Voices; Birth-Marks; The Man and the Elephant Part 9

They walked down to the old field below the Rock House. Near its center was an old dead tree; and on the tip of the topmost snag a lark sang.

"Listen, do you hear what he says."

"No, he's whistling like any other meadow lark."

"Translate."

"I do not know the language."

"I do; 'Love, thou art safe! art safe! I watch for thee! for thee!'"

They led the old mule to the barn, and gave him ten ears of corn and two bundles of oats. Sandy got up at daylight the next morning and repeated the dose; the old mule knew something was up. Then Sandy came to the house and put on some clothes that had been sent up from Red Bird.

Jeannette came to breakfast a little late; she had on a short-skirted riding habit. Simeon and his wife tried not to show their surprise. She kept still; he exercised less restraint or exhibited more curiosity than his wife-they say men have more. "What's up, Sandy? Why have you put on your Sunday clothes, this is Sat.u.r.day?"

And Sandy answered: "Jeannette and I are going to Hyden to be married."

"Well, I'll be d--d! How're you going?"

"She'll ride the old mule; I'll walk and lead the beast."

"Why it's fifteen miles; it'll take all day."

"That's all right."

"You better take my horse."

"No, Jeannette wants to ride the old mule and wants me to lead him.

She's boss until tomorrow."

"Well, I'll be d--d!"

It was nearly midnight when they came home again. After feeding the old mule, they sat down on the door-step.

"My Captain, will you get your violin and play some real music?"

"Jeannette, how did that old mule ever manage to travel to Hyden and back with such a load of sweetness?"

"By dint of placing one foot before the other, Sandy. We were only sixteen hours on the road; we made nearly two miles an hour. I do not think I would care to hear 'The Arkansaw Traveler' after that journey; but suppose you end the day, it must be merging into the morrow, by playing 'Turkey in the Straw.'"

The old familiar tune awoke Simeon and he awoke his wife. "Listen, Mandy! those crazy things are back. Hear Sandy, he's playing 'Turkey in the Straw;' that boy will never settle down." He called out: "Go to bed and give other people a chance to sleep; or else keep still and start breakfast."

In a little while the house was very still. There was no sound except the chirping of the cricket of the hearth. You who dwell in cities and know nothing of firesides, may not appreciate his simple song.

The Cricket's Song.

I.

Chorister of the hearth, When stillness reigns, I sing To G.o.d, Eternal King, Praises for the fireside.

II.

Thy simple souls dwell here, Content throughout the year.

Love garlands every day; Peace keeps harsh words away.

III.

Grant the door open wide For young and happy bride, With husband by her side; May their sweet dream come true.

IV.

When morning star doth rise Joy comes; the baby cries; New mother with glad eyes, Beholds hers and Thine own.

V.

Make this a place of rest; The place that G.o.d loves best; The place where love abides; G.o.d bless our happy home.

BIRTH-MARKS

CHAPTER I.-"And to Every Seed His Own Body."

When we speak of birth-marks our mind first pictures a physical impression, probably some bodily characteristic transmitted from an ancestor; though mental habit or mind trait of ancestry is transmitted with more consistent regularity than mere physical resemblance.

In a sense our ancestors in us are immortal; not because there is a human imperishableness, but we are heirs to certain family peculiarities and sometimes are afflicted with a restlessness that causes us to fan pinionless wings to reach heights we never fathom and of which we scarcely dream. My meaning can best be conveyed by example.

On a certain day in May a species of plover appear in great number on the northern plains of British America. There they nest and rear their young. The Indians take these birds when unfledged nestlings and make pets of them; and as they grow pluck their sprouting pinions. By environment they are robbed of all life suggesting the migration; yet when the day of southward flight rolls round, the cripples grow restless and seeking to rise on pinionless wing, end by climbing to a perch, where for several days, unceasingly, they beat the air with stubby, outstretched wings; uttering the while that plaintive whistle, which is never heard, except when the bird is on its migratory flight.

The fire on the hearth, forgotten and dying, cast a faint glow disclosing a home-like room of good proportions and two men seated at a red deal table facing each other: Donald McDonald, a Scotch Presbyterian preacher, and his son, Archibald Campbell, who though a gentleman farmer, was a kinsman of the Campbells of Argyll. A casual observer would have noted that the men were nervously anxious, watching, waiting, perhaps praying for some one dear to both and ill in the adjoining chamber.

The young farmer, as the silence is broken by a shrill wail of protest from his for-some-time-expected son and heir, starts from his chair in a clumsy effort at noiselessness and moves towards the bedroom door. His companion, rising, lifts his hands as in benediction and prays aloud in a tense, subdued voice, which seems to blend with the now lowered voice of the whimpering babe. The father does not hear the old man; his thoughts are of and for the mother and the babe; and unknown to him, tears channel an unused course down his cheeks. So they stand for some time; until the baby, hastily cared for and placed near his mother's breast, grows quiet, having discovered there is more in life than a wail; then the fat old mid-wife opening the door tells them that the baby is asleep and they may see the mother for a moment.

They tiptoe into the other room and to her bedside, trying hard not to make a noise, though the thick oak floor boards seem to creak as never before. She holds out a hand to each. Her husband, trembling, bends and kisses her quivering lips. She draws down the covers and he looks upon a little red and wrinkled thing, that might almost sleep in comfort in his hands-his boy! his only son!

For the first time he calls her "mother," saying: "Mother, we shall call him McDonald Campbell, using your family name, he is more yours than mine."

"No, neither by my name nor after you, Archibald, but John Calvin. He is our first born; and the nurse says is without mark or blemish."