are in the velvet. Fallows look clean and mellow, as if ready now for the seed. Signs of promise wave; symbols of blessing bloom on all that gladdens the eye; and Fabens thanks God both morning and night for the bounties of his love.

A morning of June tinges the reddening east with its first delicate blushes, while the cold pale moon still rides on her lonely way. Whippoorwills leave the neighboring boughs and retire to the heart of the woodlands; and robins and bluebirds, and thrushes and sparrows, in a grand hallelujah chorus, salute the sun on his flaming way. The howl of the wolf ceases; the voice of the water-fowl swells softly and sadly from the lake; and the cowbell's chime, and house-dog's bark, make harmony in the general song of Nature. Foxes are home from their felon excursions; squirrels are astir; deer are on the upland, feeding. Mother Fabens abandons her pillow, and is out from the door, enjoying her usual draught of sweet morning air. The home of her son looks good to her as any that the round world can show; and her heart warms with joy as she gazes on all the signs of thrift around.

But what object is that which attracts her attention, just bursting from the distant thicket? The meadow is between them, enclosed on three sides. It moves toward her. It enters the meadow from the woods. It is lithe as a fox; and the sun, just peering above the tree-tops, reveals more and more of its beauty. A felon fox it cannot be, out at this bold hour in quest of poultry; nor a panther, nor a wolf. O! We see now; it is a fairy fawn, looking innocent as a baby; and its round sides are dappled as the trout and pickerel in the lake. What a sight of the lovely!

She hastens into the house and calls to Matthew, now rising, and he is out in a twinkling, back side of the meadow. The gentle creature observes him, and still is not afraid. He approaches nearer, and the fawn makes slowly for a corner, then, fearing captivity, it tries to escape between the rails. "Attempt that again, my beauty," says Fabens, "and I'll have you in my arms." Again goes its head between the rails, and Fabens clasps it, struggling and panting like a captive bird, to his breast, and bears it in triumph to Julia in the house.

"Beautiful creature!" "lovely lamb of the greenwood!" are the exclamations that go round, as the family stand and view it.

"It has strayed from its dam," says one; and, "How it must feel at this moment!" "How soft and sleek its speckled coat!" adds another. "And how mild are its little eyes, and gentle as a sperit's," exclaims Mother Fabens.

"Will they kill it?" do you inquire. Kill it? No! How could they lay a knife on that delicate throat? Its tender looks would soften a heart of stone, and insure its safety. But what will they do with the panting prisoner? Not let it go! Little Clinton would put in his decided "No, no!" if they motioned to do such a thing. See how he dances and jabbers around it; touching its cool dewy nose with his little fat palms, clasping its velvet neck, soothing it, kissing it, and driving old Jowler out of the house, lest he may have a savage heart, which he proudly disdains, and offer to bite the beauty. A darling prize is that trembling fawn, as ever graced a dwelling. "And we must keep it," say they all. Some warm milk is offered it; but it turns its head from the basin. It is placed in a roofless corn-crib, on a bed of hay, with food before it; and Fabens works briskly for half a day, building a house for it. The time now is of leas value, as no crop is suffering, and he had designed a leisure day of this. About one o'clock the house is completed, and the lovely captive is removed to its new home, as gently as you would lay a meek babe in its bed.

They sat down to dinner, and the fawn was the subject of all conversation. "It shall be Clinton's pet and playmate," said Julia; "and it shall have a bell on its neck, and eat bread and berries shortly out of his hand. I wish little Fanny was big enough to notice the pretty thing, and put her hand on it."

"Dear thing!" said Mother Fabens, "it would seem like my pet lamb, in Cloverdale, and I should love it, myself, as I would a child, I'll warrant. But there, it does seem too hard to keep its nimble feet from the wild woods, whore it was made to caper?"

"So I think," added the Major. "I go for giving all their liberty. I would not keep a saucy squirrel shut up in a cage; it would be better to kill it."

After a hasty dinner had been taken, they all went out again to see the pretty captive, and found it lolling in the hot sun, and looking sad and forlorn. A fresh dish of milk was placed before it, and crumbs of sweet Indian bread were offered, but it laid down its poor head on the ground, and refused all food and comfort. Fabens was melted to a tear of pity by the sight.

"The poor thing is too sad to eat, I suppose," said he, "and longs for a frolic in the forest."

"I would say, down with the bars, and let it away, if it was not Clinton's," replied Julia. "It looks really hard to see it shut up here, when its very life is liberty. But how can we spare it now?"

"See how meek and wishful it looks up to Clinton, when he pats and strokes its neck," said Major Fabens. "I'd like to have the pretty fellow around well enough; but it is not right to keep it from the woods. There, it seems to sink into the ground as if all hope was gone from its heart."

"The flies buzz about its milk, and bite its tender sides, and still it don't mind 'em at all. It is too hard to keep it, so there!" added Matthew.

"But, wouldn't it be better for it to keep it with us, than let it go into the dangerous woods to be killed?" asked Julia.

"We div it more to eat," said Clinton, "and I'll tum and seep with it, and cuddle up to its back, and Dowler shan't touch it."

"Do what you think best," said Julia; "but I _should_ like to keep it for Clinton!"

"But how should we like to be in its place?" asked Matthew, "away from our family, confined from our native sports, shut up from the free air and hills, though they would feed us well and fuss over us? I want to let down the bars now, and see how quickly it will scamper from its prison."

"I feel for it as much as you can," answered Julia. "I feel for its poor mother; and what would I do if Clinton had strayed like the fawn, and we knew not where he was? But do keep it one day longer. Its gentle looks may make Clinton more tender. I'll pull fresh clover, and make its bed softer, and it shall be shaded more coolly from the sun."

"Let it away," said Major Fabens. "It looks so sad, may be it'll die before morning if you keep it penned up here;" and down went the bars, and into the house they hastened, and turned, and looked to see it leap to the woods. But it was not away in such a hurry. It rose, and walked gently into the house after them, so tame had it become already, and remained a few moments, looking thanks for their kindness; Clinton patted its soft shoulders, and kissed it tenderly, and then it walked gently away, and vanished in the woods; leaving the beholders more tender and kind for the visit, more in love with liberty, and more admiring the beautiful creatures of God.

VIII.

A LAMB LOST.

The autumn time had come, and fields, and woods, and waters were lit with its yellow beams. The blooms of spring, the splendors of summer had departed, or were sobered for the dust. Still a beauty was on the world. A pure, ethereal mildness breathed as from heaven, and the sun was so kindly and glad as he rode on in glory, he gave a sweet glance to every suppliant, whether plant or flower, or tree or man; and you could have looked into his warm face and felt regaled by his gracious smile. And the holy sky seemed now to stoop down and poise its breast on the bending hills, and again in majesty retire to a loftier archway of the fair blue Infinite, and glimmer and glow like a sea of glass. Eloquent type of the face of that Father whose glory lights the heavens, whose spirit breathes, and whose love abounds in every world.

The year had not been all sunlight or joy. Clouds had gathered and dissolved, and disappointments now and then occurred to our manly farmer, and called for more faith and courage. In the summer, the rains were so frequent, and superfluous, his crops were damaged, and the slopes on his fallows were cut into gullies, and swept of their soil. Premature frosts had nipped his corn slightly, and his buckwheat was not worth harvesting. A tolerable crop of wheat and other grains; and a harvest of loves, and lights, and strengths, however, were yielded him, to supply all his natural and spiritual needs, and the Lord was praised for his gracious care.

Fabens was now advanced to years of more grave reflection, and every object in Nature and Life addressed his mind with more suggestive and serious words. His religious impressions were deepened; and his religious sentiments, active and susceptible. He had studied a few fine books, and transferred their wisdom to his heart; he had studied Nature and Scripture; and he walked in light and peaceful ways. He relied on God as the Infinite Friend; and never a cloud was brought over the earth, whether of storm or grief, but he called to mind the promise of the Father, "the bow shall be seen in the cloud."

A few frugal comforts were added to his stores, and though he labored early and late at tasks that demanded strong arms and rusty raiment, where a gentleman in straps and ruffles would have met mortifications without number, still he was happy; and like the man of faith described in the Scripture, he abounded in blessings.

His parents remained to bless him. His wife responded to all his sympathies, and rendered his home a perennial joy. Clinton had been told of his fourth bright birthday, and the gladness of life budded on his heart, and bloomed on his face. Fanny unfolded the graces of childhood as you have seen water-lilies unfold leaf after leaf. Fabens tore himself away from his lambs at seven in the morning, and taking his luncheon in a basket, he proceeded to a distant clearing to work till night. At ten o'clock Clinton was presented a new coat and trowsers, which his mother had just finished, and he bounded about as proudly as a young deer with his first pair of antlers. Nothing would do but he must trip away to the clearing and show them to his father. It would be something of a venture to permit him; but he had been there several times with his father, and knew the way, and he was allowed to go. A kiss to sweet mother, and a kiss to Fanny were given, and one left for grandmother when she returned with her basket of green corn for dinner, and away he glided, and Julia looked after and smiled on his glee, little suspecting what might spring up and harm him on the path. Hour after hour expired, and Julia's mind ran after the boy; and she asked her mother again and again if anything would be likely to befall him. A slight fear occasionally rose, to be suppressed on a second thought; and evening advanced while yet their hearts were cheerly and at rest.

A fair and jocund day departed, and suddenly a dark cloud mantled the heavens, and the moonless night was falling dismal and drear. Fabens was expected by sunset, and at the usual hour, Julia tripped to the wood-path with a light heart to meet him, and take his swinging hand in her own, as she was accustomed to do, and talk all the way to the house. Hastening on half a mile or more, she spied her husband rising over a distant eminence, but he came alone! Her fears were all roused in a moment; she hurried, out of breath, to meet him, and approaching him, called in a broken voice--"Where is Clinton? where have you left him?"

"Clinton?" replied Fabens in surprise; "I have not seen him since morning."

"Not seen him?" ejaculated Julia; "O dear, he started to go to you this forenoon. I'm afraid he's lost, or the wild beasts have caught him!"

"Started to come to me this forenoon?"

"Yes, I finished his new clothes, and he was so pleased, he wanted to go and show them to you. 'Twas all done without thinking a moment of any danger."

"Mercy, Julia! what shall we do? He is gone; here it is coming dark as pitch,--what _shall_ we do?"

"What can we do? O Lord, help us!--help us!--Dear me, I can never forgive myself if he's lost or hurt!--Why _did_ I let him go?"

"Hurry home, Julia, and tell father and mother, and I'll run over to Troffater's; he may be there; Tilly is always teasing children and coaxing 'em; he may have seen Clinton and coaxed him home with him. He was chopping by the road when I went along this morning, he may have coaxed him home: but O, if he is not there!"

Fabens started on a run for Troffater's, and met two neighbors who had just come from his house; they had seen no Clinton; and assured him Clinton could not be there. They all hastened to Fabens', and met Julia and the parents; but no Clinton could be heard from. Darkness extinguished the last gleam of heaven, and they shuddered and wept in agonies of grief for the lost boy.

"How can we let the night pass without our lamb?" cried Mother Fabens.

"Dear, dear boy!--why _did_ I let him go, when I cannot bear to have him out of my sight? Why _did_ I let him go?" sobbed Julia frantically.

"Will not God be gracious? O will he not be gracious?" cried Fabens.

"There! I thought that little fawn was a forerunner of something!" exclaimed Mother Fabens. "That little fawn that came here last June. It has haunted my mind ever since. O I fear it did not come here without a warning?"

"But we let it go again," cried Julia; "and will not my pretty, pretty fawn be given back to his mother again? O! O!"

"An Indian shot a fawn the same day we let that go, and in the same direction he went. I always thought it was that handsome fellow," said Major Fabens.

"Mercy! it cannot be the fawn was a forerunner! O it cannot be that I shall not get my Clinton again!" cried Matthew, looking as if ready to reel to the ground. "O friends, do rouse the neighbors! if he's only lost, I'm afraid the wolves or panthers will catch him. You know how the wolves have howled of late; and I heard a panther scream last night, I thought. Do rouse the neighbors to advise and help!"

The friends seized torches and were away to the first dwelling. The news flew around as fast as distance would permit; and by nine o'clock the whole neighborhood were together with throbbing hearts and anxious looks.

"I fetched my horn and cow-bell," said Mr. Waldron; "I made a noise on the way. Horns will scare off painters, and wolves don't like tootin' or clatter a mite."

"And I brought mine," added Uncle Walter.

"And I mine," added Teezle.

"We'll blow horns and ring bells," said Teezle; "and you, Colwell and Troffater, go and call out the Indians. They're dreadful good to scare off animals and look for lost children."

"Do, for Heaven's sake,--do what you can, if it is dark!" ejaculated Julia fainting with grief.

"O, I know you'll not leave a thing undone!" added Matthew, beseechingly. "God give us strength to bear our trouble! It is hard--it is hard to bear trouble like this!"

Colwell and Troffater started for the lake to call up the Indians from their wigwams on the shore. But they were hardly out of sight before an ominous change passed lowering over the scene. A low moaning wind swept through the woods and fields, and round the house; and the leaves rustled, and the well-sweep swayed and creaked in the blast. Then a drearier dusk succeeded; a fierce and freezing gust from the lake shot by; and a long and rending roll of thunder announced the rising of a violent storm. A fleet of ghastly vapors sailed over the zenith; and feathery clouds floated after, opening and shutting with the thunder and silence, and showing and hiding the stars as they flew. Then a long rift of lightning leaped forth and trailed its blazing banners of white, red, and purple in loops and festoons round the sky; and the thunder redoubled its might, and closed in, and labored and roared, as if wrestling down the world. Flame after flame, and peal on peal, succeeded, and the storm halted over the lake and ran along its course, as if bridled for a time, and struggled, and rolled, and roared; then a wild thunder rent the rein, and it ran and rested over the settlement, and spent its fury, and spun its fire. The wind blew a hurricane; the rain dashed in cataracts; and every electric bolt seemed to shiver the cisterns of heaven, and empty rivers of rain. Then the lightning was uninterrupted, and you could have read a book, or counted the trees, or viewed the lake by its constant blaze; while now and anon a wilder volley exploded, and a more furious flash flew its zigzag flight from the zenith to the ground.

It lasted a long hour, and you may imagine the terror and gloom it poured on hearts already faint with grief. You may imagine the shrieks and cries of the household; how they called on God to guard and save; how the wild, wailing mother rushed out into the storm to recover her precious boy, and was beaten back by the wind and flood; what were their thoughts of his situation; what were their sobs and sighs.

At last the storm rolled away, and Colwell and Troffater returned, and led in a band of Indians. Counsel was had, and arrangements were made for the night. Horns were sounded; bells were rattled; tin pans and hammers were clashed together; and the dark woodlands wailed with the echoing sound. Fires were kindled, and torches flamed on every hand; and for one long night, sleep sought no pillow in the settlement. And to thrill all hearts with keener agony, and strain each nerve and cord to its utmost tension, a little before daybreak, not a mile from the desolate home, the fierce, wild scream of a panther was heard, startling the very air to a violent shudder, and receiving angry answers from the low lakeshore.

IX.

SEEKING THE LOST LAMB IN VAIN.

Darkness retired. The twilight glimmered on the tallest trees. Morning, so wearily watched-for, came. The clouds broke in masses, and rolled tardily down the sky. Day gilded the heavens, and the tranquil bosom of the low Cayuga mantled in his beams, and reflected the glory of his face. But to the Waldron Settlement that smiling day brought little hope, and no enjoyment. A favorite child was lost from a goodly family, and ill feelings were agitated, and all hearts ran after him through thicket and field, over hill and valley, like shepherds after a lost lamb. Comfortless and faint, the family assembled at the morning altar, and one general sob of grief, and one leaping pulse of anxiety went round. They kneeled for prayer; and the venerable father bore their petitions before the Lord. He prayed for grace to sustain them in the trial. He acknowledged their errors; but bending at the feet of Infinite Kindness, he was encouraged to ask for a Father's blessing. He prayed for more faith in Providence. He prayed that they might have resignation, and that comfort might come to their hearts in the recovery of their little boy.

Grief brooded not over that altar alone. It sat upon every face; it occupied every home; it assailed every heart in the settlement. Tilly Troffater even seemed to share somewhat of the general sorrow, though seldom shedding a sympathetic tear.

"I never tuck a great likin' to childern," said he; "but I kindy liked little Clint; his cheeks was so soft, and smooth, and his eyes snapped sich funny fire; and he was olers so full o' his cunnin' jabber. I hope the painters haint ketched him. They yelled despotly last night; but I hope they haint ketched him yit. I'd like to see him agin, and baird his dimple face for him; the pretty mischief."

"He's worth a long hunt," said Colwell, "and my farm won't suffer if I search a month."

"I did not see how I could leave my work," said Wilson; "but I must give one hunt for Clinton; I must."

"We mustn't give him up yet. O, we can't give him up," added Uncle Walter; "we couldn't spare a soul from the settlement; we couldn't spare the leastest of your little brats, Troffater! But where are Matthew and the Major?"

"They followed Julia to the woods, very early, to see if they could find a trace of the boy," replied Mother Fabens.

"Then we must follow them in a trice," said Uncle Walter; and a general council was had, and it was agreed that they should form a line of all the men and women, four rods apart, and sweep the woods for a distance round; and with horns and bells to give salutes, and luncheon to refresh them when hungry, they marched through the moaning woods.

Night overtook them while they looked still for day, and they returned heavy-hearted and weary to their homes. Large and diligent had been the search, and all the kind Indians were out with them, but no trace could be found of the lost boy. The Indians shook their heads dolefully, and gave signs of despair, though little was said in discouragement, and all volunteered to continue the search the next day. No fires were kindled that night, and only once, in an hour, the horn was sounded, from each house, to give signs of watchfulness, and keep the wild beasts in their distant dens. Morning returned, and another council convened to compare suggestions, and commence another search. Mother Fabens related a dream of the last night, and all gathered around, to hear it. She dreamed that Clinton was passing near the sugar camp, and a creature standing on his hind legs, rushed upon the boy, and bore him off to a multitude that looked like the creature, and let him go free among them. That Clinton wept at first, and tried to get away, but after awhile he looked cheerful again, and stayed with them till she awoke.

"Dreadful!" cried poor comfortless Julia; "can it, say, can it be true?"

"But that does not show he's killed; and I will not give him up yet," said Uncle Walter.

"The wolves hev muttoned him afore this, you may depend," said Troffater.

"I don't believe that," said Colwell.

"And I don't believe you do aither," said Mr. Waldron, to Troffater. "There's a good 'eal in that dream, I say now; and it gives me hope. Come, let's give another good hunt."

"Hugh!" groaned an Indian, dolefully; "he gone, he dead; we no find 'im."

"So I b'lieve," added Troffater. "I dremp las night tew, as wal as Granny Fabens; but then our dreams don't agree azackly. I dremp a shaggy wolf ketched 'im.--O, _don't_ cry so, Miss Fabens!--as I was goin' to say--I dremp a shaggy wolf ketched 'im, and craunched the little feller down, as ye'd eat a tender quail. Miss Fabens, _don't_ cry now!--he was all out o' misery perty quick. I dremp he was dead afore he was stript, or his little dimple hands was chanked to mince-meat; don't cry _now_."

"You good-for-nothing torment, hold your lying tongue!" said Uncle Walter, in a rage; "who wants to hear your dream? I'd call for a polecat's dream as quick. Shut your lips. _You_ talk about crying! Why, your very words tear open the woman's heart. I'm struck with what Mother Fabens tells."