Yan was scribbling away, but had given up any attempt to make sketches
or even notes beyond the names of the plants.

"Shure, choild, put them papers wid the names on the hairbs an' save
_them_; that wuz fwhat Docther Carmartin done whin Oi was larnin'
him. Thayer, now, that's it," she added, as Yan took the hint and
began slipping on each stalk a paper label with its name.

"That's a curious broom," said Yan, as his eye fell on the symbol of
order and cleanliness, making strange reflections on itself.

"Yes; sure, that's a Baitche broom. Larry makes 'em."

"Larry?"

"Yes, me bhoy." [Larry was nearly sixty.] "He makes thim of Blue
Baitche."

"How?" asked Yan, picking it up and examining it with intense
interest.

"Whoi, shure, by whittlin'. Larry's a howly terror to whittle, an'
he gets a Blue Baitche sapling 'bout three inches thick an' starts
a-whittlin" long slivers, but laves them on the sthick at wan end till
thayer all round loike that."

"What, like a fire-lighter?"

"Yis, yis, that's it, only bigger, an Blue Baitche is terrible tough.
Then whin he has the sthick down to 'bout an inch thick, he ties all
the slivers the wrong way wid a sthrand o' Litherwood, an' thrims down
the han'el to suit, an' evens up the ind av the broom wid the axe an'
lets it dhry out, an' thayer yer is. Better broom was niver made, an'
there niver wus ony other in th' famb'ly till he married that Kitty
Connor, the lowest av the low, an' it's meself was all agin her, wid
her proide an' her dirthy sthuck-up ways' nothin' but boughten things
wuz good enough fur her, _her_ that niver had a dacint male till
she thrapped moi Larry. Yis, low be it sphoken, but 'thrapped' 's the
wurrud," said the old woman, raising her voice to give emphasis that
told a lurid tale.

At this moment the door opened and in came Biddy, and as she was the
daughter of the unspeakable Kitty the conversation turned.

"An' sure it's glad to see ye I am, an' when are ye comin' down to
reside at our place?" was her greeting to Yan, and while they talked
Granny took advantage of the chance to take a long pull at a bottle
that looked and smelled like Lung-balm.

"Moi, Biddy, yer airly," said Granny.

"Shure, an' now it was late whin I left home, an' the schulmaster says
it's always so walking from ayst to west."

"An' shure it's glad Oi am to say ye, fur Yan will shtop an ate wid
us. It ain't duck an' grane pase, but, thank God, we hev enough an' a
hearty welcome wid ivery boite. Ye say, Biddy makes me dinner ivery
foine day an' Oi get a boite an' a sup for meself other toimes, an'
slapes be me lone furby me Dog an' Cat an' the apples, which thayer
ain't but a handful left, but fwhat thar is is yourn. Help yerself,
choild, an' ate hearty," and she turned down the gray-looking
bedclothes to show the last half-dozen of the same rosy apples.

"Aint you afraid to sleep here alone nights, Granny?"

"Shure fwhat hev Oi to fayre? Thayer niver wuz robbers come but wanst,
an' shure I got theyer last cint aff av them. They come one night an'
broke in, an' settin' up, Oi sez, 'Now fwhat _are_ yez lukin'
fur?'

"'Money,' sez they, fur thayer was talk all round thin that Oi had
sold me cow fur $25.

"'Sure, thin, Oi'll get up an' help ye,' sez Oi, fur divil a cint hev
Oi been able to set me eyes on sense apple harvest.'"

'"We want $25, or we'll kill ye.'

"'Faith, an' if it wuz twenty-five cints Oi couldn't help it,' sez Oi,
'an' it's ready to die Oi am,' sez Oi, 'fur Oi was confessed last wake
an' Oi'm a-sayin' me prayers _this_ minit.'

"Sez the littlest wan, an' he wa'n't so little, nigh as br'ad as that
dooer, 'Hevn't ye sold yer cow?'

"'Ye'll foind her in the barrun,' sez Oi, 'though Oi hate to hev yez
disturb her slapin'. It makes her drame an' that's bad fur the milk.'

"An' next thing them two robbers wuz laffin' at each other fur fools.
Then the little wan sez:

"'Now, Granny, we'll lave ye in pace, if ye'll niver say a wurrud o'
this'--but the other wan seemed kind o' sulky.

"'Sorra a wurrud,' sez Oi, 'an' good frinds we'll be yit,' an' they
wuz makin' fur the dooer to clayer out whin I sez:

"'Howld on! Me friends can't lave me house an' naither boite nor sup;
turn yer backs an' ye plaze, till Oi get on me skirt.' An' whin Oi wuz
up an' dacint an' tould them they could luk, Oi sez, 'It's the foinest
Lung balm in the land ye shall taste,' an' the littlest feller he
starts a-coughin', oh, a turrible cough--it fair scairt me, like a
hoopin' croup--an' the other seemed just mad, and the littlest wan
made fun av him. Oi seen the mean wan wuz left-handed or let on he
wuz, but when he reached out fur the bottle he had on'y three fingers
on his right, an' they both av them had the biggest, blackest,
awfulest lukin' bairds--I'd know them two bairds agin ony place--an'
the littlest had a rag round his head, said he had a toothache, but
shure yer teeth don't ache in the roots o' yer haiyer. Then when they
wuz goin' the littlest wan put a dollar in me hand an' sez, 'It's all
we got bechuxst us, Granny.' 'Godbless ye,' sez Oi, 'an' Oi take it
kindly. It's the first Oi seen sense apple harvest, an' it's a friend
ye hev in me whin ye nade wan,'" and the old woman chuckled over her
victory.

"Granny, do you know what the Indians use for dyeing colours?" asked
Yan, harking back to his main purpose.

"Shure, Yahn, they jest goes to the store an' gets boughten dyes in
packages like we do."

"But before there were boughten dyes, didn't they use things in the
woods?"

"That they did, for shure. Iverything man iver naded the good Lord
made grow fur him in the woods."

"Yes, but what plants?"

"Faix, an' they differ fur different things."

"Yes, but what are they?" Then seeing how general questions failed, he
went at it in detail.

"What do they use for yellow dye on the Porcupine quills--I mean
before the boughten dyes came?"

"Well, shure an' that's a purty yellow flower that grows in the fall
out in the field an' along the fences. The Yaller Weed, I call it,
an' some calls it Goldenrod. They bile the quills in wather with the
flower. Luk! Thar's some wool dyed that way."

"An' the red?" said Yan, scribbling away.

"Faix, an' they had no rale good red. They made a koind o' red o'
berry juice b'iled, an' wanst I seen a turrible nice red an ol' squaw
made b'ilin' the quills fust in yaller awhile an' next awhile in red."

"What berries make the best red, Granny?"

"Well, 'tain't the red wans, as ye moight think. Ye kin make it of
Rosberries or Sumac or Huckleberries an' lots more, but Black Currants
is redder than Red Currants, an' Squaw berries is best av them all."

"What are they like?"

"Shure, an' Oi'll show ye that same hairb," and they wandered around
outside the shanty in vain search. "It's too airly," said Granny, "but
it's round thayer in heaps in August an' is the purtiest red iver
grew. 'An Pokeweed, too, it ain't har'ly flowerin' yit, but in the
fall it hez berries that's so red they're nigh black, an' dyes the
purtiest kind o' a purple."

"What makes blue?"

"Oi niver sane none in the quills. Thayer may be some. The good Lord
made iverything grow in the woods, but I ain't found it an' niver seen
none. Ye kin make a grane av the young shoots av Elder, but it ain't
purty like that," and she pointed to a frightful emerald ribbon that
Biddy wore, "an' a brown of Butternut bark, an' a black av White Oak
chips an' bark. Ye kin make a kind o' grane av two dips, wan of yaller
an wan av black. Ye kin dye black wid Hickory bark, an' orange (bad
scran to it) wid the inner bark of Birch, an' yaller wid the roots
av Hoop Ash, an' a foine scarlet from the bark av the little root av
Dogwood, but there ain't no rale blue in the woods, an' that's what I
tell them orange-an'-blue Prattisons on the 12th o' July, fur what the
Lord didn't make the divil did.

"Ye kin make a koind of blue out o' the Indigo hairb, but 'tain't like
this," pointing to some screaming cobalt, "an' if it ain't in the
woods the good Lord niver meant us to have it. Yis! I tell ye it's
the divil's own colour, that blue-orange an' blue is the divil's own
colours, shure enough, fur brimstone's yaller; an' its blue whin it's
burnin', that I hed from his riv'rince himself--bless him!"




XII.

Dinner with the Witch


Biddy meanwhile had waddled around the room slapping the boards with
her broad bare feet as she prepared their dinner. She was evidently
trying to put on style, for she turned out her toes excessively.
She spoke several times about "the toime when she resoided with yer
mamma," then at length, "Whayer's the tablecloth, Granny?"

"Now, wud ye listen to thot, an' she knowin' that divil a clath hev we
in the wurruld, an' glad enough to hev vittles on the table, let
alone a clath," said Granny, oblivious of the wreck she was making of
Biddy's pride.

"Will ye hay tay or coffee, Yahn?" said Biddy.

"Tea," was Yan's choice.

"Faix, an' Oi'm glad ye said tay, fur Oi ain' seen a pick o' coffee
sense Christmas, an' the tay Oi kin git in the woods, but thayer is
somethin' Oi kin set afore ye that don't grow in the woods," and the
old woman hobbled to a corner shelf, lifted down an old cigar box and
from among matches, tobacco, feathers, tacks, pins, thread and dust
she picked six lumps of cube sugar, formerly white.

"Thayer, shure, an' Oi wuz kapin' this fur whin his riv'rence comes;
wanst a year he's here, God bless him! but that's fower wakes ahid,
an' dear knows fwhat may happen afore thin. Here, an' a hearty
welcome," said she, dropping three of the lumps in Yan's tea. "We'll
kape the rest fur yer second cup. Hev some crame?" and she pushed over
a sticky-handled shaving-mug full of excellent cream. "Biddy, give
Yahn some bread."

The loaf, evidently the only one, was cut up and two or three slices
forced into Yan's plate.

"Mebbe the butther is a little hoigh," exclaimed the hostess, noting
that Yan was sparing of it. "Howld on." She went again to the corner
shelf and got down an old glass jar with scalloped edge and a flat tin
cover. It evidently contained jam. She lifted the cover and exclaimed:

"Well, Oi niver!" Then going to the door she fished out with her
fingers a dead mouse and threw it out, remarking placidly, "Oi've
wondered whayer the little divil wuz. Oi ain't sane him this two
wakes, an' me a-thinkin' it wuz Tom ate him. May Oi be furgiven the
onjustice av it. Consarn them flies! That cover niver did fit." And
again her finger was employed, this time to scrape off an incrustation
of unhappy flies that had died, like Clarence, in their favourite
beverage.

"Thayer, Yan, now ate hearty, all av it, an' welcome. It does me good
to see ye ate--thayer's lots more whayer that come from," though it
was obvious that she had put her all upon the table.

Poor Yan was in trouble. He felt instinctively that the good old soul
was wrecking her week's resources in this lavish hospitality, but he
also felt that she would be deeply hurt if he did not appear to enjoy
everything. The one possibly clean thing was the bread. He devoted
himself to that; it was of poorest quality; one or two hairs looping
in his teeth had been discouraging, but when he bit at a piece of
linen rag with a button on it he was fairly upset. He managed to hide
the rag, but could not conceal his sudden loss of appetite.

"Hev some more av this an' this," and in spite of himself his
plate was piled up with things for him to eat, including a lot of
beautifully boiled potatoes, but unfortunately the hostess carried
them from the pot on the stove in a corner of her ancient and somber
apron, and served him with her skinny paw.

Yan's appetite was wholly gone now, to the grief of his kind
entertainer, "Shure an' she'd fix him up something to stringthen him,"
and Yan had hard work to beg off.

"Would ye like an aig," ventured Biddy.

"Why, yes! oh, yes, please," exclaimed Yan, with almost too much
enthusiasm. He thought, "Well, hens are pure-minded creatures, anyway.
An egg's sure to be clean."

Biddy waddled away to the 'barrun' and soon reappeared with three
eggs.

"B'iled or fried?"

"Boiled," said Yan, aiming to keep to the safe side.

Biddy looked around for a pot.

"Shure, _that's_ b'ilin' now," said Granny, pointing to the great
mass of her undergarments seething in the boiler, and accordingly the
eggs were dropped in there.

Yan fervently prayed that they might not break. As it was, two did
crack open, but he got the other one, and that was virtually his
dinner.

A Purple Blackbird came hopping in the door now.

"Will, now, thayer's Jack. Whayer hev ye been? I thought ye wuz gone
fur good. Shure Oi saved him from a murtherin' gunner," she explained.
"(Bad scran to the baste! I belave he was an Or'ngeman.) But he's all
right now an' comes an' goes like he owned the place. Now, Jack, you
git out av that wather pail," as the beautiful bird leaped into the
half-filled drinking bucket and began to take a bath.

"Now luk at that," she shouted, "ye little rascal, come out o' that
oven," for now the Blackbird had taken advantage of the open door to
scramble into the dark warm oven.

"Thayer he goes to warrum his futs. Oh, ye little rascal! Next thing
ye know some one'll slam the dooer, not knowin' a thing, and fire up,
an' it's roastin' aloive ye'll be. Shure an' it's tempted Oi am to
wring yer purty neck to save yer loife," and she drove him out with
the harshest of words and the gentlest of hands.

Then Yan, with his arms full of labelled plants, set out for home.

"Good-boi, choild, come back agin and say me soon. Bring some more
hairbs. Good-boi, an' bless ye. Oi hope it's no sin to say so, fur Oi
know yer a Prattison an' ye are all on yez goin' to hell, but yer a
foine bhoy. Oi'm tumble sorry yer a Prattison."

When Yan got back to the Raftens' he found the dinner table set for
one, though it was now three in the afternoon.

"Come and get your dinner," said Mrs. Raften in her quiet motherly
way. "I'll put on the steak. It will be ready in five minutes."

"But I've had my dinner with Granny de Neuville."

"Yes, I know!"

"Did she stir yer tea with one front claw an' put jam on yer bread
with the other?" asked Raften, rather coarsely.

"Did she b'ile her pet Blackbird fur yer soup?" said Sam.

Yan turned very red. Evidently all had a good idea of what he had
experienced, but it jarred on him to hear their mockery of the good
old soul.

He replied warmly, "She was just as kind and nice as she could be."

"You had better have a steak now," said Mrs. Raften, in solicitous
doubt.

How tempting was the thought of that juicy brown steak! How his empty
stomach did crave it! But the continued mockery had stirred him. He
would stand up for the warm-hearted old woman who had ungrudgingly
given him the best she had--had given her all--to make a hearty
welcome for a stranger. They should never know how gladly he would
have eaten now, and in loyalty to his recent hostess he added the
first lie of his life:

"No, thank you very much, but really I am not in the least hungry. I
had a fine dinner at Granny de Neuville's."

Then, defying the inner pangs of emptiness, he went about his evening
chores.




XIII

The Hostile Spy


"Wonder where Caleb got that big piece of Birch bark," said Yan; "I'd
like some for dishes."

"Guess I know. He was over to Burns's bush. There's none in ours. We
kin git some."

"Will you ask him?"

"Naw, who cares for an old Birch tree. We'll go an' borrow it when he
ain't lookin'."

Yan hesitated.

Sam took the axe. "We'll call this a war party into the enemy's
country. There's sure 'nuff war that-a-way. He's one of Da's
'_friends.'_"

Yan followed, in doubt still as to the strict honesty of the
proceeding.

Over the line they soon found a good-sized canoe Birch, and were busy
whacking away to get off a long roll, when a tall man and a small boy,
apparently attracted by the chopping, came in sight and made toward
them. Sam called under his breath: "It's old Burns. Let's git."

There was no time to save anything but themselves and the axe. They
ran for the boundary fence, while Burns contented himself with
shouting out threats and denunciations. Not that he cared a straw for
the Birch tree--timber had no value in that country--but unfortunately
Raften had quarrelled with all his immediate neighbours, therefore
Burns did his best to make a fearful crime of the petty depredation.

His valiant son, a somewhat smaller boy than either Yan or Sam, came
near enough to the boundary to hurl opprobrious epithets.

"Red-head--red-head! You red-headed thief! Hol' on till my paw gits
hol' o' you--Raften, the Baften, the rick-strick Straften," and others
equally galling and even more exquisitely refined.

"War party escaped and saved their scalps," and Sam placidly laid the
axe in its usual place.

"Nothing lost but honour," added Yan. "Who's the kid?"

"Oh, that's Guy Burns. I know him. He's a mean little cuss, always
sneaking and peeking. Lies like sixty. Got the prize--a big
scrubbing-brush--for being the dirtiest boy in school. We all voted,
and the teacher gave it to him."

Next day the boys made another war party for Birch bark, but had
hardly begun operations when there was an uproar not far away, and a
voice, evidently of a small boy, mouthing it largely, trying to pass
itself off as a man's voice: "Hi, yer the ---- ----. Yer git off my
---- ---- place ---- ----"

"Le's capture the little cuss, Yan."

"An' burn him at the stake with horrid torture," was the rejoinder.

They set out in his direction, but again the appearance of Burns
changed their war-party onslaught into a rapid retreat.

(More opprobrium.)

During the days that followed the boys were often close to the
boundary, but it happened that Burns was working near and Guy had the
quickest of eyes and ears. The little rat seemed ever on the alert. He
soon showed by his long-distance remarks that he knew all about the
boys' pursuits--had doubtless visited the camp in their absence.
Several times they saw him watching them with intense interest when
they were practising with bow and arrow, but he always retreated to a
safe distance when discovered, and then enjoyed himself breathing out
fire and slaughter.

One day the boys came to the camp at an unusual hour. On going into a
near thicket Yan saw a bare foot under some foliage. "Hallo, what's
this?" He stooped down and found a leg to it and at the end of that
Guy Burns.

Up Guy jumped, yelling "Paw--Paw--PAW!" He ran for his life, the
Indians uttering blood-curdlers on his track. But Yan was a runner,
and Guy's podgy legs, even winged by fear, had no chance. He was
seized and dragged howling back to the camp.

"You let me alone, you Sam Raften--now you let me alone!" There was,
however, a striking lack of opprobrium in his remarks now. (Such
delicacy is highly commendable in the very young.)

"First thing is to secure the prisoner, Yan."

Sam produced a cord.

"Pooh," said Yan. "You've got no style about you. Bring me some
Leatherwood."

This was at hand, and in spite of howls and scuffles, Guy was solemnly
tied to a tree--a green one--because, as Yan pointed out, that would
resist the fire better.

The two Warriors now squatted cross-legged by the fire. The older one
lighted a peace-pipe, and they proceeded to discuss the fate of the
unhappy captive.

"Brother," said Yan, with stately gestures, "it is very pleasant to
hear the howls of this miserable paleface." (It was really getting to
be more than they could endure.)

"Ugh--heap good," said the Woodpecker.

"Ye better let me alone. My Paw'll fix you for this, you dirty
cowards," wailed the prisoner, fast losing control of his tongue.

"Ugh! Take um scalp first, burn him after," and Little Beaver made
some expressive signs.

"Wah--bully--me heap wicked," rejoined the Woodpecker, expectorating
on a stone and beginning to whet his jack-knife.

The keen and suggestive "_weet, weet, weet_" of the knife on the
stone smote on Guy's ears and nerves with appalling effect.

"Brother Woodpecker, the spirit of our tribe calls out for the blood
of the victim--all of it."

"Great Chief Woodpecker, you mean," said Sam, aside. "If you don't
call me Chief, I won't call you Chief, that's all."

The Great Woodpecker and Little Beaver now entered the teepee,
repainted each other's faces, adjusted their head-dresses and stepped
out to the execution.

The Woodpecker re-whetted his knife. It did not need it, but he liked
the sound.

Little Beaver now carried a lot of light firewood and arranged it in
front of the prisoner, but Guy's legs were free and he gave it a kick
which sent it all flying. The two War-chiefs leaped aside. "Ugh! Heap
sassy," said the ferocious Woodpecker. "Tie him legs, oh, Brother
Great Chief Little Beaver!"

A new bark strip tied his legs securely to the tree. Then Chief
Woodpecker approached with his knife and said:

"Great Brother Chief Little Beaver, if we scalp him there is only one
scalp, and _you_ will have nothing to show, except you're content
with the wishbone."

Here was a difficulty, artificial yet real, but Yan suggested:

"Great Brother Chief
Red-headed-Woodpecker-Settin'-on-a-Stump-with-his-Tail-Waggling-over-the
Edge, no scalp him; skin his hull head, then each take half skin."

"Wah! Very good, oh Brother Big-Injun-Chief Great-Little-Beaver-
Chaw-a-Tree-Down."

Then the Woodpecker got a piece of charcoal and proceeded in horrid
gravity to mark out on the tow hair of the prisoner just what he
considered a fair division. Little Beaver objected that he was
entitled to an ear and half of the crown, which is the essential part
of the scalp. The Woodpecker pointed out that fortunately the prisoner
had a cow-lick that was practically a second crown. This ought to do
perfectly well for the younger Chief's share. The charcoal lines were
dusted off for a try-over. Both Chiefs got charcoal now and a new
sketch plan was made on Guy's tow top and corrected till it was
accepted by both.

[Illustration: "Ugh! Heap sassy!"]

The victim had really never lost heart till now. His flow of threats
and epithets had been continuous and somewhat tedious. He had
threatened to tell his "paw" and "the teacher," and all the world, but
finally he threatened to tell Mr. Raften. This was the nearest to a
home thrust of any yet, and in some uneasiness the Woodpecker turned
to Little Beaver and said:

"Brother Chief, do you comprehend the language of the blithering
Paleface? What does he say?"

"Ugh, I know not," was the reply. "Maybe he now singeth a death song
in his own tongue."

Guy was not without pluck. He had kept up heart so far believing that
the boys were "foolin'," but when he felt the awful charcoal line
drawn to divide his scalp satisfactorily between these two inhuman,
painted monsters, and when with a final "_weet, weet, weet_"
of the knife on the stone the implacable Woodpecker approached and
grabbed his tow locks in one hand, then he broke down and wept
bitterly.

"Oh, please don't----Oh, Paw! Oh, Maw! Let me go this time an' I'll
never do it again." What he would not do was not specified, but the
evidence of surrender was complete.

"Hold on, Great Brother Chief," said Little Beaver. "It is the custom
of the tribes to release or even to adopt such prisoners as have shown
notable fortitude."

"Showed fortitude enough for six if it's the same thing as yellin',"
said the Woodpecker, dropping into his own vernacular.

"Let us cut his bonds so that he may escape to his own people."

"Thar'd be more style to it if we left him thar overnight an' found
next mornin' he had escaped somehow by himself," said the older Chief.
The victim noted the improvement in his situation and now promised
amid sobs to get them all the Birch bark they wanted--to do anything,
if they would let him go. He would even steal for them the choicest
products of his father's orchard.

Little Beaver drew his knife and cut bond after bond.

Woodpecker got his bow and arrow, remarking "Ugh, heap fun shoot him
runnin'."

The last bark strip was cut. Guy needed no urging. He ran for the
boundary fence in silence till he got over; then finding himself safe
and unpursued, he rilled the air with threats and execrations. No part
of his statement would do to print here.

After such a harrowing experience most boys would have avoided that
swamp, but Guy knew Sam at school as a good-natured fellow. He began
to think he had been unduly scared. He was impelled by several
motives, a burning curiosity being, perhaps the most important. The
result was that one day when the boys came to camp they saw Guy
sneaking off. It was fun to capture him and drag him back. He was very
sullen, and not so noisy as the other time, evidently less scared.
The Chiefs talked of fire and torture and of ducking him in the pond
without getting much response. Then they began to cross-examine the
prisoner. He gave no answer. Why did he come to the camp? What was he
doing--stealing? etc. He only looked sullen.

"Let's blindfold him and drive a Gyascutus down his back," said Yan in
a hollow voice.

"Good idee," agreed Sam, not knowing any more than the prisoner what a
Gyascutus was. Then he added, "just as well be merciful. It'll put him
out o' pain."

It is the unknown that terrifies. The prisoner's soul was touched
again. His mouth was trembling at the corners. He was breaking down
when Yan followed it up: "Then why don't you tell us what you are
doing here?"

He blubbered out, "I want to play Injun, too."

The boys broke down in another way. They had not had time to paint
their faces, so that their expressions were very clear on this
occasion.

Then Little Beaver arose and addressed the Council.

"Great Chiefs of the Sanger Nation: The last time we tortured and
burned to death this prisoner, he created quite an impression. Never
before has one of our prisoners shown so many different kinds of
gifts. I vote to receive him into the Tribe."

The Woodpecker now arose and spoke:

"O wisest Chief but one in this Tribe, that's all right enough, but
you know that no warrior can join us without first showing that he's
good stuff and clear grit, all wool, and a cut above the average
somehow. It hain't never been so. Now he's got to lick some Warrior of
the Tribe. Kin you do that?"

"Nope."

"Or outrun one or outshoot him or something--or give us all a present.
What kin you do?"

"I kin steal watermillyons, an' I kin see farder 'n any boy in school,
an' I kin sneak to beat all creation. I watched you fellers lots of
times from them bushes. I watched you buildin' that thar dam. _I
swum in it 'fore you did_, an' I uster set an' smoke in your teepee
when you wasn't thar, an' I heerd you talk the time you was fixin' up
to steal our Birch bark."

"Don't seem to me like it all proves much _fortitude_. Have you
got any presents for the oldest head Chief of the tribe?"

"I'll get you all the Birch bark you want. I can't git what you cut,
coz me an' Paw burned that so you couldn't git it, but I'll git you
lots more, an' maybe--I'll steal you a chicken once in awhile."

"His intentions are evidently honourable Let's take him in on
sufferance," said Yan.

"All right," replied the head Chief, "he kin come in, but that don't
spile my claim to that left half of his scalp down to that tuft of
yellow moss on the scruff of his neck where the collar has wore off
the dirt. I'm liable to call for it any time, an' the ear goes with
it."

Guy wanted to treat this as a joke, but Sam's glittering eyes and
inscrutable face were centered hungrily on that "yaller tuft" in a way
that gave him the "creeps" again.

"Say, Yan--I mean Great Little Beaver--you know all about it, what
kind o' stunts did they have to do to get into an Injun tribe,
anyhow?"

"Different tribes do different ways, but the Sun Dance and the Fire
Test are the most respectable and both _terribly hard_."

"Well, what did _you_ do?" queried the Great Woodpecker.

"Both," said Yan grinning, as he remembered his sunburnt arms and
shoulders.

"Quite sure?" said the older Chief in a tone of doubt.

"Yes, sir; and I bore it so well that every one there agreed that
I was the best one in the Tribe," said Little Beaver, omitting to
mention the fact that he was the only one in it. "I was unanimously
named 'Howling Sunrise.'"

"Well, I want to be 'Howling Sunrise,'" piped Guy in his shrill voice.

"You? You don't know whether you can pass at all, you Yaller
Mossback."

"Come, Mossy, which will you do?"

Guy's choice was to be sunburnt to the waist. He was burnt and
freckled already to the shoulders, on arms as well as on neck, and his
miserable cotton shirt so barely turned the sun's rays that he was
elsewhere of a deep yellow tinge with an occasional constellation of
freckles. Accordingly he danced about camp all one day with nothing on
but his pants, and, of course, being so seasoned, he did not burn.

As the sun swung low the Chiefs assembled in Council.

The head Chief looked over the new Warrior, shook his head gravely and
said emphatically: "Too green to burn. Your name is Sapwood."

Protest was in vain. "Sappy," he was and had to be until he won a
better name. The peace pipe was smoked all round and he was proclaimed
third War Chief of the Sanger Indians (the word _War_ inserted by
special request).

He was quite the most harmless member of the band and therefore took
unusual pleasure in posing as the possessor of a perennial thirst for
human heart-blood. War-paint was his delight, and with its aid he was
singularly successful in correcting his round and smiling face into
a savage visage of revolting ferocity. Paint was his hobby and his
pride, but alas! how often it happens one's deepest sorrow is in the
midst of one's greatest joy--the deepest lake is the old crater on top
of the highest mountain. Sappy's eyes were _not_ the sinister
black beads of the wily Red-man, but a washed-out blue. His ragged,
tow-coloured locks he could hide under wisps of horsehair, the paint
itself redeemed his freckled skin, but there was no remedy for the
white eyelashes and the pale, piggy, blue eyes. He kept his sorrow to
himself, however, for he knew that if the others got an inkling of his
feelings on the subject his name would have been promptly changed
to "Dolly" or "Birdy," or some other equally horrible and un-Indian
appellation.




XIV

The Quarrel


"Say, Yan, I saw a Blood-Robin this morning."

"That's a new one," said Yan, in a tone of doubt.

"Well, it's the purtiest bird in the country."

"What? A Humming-bird?"

"Na-aw-w-w. They ain't purty, only small."

"Well, that shows what you know," retorted Yan, "'for these exquisite
winged gems are at once the most diminutive and brilliantly coloured
of the whole feathered race.'" This phrase Yan had read some where and
his overapt memory had seized on it.

"Pshaw!" said Sam. "Sounds like a book, but I'll bet I seen hundreds
of Hummin'-birds round the Trumpet-vine and Bee-balm in the garden,
an' they weren't a millionth part as purty as this. Why, it's just as
red as blood, shines like fire and has black wings. The old Witch says
the Indians call it a War-bird 'cause when it flew along the trail
there was sure going to be war, which is like enough, fur they wuz at
it all the hull time."

"Oh, I know," said Yan. "A Scarlet Tanager. Where did you see it?"

"Why, it came from the trees, then alighted on the highest pole of the
teepee."

"Hope there isn't going to be any war there, Sam. I wish I had one to
stuff."

"Tried to get him for you, sonny, spite of the Rules. Could 'a' done
it, too, with a gun. Had a shy at him with an arrow an' I hain't been
bird or arrow since. 'Twas my best arrow, too--old Sure-Death."

"Will ye give me the arrow if I kin find it?" said Guy.

"Now you bet I won't. What good'd that be to me?"

"Will you give me your chewin' gum?"

"No."

"Will you lend it to me?"

"Yep."

"Well, there's your old arrow," said Guy, pulling it from between the
logs where it had fallen. "I seen it go there an' reckoned I'd lay low
an' watch the progress of events, as Yan says," and Guy whinnied.

Early in the morning the Indians in war-paint went off on a prowl.
They carried their bows and arrows, of course, and were fully alert,
studying the trail at intervals and listening for "signs of the
enemy."

Their moccasined feet gave forth no sound, and their keen eyes took in
every leaf that stirred as their sinewy forms glided among the huge
trunks of the primeval vegetation--at least, Yan's note-book said they
did. They certainly went with very little noise, but they disturbed a
small Hawk that flew from a Balsam-fir--a "Fire tree" they now called
it, since they had discovered the wonderful properties of the wood.

Three arrows were shot after it and no harm done. Yan then looked into
the tree and exclaimed:

"A nest."

"Looks to me like a fuzz-ball," said Guy.

"Guess not," replied Yan. "Didn't we scare the Hawk off?"

He was a good climber, quite the best of the three, and dropping his
head-dress, coat, leggings and weapon, she shinned up the Balsam
trunk, utterly regardless of the gum which hung in crystalline drops
or easily burst bark-bladders on every part.

He was no sooner out of sight in the lower branches than Satan entered
into Guy's small heart and prompted him thus:

"Le's play a joke on him an' clear out."

Sam's sense of humour beguiled him. They stuffed Yan's coat and
pants with leaves and rubbish, put them properly together with the
head-dress, then stuck one of his own arrows through the breast of the
coat into the ground and ran away.

Meanwhile Yan reached the top of the tree and found that the nest was
only one of the fuzz-balls so common on Fir trees. He called out to
his comrades but got no reply, so came down. At first the ridiculous
dummy seemed funny, then he found that his coat had been injured and
the arrow broken. He called for his companions, but got no answer;
again and again, without reply. He went to where they all had intended
going, but if they were there they hid from him, and feeling himself
scurvily deserted he went back to camp in no very pleasant humour.
They were not there. He sat by the fire awhile, then, yielding to his
habit of industry, he took off his coat and began to work at the dam.

He became engrossed in his work and did not notice the return of the
runaways till he heard a voice saying "What's this?"

On turning he saw Sam poring over his private note-book and then
beginning to read aloud:

  "Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird
  Thou art----"

But Yan snatched it out of his hands.

"I'll bet the rest was something about 'Singbird,'" said Sam.

Yan's face was burning with shame and anger. He had a poetic streak,
and was morbidly sensitive about any one seeing its product. The
Kingbird episode of their long evening walk was but one of many
similar. He had learned to delight in these daring attacks of the
intrepid little bird on the Hawks and Crows, and so magnified them
into high heroics until he must try to record them in rhyme. It was
very serious to him, and to have his sentiments afford sport to
the others was more than he could bear. Of course Guy came out and
grinned, taking his cue from Sam. Then he remarked in colourless
tones, as though announcing an item of general news, "They say there
was a fearless-crested Injun shot in the woods to-day."

The morning's desertion left Yan in no mood for chaffing. He rightly
attributed the discourtesy to Guy. Turning savagely toward him he
said, meaningly:

"Now, no more of your sass, you dirty little sneak."

"I ain't talkin' to you," Guy snickered, and followed Sam into the
teepee. There were low voices within for a time. Yan went over toward
the dam and began to plug mud into some possible holes. Presently
there was more snickering in the teepee, then Guy came out alone,
struck a theatrical attitude and began to recite to a tree above Yan's
head:

    "Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird,
    Thou art but a blooming sing bird--"

But the mud was very handy and Yan hurled a mass that spattered Guy
thoroughly and sent him giggling into the teepee.

"Them's the bow-kays," Sam was heard to say. "Go out an' git some
more; dead sure you deserve 'em. Let _me_ know when the calls for
'author' begin?" Then there was more giggling. Yan was fast losing all
control of himself. He seized a big stick and strode into the teepee,
but Sam lifted the cover of the far side and slipped out. Guy tried to
do the same, but Yan caught him.

"Here, I ain't doin' nothin'."

The answer was a sounding whack which made him wriggle.

"You let me alone, you big coward. I ain't doin' nothin' to you. You
better let me alone. Sam! S-A-M! S-A-A-A-M!!!" as the stick came down
again and again.

"Don't bother me," shouted Sam outside. "I'm writin' poethry--terrible
partic'lar job, poethry. He only means it in kindness, anyhow."

Guy was screaming now and weeping copiously.

"You'll get some more if you give me any more of your lip," said Yan,
and stepped out to meet Sam with the note-book again, apparently
scribbling away. As soon as he saw Yan he stood up, cleared his throat
and began:

    "Kingbird, fearless crested--"

But he did not finish it. Yan struck him a savage blow on the mouth.
Sam sprang back a few steps. Yan seized a large stone.

"Don't you throw that at me," said Sam seriously. Yan sent it with his
deadliest force and aim. Sam dodged it and then in self-defense ran at
Yan and they grappled and fought, while Guy, eager for revenge, rushed
to help Sam, and got in a few trifling blows.

Sam was heavier and stronger than Yan, but Yan had gained wonderfully
since coming to Sanger. He was thin, but wiry, and at school he had
learned the familiar hip-throw that is as old as Cain and Abel. It was
all he did know of wrestling, but now it stood him in good stead. He
was strong with rage, too--and almost as soon as they grappled he
found his chance. Sam's heels flew up and he went sprawling in the
dust. One straight blow on the nose sent Guy off howling, and seeing
Sam once more on his feet, Yan rushed at him again like a wild beast.
A moment later the big boy went tumbling over the bank into the pond.

"_You_ see if I don't get you sent about your business from
here," spluttered Sam, now thoroughly angry. "I'll tell Da you hender
the wurruk." His eyes were full of water and Guy's were full of stars
and of tears. Neither saw the fourth party near; but Yan did. There,
not twenty yards away, stood William Raften, spectator of the whole
affair--an expression not of anger but of infinite sorrow and
disappointment on his face--not because they had quarrelled--no--he
knew boy nature well enough not to give that a thought--but that
_his_ son, older and stronger than the other and backed by
another boy, should be licked in fair fight by a thin, half-invalid.

It was as bitter a pill as he had ever had to swallow. He turned in
silence and disappeared, and never afterward alluded to the matter.


[Illustration: "There stood Raften, spectator of the whole affair."]




XV

The Peace of Minnie


That night the two avoided each other. Yan ate but little, and to Mrs.
Raften's kindly solicitous questions he said he was not feeling well.

After supper they were sitting around the table, the men sleepily
silent, Yan and Sam moodily so. Yan had it all laid out in his mind
now. Sam would make a one-sided report of the affair; Guy would
sustain him. Raften himself was witness of Yan's violence.

The merry days at Sanger were over. He was doomed, and felt like a
condemned felon awaiting the carrying out of the sentence. There was
only one lively member of the group. That was little Minnie. She was
barely three, but a great chatterbox. Like all children, she dearly
loved a "secret," and one of her favourite tricks was to beckon to
some one, laying her pinky finger on her pinker lips, and then when
they stooped she would whisper in their ear, "Don't tell." That was
all. It was her Idea of a "seek-it."

She was playing at her brother's knee. He picked her up and they
whispered to each other, then she scrambled down and went to Yan. He
lifted her with a tenderness that was born of the thought that she
alone loved him now. She beckoned his head down, put her chubby arms
around his neck and whispered, "_Don't tell_," then slid down,
holding her dear innocent little finger warningly before her mouth.

What did it mean? Had Sam told her to do that, or was it a mere
repetition of her old trick? No matter, it brought a rush of warm
feeling into Yan's heart. He coaxed the little cherub back and
whispered, "No, Minnie, I'll never tell." He began to see how crazy he
had been. Sam was such a good fellow, he was very fond of him, and he
wanted to make up; but no--with Sam holding threats of banishment over
him, he could not ask for forgiveness. No, he would do nothing but
wait and see.

He met Mr. Raften again and again that evening and nothing was said.
He slept little that night and was up early. He met Mr. Raften
alone--rather tried to meet him alone. He wanted to have it over with.
He was one of the kind not prayed for in the Litany that crave "sudden
death." But Raften was unchanged. At breakfast Sam was as usual,
except to Yan, and not very different to him. He had a swelling on his
lip that he said he got "tusslin' with the boys somehow or nuther."

After breakfast Raften said:

"Yahn, I want you to come with me to the schoolhouse."

"It's come at last," thought Yan, for the schoolhouse was on the road
to the railroad station. But why did not Raften say "the station"?
He was not a man to mince words. Nothing was said about his handbag
either, and there was no room for it in the buggy anyway.

Raften drove in silence. There was nothing unusual in that. At length
he said:

"Yahn, what's yer father goin' to make of ye?"

"An artist," said Yan, wondering what this had to do with his
dismissal.

"Does an artist hev to be bang-up eddicated?"

"They're all the better for it."

"Av coorse, av coorse, that's what I tell Sam. It's eddication that
counts. Does artists make much money?"

"Yes, some of them. The successful ones sometimes make millions."

"Millions? I guess not. Ain't you stretchin' it just a leetle?"

"No, sir. Turner made a million. Titian lived in a palace, and so did
Raphael."

"Hm. Don't know 'em, but maybe so--maybe so. It's wonderful what
eddication does--that's what I tell Sam."

They now drew near the schoolhouse. It was holiday time, but the door
was open and on the steps were two graybearded men. They nodded to
Raften. These men were the school trustees. One of them was Char-less
Boyle; the other was old Moore, poor as a church mouse, but a genial
soul, and really put on the Board as a lubricant between Boyle and
Raften. Boyle was much the more popular. But Raften was always made
trustee, for the people knew that he would take extremely good care of
funds and school as well as of scholars.

This was a special meeting called to arrange for a new schoolhouse.
Raften got out a lot of papers, including letters from the Department
of Education. The School District had to find half the money; the
Department would supply the other half if all conditions were complied
with. Chief of these, the schoolhouse had to have a given number of
cubic feet of air for each pupil. This was very important, but how
were they to know in advance if they had the minimum and were not
greatly over. It would not do to ask the Department that. They could
not consult the teacher, for he was away now and probably would cheat
them with more air than was needed. It was Raften who brilliantly
solved this frightful mathematical problem and discovered a doughty
champion in the thin, bright-eyed child.

"Yahn," he said, offering him a two-foot rule, "can ye tell me how
many foot of air is in this room for every scholar when the seats is
full?"

"You mean cubic feet?"

"Le's see," and Raften and Moore, after stabbing at the plans with
huge forefingers and fumbling cumberously at the much-pawed documents,
said together: "Yes, it says cubic feet." Yan quickly measured the
length of the room and took the height with the map-lifter. The three
graybeards gazed with awe and admiration as they saw how _sure_
he seemed. He then counted the seats and said, "Do you count the
teacher?" The men discussed this point, then decided, "Maybe ye
better; he uses more wind than any of them. Ha, ha!"

Yan made a few figures on paper, then said, "Twenty feet, rather
better."

"Luk at thot," said Raften in a voice of bullying and triumph; "jest
agrees with the Gover'ment Inspector. I _towld_ ye he could. Now
let's put the new buildin' to test."

More papers were pawed over.

"Yahn, how's this--double as many children, one teacher an' the
buildin' so an' so."

Yan figured a minute and said, "Twenty-five feet each."

"Thar, didn't I tell ye," thundered Raften; "didn't I say that that
dhirty swindler of an architect was playing us into the conthractor's
hands--thought we wuz simple--a put-up job, the hull durn thing. Luk
at it! They're nothing but a gang of thieves."

Yan glanced at the plan that was being flourished in the air.

"Hold on," he said, with an air of authority that he certainly never
before had used to Raften, "there's the lobby and cloak-room to come
off." He subtracted their bulk and found the plan all right--the
Government minimum of air.

Boyle's eye had now just a little gleam of triumphant malice. Raften
seemed actually disappointed not to have found some roguery.

"Well, they're a shcaly lot, anyhow. They'll bear watchin'," he added,
in tones of self-justification.

"Now, Yahn, last year the township was assessed at $265,000 an' we
raised $265 with a school-tax of wan mill on the dollar. This year the
new assessment gives $291,400; how much will the same tax raise if
cost of collecting is same?"

"Two hundred and ninety-one dollars and forty cents," said Yan,
without hesitation--and the three men sat back in their chairs and
gasped.

It was the triumph of his life. Even old Boyle beamed in admiration,
and Raften glowed, feeling that not a little of it belonged to him.

There was something positively pathetic in the simplicity of the three
shrewd men and their abject reverence for the wonderful scholarship of
this raw boy, and not less touching was their absolute faith in his
infallibility as a mathematician.

Raften grinned at him in a peculiar, almost a weak way. Yan had never
seen that expression on his face before, excepting once, and that
was as he shook hands with a noted pugilist just after he had won a
memorable fight. Yan did not know whether he liked it or not.

On the road home Raften talked with unusual freeness about his plans
for his son. (Yan began to realize that the storm had blown over.) He
harped on his favourite theme, "eddication." If Yan had only known,
that was the one word of comfort that Raften found when he saw his big
boy go down: "It's eddication done it. Oh, but he's fine eddicated."
Yan never knew until years afterward, when a grown man and he and
Raften were talking of the old days, that he had been for some time
winning respect from the rough-and-ready farmer, but what finally
raised him to glorious eminence was the hip-throw that he served that
day on Sam.

       *       *       *       *       *

Raften was all right, Yan believed, but what of Sam? They had not
spoken yet. Yan wished to make up, but it grew harder. Sam had got
over his wrath and wanted a chance, but did not know how.

He had just set down his two buckets after feeding the pigs when
Minnie came toddling out.

"Sam! Sam! Take Minnie to 'ide," then seeing Yan she added, "Yan, you
mate a tair, tate hold Sam's hand."

The queen must be obeyed. Sam and Yan sheepishly grasped hands to make
a queen's chair for the little lady. She clutched them both around
the neck and brought their heads close together. They both loved the
pink-and-white baby between them, and both could talk to her though
not to each other. But there is something in touch that begets
comprehension. The situation was becoming ludicrous when Sam suddenly
burst out laughing, then:

"Say, Yan, let's be friends."

"I--I want--to--be," stammered Yan, with tears standing in his eyes.
"I'm awfully sorry. I'll never do it again,"

"Oh, shucks! I don't care," said Sam. "It was all that dirty little
sneak that made the trouble; but never mind, it's all right. The
only thing that worries me is how you sent me flying. I'm bigger an'
stronger an' older, I can heft more an' work harder, but you throwed
me like a bag o' shavings, I only wish I knowed how you done it."






PART III

IN THE WOODS




I

Really in the Woods


"Ye seem to waste a powerful lot o' time goin' up an' down to yer camp;
why don't ye stay thayer altogether?" said Raften one day, in the
colourless style that always worried every one, for they did not know
whether it was really meant or was mere sarcasm.

"Suits me. 'Tain't our choice to come home," replied his son.

"We'd like nothing better than to sleep there, too," said Yan.

"Well, why don't ye? That's what I'd do if I was a boy playin' Injun;
I'd go right in an' play."

"_All right now_," drawled Sam (he always drawled in proportion
to his emphasis), "that suits us; now we're a-going sure."

"All right, bhoys," said Raften; "but mind ye the pigs an' cattle's to
be 'tended to every day."

"Is that what ye call lettin' us camp out--come home to work jest the
same?"

"No, no, William," interposed Mrs. Raften; "that's not fair. That's no
way to give them a holiday. Either do it or don't. Surely one of the
men can do the chores for a month."

"Month--I didn't say nothin' about a month."

"Well, why don't you now?"

"Whoi, a month would land us into harvest," and William had the air of
a man at bay, finding them all against him.

"I'll do Yahn's chores for a fortnight if he'll give me that thayer
pictur he drawed of the place," now came in Michel's voice from
the far end of the table--"except Sunday," he added, remembering a
standing engagement, which promised to result in something of vast
importance to him.