Happy Days for Boys and Girls Part 40

The profound solitude of this road must infallibly produce its effect--that of fear or apprehension--on a being belonging to the human race; but at this moment the old man was so deeply plunged in thought that nothing could make him forget the anxiety he felt at not arriving in time at the place where he was expected. He doubled his pace as he thought of the furious glances that would be bestowed on him by those whose joys his absence r.e.t.a.r.ded, and he regretted the time he had spent in giving an extra polish to his coat b.u.t.tons and in pulling up the two splendid points of his shirt collar.

While thinking of the reproaches that menaced him, old d.i.c.k looked up, and the moon shining above his head proved to him that he was even more behindhand than he had supposed. His legs then began moving like the wheels of a locomotive, so as to keep him constantly ahead of certain black shadows which seemed to be following his every footstep on the forest path.

They were coyotes, horrible coyotes, that cast these shadows, and from time to time gave a snarl of covetousness or impatience; but old d.i.c.k paid no attention to them. Ere long, however, he was obliged to devote his entire attention to what was going on behind him. He had walked half the distance, and already saw through the forest arcades the clearing which he must cross to reach the spot where he was expected.

The angry barks of the wolves had increased during the last quarter of an hour, and the sound of their paws making the snow crackle inspired the old man with an indescribable terror. The number of animals seemed momentarily to be augmented; it resembled an ant-heap seen through the magnifying-gla.s.s of a gigantic microscope.

Wolves, in all parts of the world, look twice before attacking a man; they study the ground, and wait for the propitious moment. This was what was now happening, very fortunately for old d.i.c.k, who was more and more perceiving the greatness of the danger, and doubled his speed in proportion as his pursuers grew more daring, brushed past his legs with gnashing teeth, and joyously strove to get ahead of each other.

d.i.c.k was thoroughly acquainted with the habits of his enemies, and hence carefully avoided running; that would have been giving the signal of attack, for coyotes only rush on persons who are frightened.

The only chance of salvation left him was to prolong this dangerous walk to the skirt of the forest. There he hoped the coyotes, as they do not dare venture into an open plain, would leave him and allow him to continue his walk at peace. He also remembered that in the centre of the clearing there was a deserted cabin, and the thought of reaching this refuge restored him a portion of his courage.

The daring of the coyotes increased with each moment, and the hapless negro could not look around without seeing bright eyes moving in all directions, like the phosph.o.r.escent fireflies in summer. One after the other the quadrupeds tried their teeth on old d.i.c.k's thin legs, and as he had dropped his stick he had recourse to his fiddle to keep his foes aloof. At the first blow he dealt the springs produced a sound which had the immediate effect of putting to flight the coyotes, which were surprised by this unusual music.

d.i.c.k, an observer naturally and by necessity, then began strumming his fiddle with his fingers; and the carnivorous animals at once manifested fresh marks of surprise, as if a charge of shot had tickled their ribs. This fortunate diversion, repeated several times, brought d.i.c.k to the skirt of the forest, and taking advantage of a favorable moment, he darted on, still striking the strings, and going in the direction of the hut.

The coyotes halted for a moment, with their tails between their legs, looking at their prey flying before them; but ere long their ravenous instinct gained the upper hand, and with a unanimous bark they all rushed in pursuit of the unfortunate negro. Had the wolves caught up to old d.i.c.k in this moment of fury, he might have appealed in vain to his fiddle. By running he had destroyed the charm, and the coyotes would not have stopped to listen to him even had he played like Orpheus in the olden times, or Ole Bull in ours.

Fortunately, the old man reached the cabin at the moment when the coyotes were at his heels. With a hand rendered doubly vigorous by the imminence of the danger, he shut the door of the protecting cabin, and secured it with a beam he found within reach. Then he hoisted himself, not without sundry lacerations of his garments, on the ruined roof, the beams of which alone remained, supported on blocks of wood at the four corners of the walls.

Old d.i.c.k found himself comparatively out of danger; but the coyotes displayed a fury which threatened to become terrible. Several of them had entered the cabin, and conjointly with those outside they leaped at the legs of the minstrel, whom rapid movements and repeated kicks scarce protected from numerous bites.

Old d.i.c.k, in spite of his agony, had not forgotten his fiddle, which had saved his life in the forest. Seizing his bow with a firm hand, he drew from the instrument a shrill note, which overpowered the deafening barks of the coyotes, and silenced them as if by enchantment. This silence henceforth continued, only interrupted by the hysterical sounds which the fiddle produced under the fear-stiffened fingers of the old negro performer.

This inharmonious music could not satisfy the starving animals for long, and from the efforts which they soon made to reach their prey, old d.i.c.k comprehended that noise was not sufficient to enchant the wolves. They dashed forward more furiously than ever to escalade the wall. He considered himself lost, especially when he noticed, scarce half a yard from his trembling legs, the enormous head of a coyote, whose large, open eyes seemed to flash fire and gleam.

"The Lord ha' mussy on all!" he cried; "I am an eaten man!"

And without knowing what he was about, he let his trembling fingers stray over the fiddle, and began playing the famous air of "Yankee Doodle." It was the chant of the swan singing its requiem in the hour of death.

But suddenly--O, miracle of harmony!--a calm set in round the negro minstrel. Orpheus was no fable: the animals obeyed this new enchantment; and when d.i.c.k, on recovering from his terror, was unable to understand what was going on around him, he saw himself surrounded by an audience a hundred fold more attentive to the charms of music than any which had hitherto admired his execution. This was so true that so soon as his bow ceased moving, the coyotes dashed forward to renew the battle.

d.i.c.k now knew what his means of preservation were. He must play the fiddle till some help arrived. Ere long, yielding to the fascination of the art, the musician completely forgot the danger he incurred.

Indulging all the fancies of his imagination, he gave his four-footed audience a concert in which he surpa.s.sed himself. Never had he played with more taste, soul, and expression. Hence he forgot, in the intoxication of his triumph, the wedding and the brilliant company, the whiskey-punch and supper smoking hot on the board, that awaited him no great distance off.

But alas! every medal has its reverse in this world, and all days of pleasure have their to-morrow of woe. As the night advanced, the old negro felt the cold pierce his stiffened limbs. In vain did he try to rest; if the bow left the fiddle strings, the coyotes rushed against the walls of the cabin; if, on the contrary, he continued to wander along the paths of harmony, these _dilettanti_ of a novel sort squatted down on their hams, with their tails stretched out on the snow, ears p.r.i.c.ked up, tongues hanging from their half-opened jaws, and they followed, with a regular movement of the head and body, all the notes produced by old d.i.c.k's fiddle.

While this fantastic scene, illumined by the moonbeams, was taking place in the clearing, the negroes, who were awaiting their comrade to begin the fun, were growing sadly impatient, and did not know what to think of the delay of their musician, who was usually most punctual.

At last six of them, tired of waiting, left the house to make a voyage of discovery; and on reaching the cabin, on the top of which d.i.c.k was perched, they noticed some thirty coyotes in the position I have described. The old player was still continuing his involuntary concert, with his eyes fixed on his deadly foes.

At the moment when the six negroes raised a simultaneous shout, the whole band of coyotes thought it high time to bolt. In a twinkling they disappeared, and the fiddler, frozen and numbed, fell fainting into the arms of his rescuers. His woolly hair, which, in spite of his great age, was perfectly black at the time when he performed his toilet, had turned white in the s.p.a.ce of two hours.

SIR LASCELLES WRAXALL.

THE BIRD'S NEST.

Deep in a leafy dell we found, When early Summer wove her crown, A bird's nest on the mossy ground, From blooming bough blown down.

Five pretty eggs, quite warm and white, Were waiting for the brooding wing, That from each sh.e.l.l there might take flight A bird, to trill and sing.

The mother sat and grieved apart; Her song had no rejoicing note.

The sorrow of her wounded heart Seemed sobbing in her throat.

She thought of all the summer days, With their sweet sunshine, yet to come; Of fledgelings echoing G.o.d's praise, While only hers were dumb.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BIRD'S NEST.]

THE YOUNG ARTIST.

"Well done, little one! A very pretty tune, and very nicely sung!"

The speaker was a stranger who had just come in sight of the pretty cottage where Robbie and Maria Barnes lived with their widowed mother, and outside of which the little singer sat nursing the baby, while Robbie chopped wood at a little distance.

The widow, hearing a stranger's voice, came to the door, and seeing that he appeared to have been walking far invited him to come in and take a rest. This he very gladly did; and while she dusted a chair for him, Mary brought a mug of fresh milk, and they were soon on very friendly terms with him.

He said that he was an artist, and that he had come to that part of the country for a time to take sketches of the scenery around; that he was at present staying at the village inn, but that he would be very glad if they could arrange to let him live with them for a few weeks.

This was agreed upon, and on the next day Mr. Page--for that was the stranger's name--took up his abode in the widow Paul's cottage.

Very pleased Robbie and Maria were with him; and when he came home from his rambles and sat under the shade of the large tree by the side of the house finishing the sketches he had taken, they would stand looking on with wondering interest. Robbie especially, who had never seen any other pictures than those in his spelling-book, was rapt in amazement as he saw hills, rivers, flowers, trees and animals start up into seeming life under the artist's hand. Mr. Page, seeing how interested the boy was in what he saw, invited him to accompany him in his rambles. Robbie did so, and many valuable things he learned in these pleasant wanderings.

When the time came for Mr. Page to leave these simple cottagers, he was as sorry to go as they were to part with him; and he promised that if he lived and prospered, he would endeavor to do something for his favorite, Robbie.

This visit of the artist to their humble abode became the turning-point in Robbie's life. An idea had taken possession of the boy's mind. Why should he not learn to be an artist like Mr. Page? He had watched very carefully the manner in which that gentleman proceeded when taking sketches of the objects around him; he had begun himself to look upon those objects with very different eyes from what he had been accustomed to, and felt sure that with patience and perseverance he could master the art of drawing and painting himself.

His first attempt was a rough sketch of grandma on his slate. It was done with a few strokes of the pencil, but there was really some likeness to the dear old lady in it, and mother felt sure her boy would some day be an artist.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE YOUNG ARTIST.]

Several weeks pa.s.sed away, and at length he thought he might attempt the portrait of his little dog, "Pink," and, if he could succeed to his satisfaction, he determined that he would carry it home and surprise his mother with it. After much patient labor he finished his task, and showed the sketch first of all to his friend Thomas, who being much pleased with it, they hastened at once to Robbie's home with it. Watching their opportunity, they stood the picture un.o.bserved against the wall, and waited to see the effect it would produce.

Little Maria was the first to notice it. "Oh, mother," she cried, "here's a picture of Pinky! Do come and look at it! Isn't it real?"

The widow turned from her work to look.

"Why, so it is," she exclaimed. "Who painted it, Robbie? Where did you get it from?"

"Robbie did it himself," cried Thomas, unable to keep the secret any longer.

"Robbie did it?" echoed the widow, with a look of bewilderment. "_You_ painted it, Robbie?"

"Yes, mother," laughed Robbie, enjoying her perplexity; "I did it all myself. I have been learning unknown to you. If I can learn to paint as well as Mr. Page, mother, eh! Sha'n't I be able to help you then, mother?"

She smiled and kissed him. His cleverness was pleasing to her, but his loving ambition to be of service to her was still more grateful to her mother's heart.