 Story four of the short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story four. The old beggar's dog. He was a tramp, that is, all he was, at least when I knew him. What he had been before I cannot say as he never told me his history. Of course every tramp has a history, even as every leaf that the wind blows over the fields has its history, and my old tramp doubtless had his, and God knows it must have been sad enough, judging by his looks, for he had the saddest face I ever looked at, and I've seen a good many sad faces in my day. No, he was nothing but a tramp, old and gray-headed, and nearly worn out with his tramping. How long he had been going the rounds, I cannot say, but for nearly a dozen years, once each year, he made his appearance in the city, tarried a month, perhaps, and then quietly disappeared, and we saw him no more for a twelve-month. Inoffensive, decidedly, as mild mannered a man has ever asked Grace at a poor-house table. Indeed, the children were his best patrons, for he had a most winning way with them, and he could scarcely be seen on the street without the accompaniment of a dozen, tagging at his heels and holding onto his hands and the skirts of his long coat. There's Dick there, six feet if he's an inch, and gone twenty last month. Well, many and many a time have I seen the strapping fellow when he was a little chap sitting astride the old vagabond's neck, with his little feet crooked in under his armpits, laughing and screaming uproariously as his human horse underneath him, pranced and coveted along the pavement, and charged through the flock of childish admirers around him, as if they were a hostile soldiery, and Dick was a very Henry of Navarre, whose white plume must always be found in the path to glory. God bless the youngsters, who of us, with the burden of life's toil and care weighing us down, ever saw a frolicsome group of them happy in their freedom from trouble and care, and did not wish he might slip his shoulders from under the load of his fifty years and be a boy again. What a pity it is that we must age and die in our wrinkles, leaving nothing better to gaze upon than a shrunken face, colorless of bloom, and written all over with the scraggie record of our griefs, our errors, and our pains. Why cannot death charm back the boyish vigor and girlish grace to our faces, when, with the invisible and fatal gesture, he sweeps his hands swiftly across them? The dog? Oh, certainly, but don't hurry me. I'm too old to tell a story in a straight line, and that express speed. I will get to the dog all in good time, and in order to feel as I do about the terrible thing that happened to him, you must know something about his master, for in an odd sort of way they supplemented each other. Indeed, they seemed to have entered into a kind of partnership to share each other's moods as they shared each other's fortune. And it was a strange, and I may say a very touching sight, to see two creatures of different species so intimately attached to each other, and often as I have looked at the dog when he was gazing at its master, have I said to myself, surely something or someone has blundered and a human soul was put, by mistake, into that dog's body. For never, no, sir, I will not qualify it. Never have I seen a greater love look from human into human eyes than I have seen gazing devotedly up into the old man's face from the eyes of that dog. How did he look? Queer enough, I assure you, for his cross, while an admirable one to yield wit and affection both, was the worst possible one for beauty. For his father was a full-blooded shepherd, and his mother a scotch terrier, without a taint in her blood. How well I remember the dog and his peculiar looks. I remember him now as plainly as if he were lying on the rug there this very minute. He had the size of his father and the bristly coat of his mother. His ears were like a terriers and naturally pricked forward. His color was a dirty gray, miserable color. His tail had been cropped, and the remnant that remained, some four inches in length, stood stiffly up, with scarce a suggestion of a curve. He was homely, but not inferior looking. For his head was such an one, as Lanseer would have loved to have translated from time and death to the immortality of his canvas, what a matchless front and room enough in the cranium to hold the brains of any two common dogs. But his eyes were the impressive and magnificent feature of his face, large, round, and warmly hazel in color, and so liquid clear that, looking into them, you seem to be gazing into transparent depths, not of water, but of intelligent being. What eyes they were. I remember what a young lady said once apropos to them. She was a bell herself and nature spoke through her speech. She came into the office here one day when the dog was performing, for he was a great trick dog, and after watching him a moment, she exclaimed, Ah, if a woman only had those eyes, what might she not do? More fun could look out of that dog's head than of any other I ever saw, whether of dog or man. And though you may not credit it, yet as true as I sit here, I have seen those eyes weep as large and honest tears as ever fell in sorrow from human orbs. Laugh too? You put that question incredulously, do you? Well, you needn't, for the dog could laugh. With his tail? No, any dog can do that, but he could laugh with his mouth. Why, sir, I have seen him sit bolt upright on his haunches there by that post, lean his back against it, and laugh so heartily that his mouth would open and shut like a man's when goofing, and you could see every tooth in his head, and he did it intelligently too, and laughed because he was tickled and couldn't help it. A last poor dog, he came to a sad end at last, and died in so wretched a way that the recollection of his death puts a dark eclipse upon the unhappy memory of his life. Comfort to his master? You may well say that, and no man ever loved his child more fondly than the old beggar loved his dog. And well he might, for he was his companion by day, his guard by night, and the means by which he eat out the sometimes scant living that the fickle charity of the world flung to him. How often have I seen the old man take him in his arms and hug him to his breast, that had, I fancy, so many bitter memories in it? And how often have I seen the dog lap with gentle and caressing tongue the tears as they roll down the furrowed cheeks, when the fountain of grief within was stirred by the angel of recollection? But it was from the sympathy of his faithful and loving companion, and not from the moving of the bitter waters at his aching heart found consolation. Tell you about the man? Why certainly, but there isn't much to tell. You see no one knew much of him, for he seldom if ever spoke of himself. I suppose I knew him better than anyone on his beat here, for I fell in love with his dog, and with himself too, for that matter, for in the first place he was old, and whoever saw a white head and didn't love it, and whoever looked upon a wrinkled face and didn't wish to kiss it, if it was peaceful, and the old man's head was as white as snow is, and the peacefulness of a sleeping child hovered over the sadness of his face, albeit the shadow of a sorrowful past lay darkly resting upon it. But though I saw much of him as he swung around on his annual visit, and though he looked upon me as his friend, as indeed I was, and proved myself to be such more than once, thank God, still he never offered to tell me his history, and I certainly never questioned him about it, for life is a secret thing, and each man holds the key to his own, and only once, if at all, may it be open, and even then only the Father is gentle and forgiving enough to look upon the wheat and the chaff, which we in our grief for joy keep closely locked from human eyes. No, I knew little of him, but occasionally, sitting by the fire here when a storm was heavy outside, for the coming of storms was always the prelude of these moods in him, he would begin to mutter to himself, and to talk to his dog of days long gone. Of men and women he had once hated or loved, or who loved or hated him, God knows which, and of deeds he had once done, but which were now deeply buried under the years. Perhaps he did not know that he was talking. Perhaps his soul, busy with the past, forgot the motion of the lips, and ceased to keep its watch over the movements of that member, which, unless ceaselessly guarded, betrays us all so often. What did he mutter about? Well, the man is dead and gone, and what little there is to tell cannot pain him now. Death makes us indifferent to disclosure, and little do we care what the world says about us when we lie sleeping in the grave, I wean. Yes, the man is dead and gone this many a year. God rest his soul, and I heartily hope he has found riches and rest, and his dog, ere now, as I feel certain he has, and what little I know can do no harm, if told to any. Well, as I was saying, when storms were brewing in the air and the sea, the uneasiness of the elements themselves seemed to take possession of his soul and agitated, for his very body would rock to and fro, and sway in the chair when the fit was on him, and he would talk to his dog, and to men and women too, whom no one could see save himself. And if what he said might be taken as the words of a sane man, he certainly had been rich and powerful one day, and loved and hated too, for that matter. For from his speech one could but learn that all that makes life worth the living was once his, and that he had lost it all, but whatever may have been his other losses, one there must have been in truth, for as to it his words were always the same. Gone, gone, he would say, gone, and the winds I hear coming blow over her grave, but winds cannot reach her, for she lies warm and well covered, deep down in her grave. And so he would sit muttering and swaying his body in the chair, as the winds blew stormily out of the east and the boom of the waves rolled up from the bluff, as they pounded heavily against the rocks and the shore. Why did I not make him settle down? Because he wouldn't. I tried time and again to persuade him to it, but he never would consent. Perhaps he was right in his impulse to roam and loved the careless freedom of it and the solitude it gave him. For if a man would hide himself from man, he must keep on the move. If he stops he becomes known, but in travel he loses his identity and passes from place to place unknown and unnoted. But it seemed pitiful to me that one so old and feeble should have no home, and so I persuaded him to settle down for one winter at least, and hired him a little house in a pleasant street, and started him in his housekeeping experiment. But alas, evil came of it, and I never did a deed I more profoundly regretted, for it led to the calamity I am about to tell you of, and brought upon the poor man the greatest grief that might befall him, even the death of his dog, and in a most cruel and painful fashion at that. Ah, me, could we but see the end of things from their beginning, how little of our doing would be done at times, for the benevolent blundering of our lives is as often fruitful of harm as the evil we do in our malice and passion. It all happened in this way, and I will tell you, as it was told to me, partly by the old man himself, and partly by those who had knowledge of the dreadful event at the time, for I was out of the city the morning the occurrence took place, or it never would have happened. I don't think anything of the kind ever before made so much talk, or excited so much indignation. The legislature at its last session, not having wit or honesty enough to exercise itself over one of a dozen crying evils that were then vexing the people, got greatly excited over dogs. Some miserable currs, many affirmed they were wolves, and no dogs at all, in a remote corner of the state, had killed a few sheep, and the farmers of that region got up a great scare, and raised a hue and cry against the whole canine family. It is incredible how much noise was made over the killing of a few half-starved sheep that were browsing on those northern mountains. You would have thought, judging by the clamor, that the fundamental interests of the commonwealth were attacked, and that the stately structure of government itself was on the point of falling to the ground. Well, when the legislature met, the excitement was at its height, and the gust of popular foolishness converged all its forces at the capitol. In due time, a bill was introduced, and an outrageous bill it was too, for it not only put a heavy tax upon dogs in every section of the state, city as well as country, but provided that certain officers should be appointed to enforce the law, whose duty it should be to kill every dog not duly registered on a certain date. Even this was not all, for it stimulated the enforcement of the law by enlisting the cupidity of men and boys alike, especially of the lower and hardened to class, by providing that whoever killed an unregistered dog should be paid three dollars from the state treasury. It was a bad law in truth, for it was the outgrowth of senseless excitement and an attempt to tax the affections. Property, of course, can be taxed, and we all know that a dog is not property any more than a boy's pet rabbit or a child for that matter. A dog is a member of his master's family. He has connection with his heart, not with his pocket. He is a creature to love and be loved by, and not to be bought and sold like a bit of land or a yoke of oxen, and any law aimed at the affections is an offense to the holiest impulse of the bosom, and as such should be resented. Yes, the law was a bad one. I did what I could to defeat it in its passage, and I broke it all I could after its passage, and that was some satisfaction to my feelings, which were in fact outraged by it. Where I saw not only the injustice of it, as viewed in the light of correct principle, but that it would bear heavily upon the poor and bring sorrow like the sorrow of death itself into families. I saw moreover that it was a cruel law in its relation to children, whose pretty and harmless pets and playmates could be murdered before their very eyes. Many a sad case did I hear of the winter after the law was passed, but the saddest of all was that of my old friend, who was living peacefully and happily with his dog in the little house I had hired for him. He was sitting one evening in the comfortable quarters I had provided for him, playing with his companion and teaching him some new tricks to practice against my return, happy as he might be, when a loud rap was delivered upon his door, and at the same instant it was pushed rudely open, and a man walked into the room and without pausing to give or receive a greeting, pointed to the dog and said, Is that your property, sir? I never think of him in that way, answered the old man mildly. He's been my companion, I may say my only companion, these many years, and I love him as property is not love. No, sir, trust he is not property, he is my companion and my friend. I didn't come here to listen to any of your crazy nonsense, but as an officer of the law, to see if you have registered your dog and paid your tax as it commands, and if you hadn't, to see that the penalty was put upon you as you deserve, you old begging low for you. I've broken no law that I know of, replied the beggar. I love my dog, that is all. I hope it breaks no law for a man to love his dog in this city, does it, friend? If you don't know what the law is, you'd better find out, answered the fellow roughly. What right of you to own a dog anyway strikes me that it is about enough for you to sponge your own living out of the community without sponging another for a miserable whelp of a dog like that. Trusty eats very little, replied the old man respectfully, and he amuses people a great deal, especially the children, and besides, he is a great comfort to me, and God knows that I have nothing else to comfort me in all the world. Wealth, home, friends, and one dearer than all. All lost, and thou art all I have left, trusty, to comfort me. And he looked affectionately at his companion, whose head was resting lovingly on his knee. Oh, I've heard the whining of your class before tonight, replied the fellow, and am not to be taken in by any of your sniffling, so you needn't drive that trick on me. Law is law, and I shall see it enforced, and on you too, in spite of your shuffling, you miserable old sneak of a beggar you. Friend, answered the old man with dignity, as he rose from the chair, and looked the fellow calmly in the face. Better men than you, or I, have begged their daily bread before now, and eaten it too with an honest conscience and a grateful heart. And more than once, when night has overtaken me, weary of journeying along inhospitable roads, I have been compelled to make my bed on the leaves under some hedge. I have remembered that the Son of God, when on the earth to teach us the sweet lesson of charity, had not where to lay his head. The lesson he came to teach, you certainly have not learned, or you would never have made my poverty and my misfortunes the butt of your scoffings. The old man spoke with dignity, but the coarseness of the fellow's nature, and the hardening influence of the business he was engaged in, prevented him from feeling either shame or sympathy, for he turned toward the door with an oath, saying, you'll hear from me in the morning, old chap, but I'll tell you this to chew on overnight, that if your tax money isn't ready when I come again, I'll teach you what it is to break the laws in this city, and insult the officers whose duty it is to see them in force, and against such white-headed old dead beats as you. And with another oath he passed out of the door and shut it with a slam. I don't know how the old man passed the night, but little sleep, I warrant, came to his old eyes, for he was as timid as a child, and easily frightened, and a threat against his own life would have disturbed him less than one against the life of his dog. But whether he slept or not, the hours of the night wheeled along their dark courses without stopping, and speedily brought the dreaded morning. I know not when he died or where, but well I know that the memory of that dreadful morning and the woe that came to him on it haunted him to the close of his life, and embittered the last hours of it. The morning came as all mornings, whether they bring joy or grief to us, do come. The threat the fellow had uttered against his dog the evening before had naturally disturbed him, and the old man was nervous and excited, but he managed to cook his frugal breakfast and eat it with his companion. I can well imagine his thoughts and his worryment. Law? What law? I can hear him say. I've broken no law. I've only loved and been loved by my dog. That's not wicked, surely? He said he'd come again, and if I didn't have the money ready. Money? What money? He knows I've no money. Tax? What tax? Do they tax a man's heart in this city? Can't a man love anything here unless he's rich? Kill my dog? I don't believe it. There isn't a man on the earth wicked enough to kill an old man's dog, an old man's harmless dog. No, he didn't. He couldn't mean that. He just said it to scare me. Yes, I see now. He's been drinking, and he said it just to scare me. Thus, as I fancy, the poor old man sat muttering to himself, listening with dread to every passing step, listening and muttering to himself, while his old heart quaked in his bosom and his soul, which had so little to cheer it as it journeyed along its lonely path, was sorely tried and disquieted within him. The clock in a neighboring steeple was striking the ninth hour, and the old man paused in his muttering and sat counting the strokes as the iron tongue peeled them forth, counting them in his fear as if each stroke was a knell, and so indeed to him it was, and many of the chimes we listened carelessly to would be knells to us if we knew what would happen twist them and their next chiming. The vibration of the last stroke was swelling and sinking in the air when a heavy step sounded on the stair, and without even the ceremony of knocking, the door was pushed suddenly open, and the fellow who had intruded upon him the evening before entered the room. In one hand he held a rope, and in the other a club. Well, old chap, he said, you see, I'm here as I told you I would be. I've given you a whole night to steady up the law. Law? What law? exclaimed the old man, interrupting him. I don't know that I broke an… Come, come, old shuffler, none of your blarney, if you please. Broke in the fellow? You know well enough what law I mean. I mean the dog law. Dog law? Dog law? answered the man. What law is that? Oh, you don't pull a wool over my eyes, near the other. You know what law I mean well enough. But to jog your memory, I'll say that the law I mean makes the owner of a dog pay a tax of three dollars, and if the tax is a pay, three dollars, ejaculated the poor man, three dollars, when have I had so much money as that? Three dollars, you might as well have asked me to pay three thousand as three. Very well, very well, exclaimed the other. The law covers just such cases as yours, covers them perfectly, and he laughed, a coarse cruel laugh. Out with the money, or I take the dog. Take my dog, screamed the old man. Take trustee. What would you take him for? You can't want him. Oh yes, I do, old fella, retorted the other. I want him very much indeed. I know just what to do with him, I'll see to that. Do with him, cried the other, whose mind, perhaps because paralyzed by fear, perhaps because of the enormity of the deed, would not receive the horrible suggestion. What would you do with trustee? Kill him, damn you, shouted the other. Kill him, as I have hundred other curves this fall, and pocket the money the law gives me for doing it. Do you understand that, you old dead bee? For a moment the wretched man never spoke, his lips pale to the color of ashes, and shriveled as if suddenly parched against the teeth, and he clutched the back of a chair for support. Twice he assayed to speak, his lips mooged, but his tongue in its dryness clove to the roof of his mouth. At last he gasped forth in the horse whisper of mortal kill my dog, kill trustee. It was a sorry sight truly, and might well touch the hardest heart. But the officer of the law, God save the mark, remained unmoved. What was one dog more or less to him? Had he not already killed hundreds, as he said? The sportsman's favorite hunter, astray without his collar, the lady's pet, crying pitifully in the street, unable to find its mistress's door, the children's playmate waiting in front of the schoolhouse for school to close, the poor man's help and comfort, his household's joy, guardian and friend, caught in the street on his return from his humble master, to whom he carried his homely dinner. What was one dog more or less to him? Hardened by the murderous habit of his office, and eager to earn his wretched fee. What was one dog more or less to him? Gom, gom, he cried as he uncoiled the rope he held in his hand. Out with the money or I take the dog. How much is it? How much is it? cried the old man, fumbling in his pockets and bringing forth a few small pieces of silver and some pennies. Here, here, take it all. It's all I have. There's a ten-cent piece, isn't it? And there's two fives, and here, yes, God, be praised. Here's a quarter of a dollar. Trustee earned that yesterday. Let's see, twenty-five, that's the quarter, and ten is thirty-five, and two fives, that makes forty-five, and eight pennies, that makes fifty-three cents. Won't that do? It's every cent I have, as God, it's my witness. It will do, won't it? And the old man sees one of the hands of the fellow and strove to put his little hoarding into it. But the hard-hearted wretch drew his hand back with a jerk, and, seizing the dog by the neck, slipped the rope over his head and, saying, the law allows me four times that, for killing him, opened the door and pulled the poor dog out after him into the street. God of heaven screamed the poor old man, as he rushed bare-headed as he was out of the door, and hurried in pursuit of the man who was pulling the dog along and walking as fast as he could, while Trustee struggled and cried and did all he could to get rid of the rope. Where is thy justice or thy mercy? Oh, sir, oh, sir! he shouted, running after the man. Give me back my dog. Oh, give him back to me, good people! he cried, for his own cries and those of the dog, too, had already drawn a crowd to the scene. Good people, tell him not to kill my dog! It was to the honour of the crowd that they hooted the officer roundly and called on him and shouted, Give the old man back his dog! And greater honour yet to them that some of the boys pelted him with snowballs and junks of ice, as he hurried on, and one brawny chap, sitting on the seat of his cart, struck him a stinging blow with his black whip as he scuttled past with, damn you, take that for killing my dog! The officer shook his club at the honest fellow and said, I'll pay you for that, see if I don't. But he dared not stop to make the arrest, for the crowd was thickening and the air getting fuller of missiles, and every door and window was hooting him as he passed, with the poor dog crying and moaning pitifully at his heels. Even the women, God bless them, for the feeling against the law ran high in the city, opened the doors and lifted the windows of their houses, the ladies crying, Shame on you, Shame on you! and the cooks and chambermaids from one nader and zenith of their household worlds, with homelier and more pecan phrase and saucier tongues scoffed him for the miserable work he was doing. But in spite of the popular uprising now almost swelled to the dimensions of a mob, and the verbal uproar through the horse murmur of which the boy's jib, the woman's taunt, and the strong man's curse, came and smote upon him in volleys, still he clutched the rope and rushed along, threatening the crowd that was closing in ahead of him with his club, and so making headway on his dreadful errand. While the poor old man, unable to keep up with him, was filling the air with his cries, and without knowing what he was saying perhaps, kept calling on the people, saying, Oh good people, good people, don't let him kill my dog. Indeed his grief was piteous to see, for he was half distraught with fear, and like as a mother whose child had been snatched from her, and was being carried to death, so he, with tears, sobs, and screams, kept in treating one moment the crowd, and the next beseeching heaven, saying, Don't let him kill my dog. And being an old man and white-headed, and as his countenance and gestures were eloquent with the eloquence of true grief, the people were filled with pity for him, and their hearts melted with sympathy at the piteous spectacle they beheld. Then up spake the honest Carter, saying, Friends, let's give the old man a lift, for it's a shame that one so old should lose his dog. How much is it you lack of the tax, he asked, of the poor old gentleman as he came panting up. But he was so confused and tremulous with terror that he could not answer, and so being unable to do more, he stretched his old shaken hands, in which the money was still tightly clutched up to him, but the old hands shook so that the Carter could not count it until he had taken it into his own steady palm. Here's fifty cents and a few odd pennies, he shouted, and the law demands three dollars. Two dollars and a half is wanted. Who'll help make up the three dollars and save the old man's dog? Here's fifty cents, he added, as he took a silver half-dollar from his pocket, and dropped it into the hat. It's half iron yesterday, and more than I'll earn today, perhaps, for times be dull. But the old man shall have it if Mary and I go without sugar and tea for a week. It was a good speech, and bravely said, and the crowd responded to it as bravely, for it fairly rained dimes and quarters and pennies, not only into the Carter's hat until it sagged, but into his cart, too, until the bottom of it was speckled all over with copper and silver coin, and the honest fellow held up his hands for the crowd to give no more, crying, old, old, here's enough, and more than enough. But he could scarcely make himself heard because of the cheering and the laughing and the rattling of the pieces as the crowd continued to rain them all the faster into his cart. Aha, me, what is that sweet something in human arts, which, in its response to human want, translates us, like a flash from low to highest mood. I, which breaketh through all barriers of selfish habit, and even the adamantine of foreign tongues, and pourth out its rich, largesse in a common tide to meet a brother's need, where ere that brother is, or whatever he may be. But the old man did not wait to gather up the offerings of the generous and sympathetic crowd, but snatching a handful of silver from the Carter's hat, pushed his way out of the jam, and holding the hand in which he clutched the silver high above his head, hurried on after the officer, crying at the top of his voice, here's the money, here's the money, oh good people, for the street was nearly blocked with those that swarmed thickly in the wake of the officer, and he could make but slow progress through it, tell him I have the money and I'm coming, don't let him go any farther, I shall never catch him, stop him, stop him, for the love of heaven, stop him, here's the money, and thus crying aloud and calling with his thin, tremulous voice upon the officer to stop, he ran frantically along the street as fast as he could in pursuit. But it is certain that the old man would not have caught up with the officer, had the latter been uninterrupted in his progress, for the street was filled with people and he could not push his way with much speed because of his feebleness, but fortune, or perhaps I should say misfortune, favored him, so that he shortly overtook the object of his pursuit, and came up with the officer and the dog. But alas, his old heart got little gain thereby, but a grievous loss rather, for when he came to the spot, both lay stretched senseless on the ground, the man knocked flat to the earth by the fist of an indignant citizen, and the dog lying with his skull broken in by a brutal blow from the fellow's club. When the old man came to the spot where the dog and the officer lay, he stopped, and when he saw what had happened, the money he had brought with which to deliver his dog, fell rattling unheeded to the ground, and then he raised his palms toward heaven as if in treating the vengeance or the benignity of the skies, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, he lifted up his voice and wept, saying, Oh God, he's killed my dog! And then he sank down, all in a heap, as if he would die beside his dying dog, for the dog was not yet dead, but dying. This his master soon perceived, and heedless of the multitude who thronged the street from side to side, he lifted the dying dog into his lap and laid his poor crushed head against his breast, and mourned over him as a mother, deserted by husband and friends, might mourn for an only babe when, alone in a foreign land, it lay on her bosom dying, and the multitude who by this had knowledge of the dreadful deed stood in silence while he mourned, trusty, trusty, he said, do you know me trusty? And his tears fell fast into the dog's bristly coat. The poor creature, now far gone in that unconsciousness which defends the ear to the voice of love itself, still faintly heard the familiar tones, for he lifted his eyes to his master's face and nestled closer into his bosom. It was a touching sight in truth, and those who stood close enough to see the moving spectacle wiped their own eyes, divinely moist with the mist of sympathy. It was evident to all and to the old man himself, that above and around and closing in upon them was the mystery which men called death, a mystery as inscrutable as it hovers over the kennel and stable as when it enters the habitations of men, and that in a few moments the life still within the body of the poor animal with all its powers of doing, of thinking and of loving would depart the structure in which it had found so pleasant and abode and so facile a medium of expression. For a few moments nothing more was said. The old man continued to sob, and the life of his companion continued to ebb away. The brutal blow that caused his death had mercifully numbed the power of feeling so that whatever the gloomy journey he was about to take might mean to him whether the same life he was leaving, or a larger, or none at all, he would move on through the darkness toward the one or the other at least without pain. You and I have fared in company for many a year, said the old man at last, and bred, whether scant or plenty, and bed, whether hard or soft, we have shared together. Thou hast made the days brighter and the nights shorter by thy presence as I suffered through them, and dark will the one be and long the other when I see thee no more. Would to God I could die with thee, my dog, my dog! Did the dog indeed understand what he said, or did he merely sense the sorrow in the tones and seek once more, as he had done so many times before, to comfort his disconsolate master? I know not. I only know that the poor animal, with dying strength, lifted his muzzle to his master's face, and twice he lapped it with his tongue. I lapped the salt tears tenderly from his master's wrinkled and pallid cheeks with his tongue. Only this, for no more could he do. My dog! cried the old man once more amid his dear, my dog! The God who made thee so loving and worthy to be loved, and fill thee with such sweet feeling and the wish to comfort human woe, will not surely let thee perish. In his great universe there is, there must be, room for thee. I will not mourn thee as wholly lost. I cannot do it, for amid the false thou hast been true, and surely falsehood shall not live on, and sweet truth die. Tell me, my dog, give me some sign that we shall meet in the great hereafter. But in response to this appeal the dog gave no motion, for indeed his strength, like a tide epping in the night, was gliding silently and swiftly outward in the gloom, gliding outward and beyond all questioning and answering. But he opened wide his glorious eyes, and fixed them steadily on his master's face, with such a great love in their depths that mortal might not doubt that in that love was hope and its sustaining evidence, and then the fatal dimness crept along their edges, the pure sweet light faded away in their clear depths, and the impenetrable shadow settled forever over the lustrous orbs. The lids at last gradually closed as in sleep, and the beggar's dog with his head on his master's neck and his body resting on his bosom lay dead. End of Story 4 Story 5 of Short Stories of William Henry Harris and Murray. This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Story 5. The Ball It was evening, dark, cool and starry, the earth and water lay hidden in the dusky gloom. Above the stars were at their brightest. They gleamed and glowed, flashed and scintillated, like jewels fresh from the case. Their fires were many colored, orange, yellow and red, and here and there a great diamond, fashioned into the zone of night, sent out its intense, colorless brilliancy. Through all the air, silence reigned, the winds had died away, and the waters had settled to repose. No gurgle along the shore, no splash against the great logs that made the wharf, no bird of night calling to its mate. Outside, all was still. Nature had drawn the curtains around her couch, and, screened from side, lay in profound repose. Within, all was light and bustle and gaiety. From every window, lights screamed and flashed. The large parlors were alive with moving forms. The piano, whose white keys were swept by wider hands, tinkled and rang in liveliest measure. The dance was at its height, and the very floor seemed vibrant with the pressure of lively feet. The dancers advanced, retired, wheeled and swayed in easy circles, swept up and down and across the floor in graceful lines. Amid the happy scene, the old trapper stood. His stalwart frame erect as in his prime, while his great, strong face fairly beamed in benediction upon the dancers. For his nature had within its depths that fine capacity which enabled it to receive the brightness of surrounding happiness and reflect it again. It was a study to watch his face and mark the passage of changeful moods, surprise, delight, and broad, warm-hearted humor as they came to and passed across the responsive features. The man of the woods, of the lonely shore and of silence, seemed perfectly at home amid the noise and commotion of human merry-making. At last the music died away. The dancers checked their feet. The lady who had been playing the piano rose virally from the instrument and joined a group of friends. The music was not adequate. The notes were too sharp, too isolate, and they did not flow together. There was no sweep and swing nor suavity of connected progress in the strains. The instrument could not lift the dancers up and swing them onward through the mazy motions. I tell you, Henry, said the old trapper, as he turned to Herbert, who was standing by his side. The piano and the thing to dance by, for sartan, it tingles and chippers too much. It rattles and clicks. It doesn't get old of the feelings, Henry. It don't start the blood in your veins, nor yet your skin tingling, nor make the feet dance again your will. It's good enough in its way, no doubt, but it certainly isn't the thing to lift the young folks up and swing them around. The fiddle is the thing. Yes, the fiddle is certainly the thing. I would give a good deal if we had a fiddle here tonight, or I see the boys and girls miss it. Lord amassi, how it would set him a-going if we only had a fiddle here. John Norton, said the lad, who was sitting on a chair, hidden away behind the trapper, John Norton, and the lad, took hold of the sleeve of his jacket, and pulled the trapper's head down towards him. Would you like to hear a violin tonight? Like to hear a fiddle? Lord, bless you, lad, I guess I would like to hear a fiddle, never seed at time I wouldn't give the best beaver hide in the lodge to hear the sweet of the bow on the strings. What the matter with you, lad? And he drew the old man's head still closer to him, until his ear was within a few inches of his mouth. I love to play the violin better than I love anything in the world, and I've got one of the best ones you ever heard out there in the bow of the boat. Heavens at earth, lad, ejaculated the trapper. Did you say you could play the fiddle, and that you had a good one out there in the boat? Look at him, messy, how the young folks will hop, scoot out there and get it, boy, and Henry and me will let the boats know that you've got what you can do. The lad fairly flashed out of the room. He was gone in an instant, and in a few minutes he had returned, bearing in his hands a bundle which he carried as carefully as a mother would carry her babe. But brief as had been his absence, it had allowed sufficient time for Herbert to communicate with the master of ceremonies, and for him to announce to the company present that the great lack of the occasion had fortunately and unexpectedly been supplied. For the young man who was with Mr. Herbert and John Norton not only knew how to play the violin, but actually had one in his boat and had gone to get it, and would be back in a moment. The announcement was received with applause. White hands clapped, and a hundred ejaculations of wonderment sounded forth the surprise and pleasure of the eager throng, and when the lad came stealing in, bearing his precious burden, he was received with a positive ovation. It was amusing to see the change which had come over the looks and actions of the company at the mention and appearance of the violin. The faces that had shown indifference and the look of languid weariness freshened and became tense in all their lines, and on their heads again animation sat crowned. Those who were seated jumped to their feet. The conversationalists broke their circle and swung suddenly into line. Eyes sparkled. Little happy screams and miniature war hoops from the voiceless youngsters rang through the parlor. In eye and look and voice, the popular tribute spoke in honor of the popular instrument, an instrument whose strings can sound almost every passion forth. The quip and quirk of merriment, the mourner's wail, the measured praise of solemn psalms, the lively beat of joy, the subtle charm of indolent moods, and the sweet ecstasy of youthful pleasure, when, with flying feet and in the abandon of delight, she swings circles and floats through the measures of the voluptuous waltz. In one corner of the parlor there was a platform from which charades and private theatricals had been acted on some previous evening, and to this the lad was escorted, and strange to say his awkwardness had departed from him. His form was straight, his head was lifted, his shambling gait steadied itself with firmest competence. His long arms sought no longer feebly to hide themselves, but held the package that he carried and fond authority of gesture, as a proud mother whose pride had banished bashfulness might carry a beautiful child. So the lad went toward the dais, and seating himself in the chair, proceeded with deliberate tenderness to uncover the instrument. An old, dark-looking one it was, the gloom of centuries darkened it, their dusk had penetrated the very fiber of the wood. Its look suggested ancient times, far climbs, the hands long moldering in dust. It was an instrument to quicken curiosity and illicit mental interrogation. What was its story? Where was it made? By whom and when? The lad did not know. It was his mother's gift, he said, and an old sea captain had given it to his mother. The old sea captain had found it on a wreck in the far-off Indian Ocean. He found it in a trunk, a great sea-chest made of scented wood, and banded with brazen ribs. And in the chest with it it was rumored the old mariner had found silks and costly fabrics, and gold, and eastern gems. Gems that never had been cut, but lay in all their barbaric beauty, dull and sort as Cleopatra's face. Thus the violin had been found on the far seas, at the end of the world, as it were, and in companionship of gems and fabrics, rich and rare, and in a chest whose mouth breathed odors. This was all the lad knew. Henry, said the old trapper, the lad says the fiddle is so old that no one knows how old it is, and I concede the boy speaks the truth. It certainly looks as old as a squaw whose teeth has dropped out, and his face is the color of tanned buckskin. I tell you, Henry, I believe it will burst if the lad draws the bow with any earnestness across it, for there never was a glue made that would hold wood together for a thousand years, and if that fiddle ain't a thousand-year-old, then John Norton is no judge of appearances, and can't judge the prongs on the horns of a buck. At this instant the lad dropped the bow upon the strings. Strong and round, mellow and sweet, the note swelled forth. Starting with the least filament of sound, it wove itself into a compact cord of sonorous resonance. Filled, the great parlors, passed through the doorway into the receptive stillness outside, charged it with throbbing, thus held the air a moment, reigned in it, then calling its powers back to itself, drew in its vibrating tones, checked its undulating force, and, leaving the air by easy retirement, came back like a bird to its nest and died away within the recesses of the dark melodious shell from whence it started. When the bow first began its course across the strings, the old trapper's eyes were on it, and as the note grew and swelled, he seemed to grow with it. His great fingers shut into their palms as if an unseen power was pulling at the cords. His breast heaved, his mouth actually opened. It was as if the rising, swelling, pulsating sounds actually lifted him from off the floor on which he stood, and when the magnificent note ebbed and finally died away within the violin, not only he, but all the company stood breathless, charmed, surprised, astonished into silence at the wondrous note they had heard. The old trapper was the first to move. He brought his brawny hand down heavily upon Herbert's shoulder, and with the face actually on fire, with the fervour stirred within him, exclaimed, Lord a mathy Henry, did you ever hear a noise like that? I say, boy, did you ever hear a noise like that? Well, on earth did it all come from why, boy, it was as long and as solemn as a funeral, as earnest as the cry of a panther, and roared like a nest of hornets when you poke him with a stick. If that's a fiddle, I wonder what the other things be that I've heared, the half-breeds and the Frenchers play in the clearance. Well, might the old trapper be astonished? The violin of unknown age and make was one among ten thousand. It was a concert to hear the lad tune it, which he did with a bold and skillful touch, and the exactness of an ear which nature had made exquisitely true to time and chord. His bashfulness was gone, his timidity had departed, his awkwardness even went out of body and arm and fingers with the initial note. His soul had found its life with his mother's gift, and he, who was so weak and hesitating in ordinary moments, found courage and strength and the dignity of a master when he touched the strings. At last the instrument was ready, and with a flourish, bold and free, he struck into the measures of a waltz that filled the parlor with circling noises, and made the air throb and beat, swing and swell, as if it were liquid, and unseen hands were moving it with measured undulations. There was no resisting and influence so sweet, subtle and pervasive, as flowed from that easygoing bow as it came and went over the resounding strings. Couple after couple swung off into the open space until the entire company were swinging and floating through the dreamy and bewitching measures. The god of music was actually in the room, and his strong passionate touch was on the souls of those who were floating hither and thither as if blown by his invisible breath. The music took possession of the dancers, it banished the mortal heaviness from their frames, and made them buoyant so that their feet scarce touched the floor. Up and down and across from side to side and end to end, they whirled and floated. They moved as if a power which took the place of wings was in them. They did not seem to know that they were dancing. They did not dance, they floated, flowing like a current moved by easy undulations. Their hands were clasped, their faces nearly touched, their eyes were closed or glowing, and still the long bow came and went, and still the music rose and sank, swelled and ebbed as easy waves advance, retreat and flood again, breaking in white and lazy murmurs at twilight on the dusky beach. Herbert stood still, his eyes were lifted, the gaze in them far away, and one foot beat the measure. Beside him stood the trapper, his arms were crossed, his eyes were on the bow that the lad was drawing, and his body swayed, lifted and sank in perfect harmony with the motions and the accompanying sound, with a grace which nature only reaches when the will is utterly surrendered to a power that has charmed the stiffness and tension out of the frame and made it yielding and responsive. At last the music stopped, and with it stopped each form. Each foot was arrested at the point to which the sound had carried it when it paused. Each couple stood in perfect pose. The mode of power which moved them was withdrawn, and the limbs stood emotionless as if the soul that gave them animation had retired. They had been lifted to another world, a world of impulse and movement more airy in spirit life than the gross earth, and it took a moment for them to struggle back to ordinary life. But in a moment, thought recalled them to themselves, and they realized the mastery of the power that had held them at its will, and the applause broke out in showers of happy tumult. They crowded around the lad, strong men and beautiful women, gazing at him in wonder, then broke up into knots, talking and marveling. To the old trapper's face, as he gazed at the lad, a strange look came, the look of a man, to whose soul has come a revelation so pure and sweet that he is unable at first to composite with his understanding. He came close to the lad, and sitting down on the edge of the platform, put his hand on the knee of the youth, and said, I've heard most of the sweet and terrible noises that nature makes, boy. I've heard the thunder among the hills when the Lord was knocking again the earth until it charred, and I've heard the wind in the pines and the waves on the beaches when the darkness of night was on the woods, and nature was singing her evening song, and there be no bird or beast the Lord has made whose cry be a lively earth solemn I have not heared, and I have said that man had never made an instrument that could make so sweet and noise as nature makes when the spirit of the universe speaks through her stillness. But ye have made sounds tonight, lad, sweeter, than my ears have ever heared on hill or lake shore at noon or in the night season, and I certainly believe that the spirit of the Lord has been with ye, boy, and given ye the power to bring out such music as the books as the angels make in their happiness in the world above. I trust ye be grateful, lad, for the gift the Lord has given ye, for though your tongue note little of speech, yet your fingers can bring such sounds out of that fiddle, as a man might wish to have in his ears when his body lies stiffening in his cabin, and his spirit is standing on the edge of the great clearing. Yes, lad, you must certainly play for me when my eyes grow dim, and my feet strike the trail that no man strikes but once, nor travels both ways. At this point the announcement of supper was made, and the company streamed towards the tables. The rapast was of that bounteous character, customary to the houses located in the woods, in which the hardy provisions of the forest were brought into conjunction with and reinforced by the more light and fanciful cuisine of the cities. Among the substantiate, fish and venison predominated. There was venison roast and venison spitted and venison broil, venison steak and venison pie, trout broiled and baked and boiled, pancakes and rolls, ices and cream, pies and puddings, pickles and sauces of every conceivable character and make. Ducks and partridges, coffee and tea, whose nature I regret to say, was discernable only to the eye of faith. In the midst of this abundance the old trapper was entirely at home. He ate with the relish and heartiness of a man whose appetite was of the highest order and whose courage mounted to the occasion. Atelier Henry said the old man, as he transferred a duck to his plate and proceeded to carve it with the aptness of one who had practical knowledge of its anatomy. Atelier Henry, the birds be getting fat, and I certainly hope the flight this fall will be a good one. Don't be bashful, lad, and you're eaten, he continued, as he transferred half of the bird to his companion's plate. Yeah, I haven't got the thighs of some about the waist, but your length is in your favor, and if you will only straighten up, and Henry don't get out, there will be little left on this end of the table when we have satisfied our hunger. I don't know when the craven of nature has been stronger within me than it is in this minute, and if nothing happens and you stand by me, the Sarah Messers will remember our visit for days after we be gone. It isn't often that I feed in the settlements or get a taste of their cooking, but the man who basted these birds knowed what he was doing, and the fire has given him just the right touch, and the morsels actually melt in your mouth. The trappers' feelings were evidently not peculiar to himself, and the spirit of feasting was abroad. The eating was such as would astonish the dwellers in cities. Wit flashed across the table in answer to Wit. Murth rippled from end to end of the room. Laughter roared and rollicked down the hall. Jokes were cracked, fun exploded, plates rattled, cups and glasses touched and rang. Even the waiters, as they came and went in their happy service, caught the infection of the surrounding happiness, and their laughter mingled with that of the guests. The great pine branches and the evergreens nailed against the corner post and wreathed into festoons along the walls, shook and trembled in the uproar as to the passage of winds along their native hills, and the huge bucks heads whose antlers were tied with rosettes and streaming ribbons lost the staring look of their great artificial eyes and seemed, as they gazed out through the interlacing boughs of cedar and balsam, as if life had returned to them and they once more were animate. In about an hour the company streamed back into the parlor with a mood even livelier than that which had characterized the early hours of the occasion. Their minds were in the state of highest action and their bodies needed but the opportunity for rapid motion. Even the lad had caught the infection of the surrounding liveliness for his eyes and face glowed with the light of quickened animation. "'A' you got any jigs in that fiddle lad,' said the trapper. "'Can you twist anything out of your instrument that was at the feet of traveling? Seems to me that the young folks here want shaken up a little, and a little of the old-fashioned Danthan will help them settle the biddles. Can you liven up, lad, and give them a tune that will set them whirling?' The only reply of the lad was a motion of the bow, but the motion was effective for it sent a torrent of notes into the air which thrilled through the body and tingled along the nerves like successive electric shots. The old trapper fairly bounded into the air, and when he struck the floor his feet were flying. Nor was he alone. The jig had started a dozen on the instant, and the floor rattled and rang with the tap of toe and heel. "'Enray,' said the old trapper. "'Hold on to me or I shall certainly make a fool of myself. The lad is tickling me from head to foot, and my toes are snapping inside of the moccasins. Lord, who doth thought that the blood in the veins of a man whose head is whitening, could be sought leaping as man is doing at this minute by the scraping of a fiddle.' The lad was a picture to see. His bow flew like lightning, his long fingers drummed and slid along the strings of the violin with bewildering swiftness. The little instrument jetted and effervesced its melody. The continuous and resounding noise poured out of it in tuneful bubbles. The air was filled with tinkling fragments of sound. The lad's body swayed to and fro. His face glowed, his eyes flashed. The sweat stood and dropped on his forehead, but still the bow snapped and crinkled, and the instrument continued to burst in the musical explosions, while the floor shook, the windows ruffled, and the lamps flared and fluttered as the dancers chased the music on. Evant and Arthur said the trap-eye, stand this, and breaking forth from the hole that Herbert had on him, whirled himself out to the center of the floor, and with his face aflame with excitement, and his white hair flying abroad, led the jigmen off with a lightness of foot and quickness of stroke that forced the music by half a beat. The effect was electric. The room burst into applause, and the lad fetched a stroke that seemed to rip the violin asunder. It was now a race between the violin and the dancers. One after another fell out of the circle as the moments passed until the trapper was left alone, and was cutting it down in a fashion that both astonished and convulsed the company. More than one of the spectators went on to the floor in paroxysms of laughter. Herbert bent over with his hands on his knees, was watching the trapper with mouth stretched to its utmost, and streaming eyes. It is impossible to say which would have triumph had not an accident decided the contest, and brought the jig to an abrupt termination. For even while the lad was in the midst of the swiftest execution, the hind legs of the chair in which he was sitting were whipped from their fastenings, his heels went into the air, he turned half a somersault backward, and the music stopped with a snap. It was minutes before a word could be heard. Roars and shrieks and screams of irrepressible and uncontrollable merriment shook the house from foundation to Garrett. The lad picked himself up, and for the first time since they met, Herbert saw his placid countenance wrinkled and seemed with the contortions of uproarious mirth. The sluggishness of his temperament for once was thoroughly agitated, and the manhood which never before had come to the surface found in hilarity a visible and adequate expression. The trapper had spun to his side, and the two had joined their hands, and looking into each other's faces were laughing with the boisterousness that fairly shook their frames and exploded in resounding peals. Gradually the uproar subsided, and the company settles by easy transition to a quieter mood. The hours of the night were passing, and the moment drawing nigh, when those who had mingled their merriment must part. The old trapper had regained his gravity, and his countenance had settled to his customary repose. It seemed the general wish that the lad would favor them with a farewell peace, and in compliance with the request of many the old man turned to him and said, The hours be drawing on lad, and it's reasonable that we shall break up, but before we go the folks wish to hear you play a quiet sort of a piece that may be cheerful and pleasant, like for them to remember you by when we be gone. So lad, if you have got anything in your hand that's soft and touching, maybe that will sort of stay in the heart as the season come and go. I certainly hope you will play it for them, and as you say you was born by the sea, and as you say the instrument you hold in your hand was given you by your mother, it may be you can play as something out of your memory that shall tell us of her goodness to you. Something I mean that shall tell us of the shore where you was born, and the love that you had for you later to rest, and came to the wood sick of me. Can you play as something like that lad? I can play you anything that has mother in it, said he, and a wistful yearning hungry look came into his eyes and the edges of his lips quivered. The company seated themselves, and the boy drew his bow across the instrument. The brush of a painter could not have made the picture more perfect than the vision the lad brought forth as the bow played on the strings. The picture of a sea sun-lighted and level, stretching out far. The picture of a curved shore. The shore of a quiet bay, rimmed with its beach of shining sand, and noisy with the gurgle and splash of lapsing waves. The picture of a home, quiet and orderly, and filled with the tenderness of a gentle spirit. And then a heavier cord told of the coming of a darker hour when the mother lay dying. The violin fairly sobbed and groaned and wailed, as if the spirit of an inconsolable grief were tugging heavily at the strings. Anon, a bell tolled solemnly out of it, and its heavy knell clanged through the room. And then the music rested for a minute, and in the silence it seemed as if the grave came into sight as plainly as if the eyes of all were actually looking at its open mouth. Again the music sounded, and the sods, one after another, fell on the coffin, dull and heavy, changing to a gravelly smothered sound as the grave filled. Once more it paused, and in a clear sweet strain arose, sad but pure and fine and hopeful, as voice of angels could have sung it, trustful and resigned. The bow stopped again. For a moment the violin was silent, and then the lad lifted his face, and laying the bow softly upon the strings began to play what all instinctively felt was a hymn to the spirit of his mother. Slowly, sweetly, softly, as the strains, which the dying sometimes hear, the pure, clear, smooth notes stole out into the hushed air. It was playing, not such as mortal plays to mortal, but such as spirit plays to spirit and soul to soul, to night across the street of heaven. The lad still used an earthly instrument and touched its strings with mortal fingers, but never while they live will those who heard that hymn believe that anything less than the spirit of the boy drew from the instrument the notes that filled the room with their divine sweetness. Indeed, the lad did not act as if he were conscious of his body or of bodily presences around him. His face was lifted, and his eyes, from which the tears were streaming, were gazing upward, not as if into vacancy, but as if they saw the bright being that had passed within the veil, standing in all the beauty of her transfiguration before them. For a smile was on the boy's lips, even while the tears were rolling down his cheeks. And when at last the arm suspended its motion, when the sweet notes ceased to sound, and the last chord had died away, the lad still kept his uplifted posture, and his features held the same wrapped expression. The company sat motionless, their gaze fastened on the lad. Not an eye was without its tear. The cheeks of the old trapper were wet, and Herbert, touched by some memory or overcome by the pathos of the music, was actually sobbing. The old man, with a tread as light as a moccasin foot could make, stepped softly to the side of the lad, and taking him by the arm, while the company rose as one man, motioned to Henry with his hand, and then, without a word, the trapper and Herbert, and the man who didn't know much, passed out of the room, and taking boat shoved off, and glided from sight in the blue darkness of the overhanging night, amid whose eastern gloom the great luminous mellow-hearted stars of the morning were already aflame. End of Story 5 Story 6 At the head of a stretch of swiftly running water, the river widened into a broad and deep pool. From the western bank, a huge ledge of rock sloped downward and outward into the water. On it stood the trapper, John Norton, with a look of both expectation and anxiety on his face. For a moment he lifted his troubled eyes and gazed steadily through the treetops, and, as his eyes fell to the level of the river, while the look of anxiety deepened on his countenance, he said, Is the wind has changed and the fire become in this way, and if it gets into the balsam thick as this side of the mountain and the wind holds where it is, a buck and full jump could hardly outrun it. Is the smoke thickens? If I didn't know that the boy would act with judgment and that he's unusually circumspect, I would certainly feel worried about him. I hope he won't do anything risky for the sake of the pups. If he can't get him, he can't, and I trust he won't rest the life of a man or a couple of dogs. With these words the trapper relapsed into silence, but every minute added to his anxiety for the smoke thickened in the air, and even a few cinders began to pass him, as they were blown onward with the smoke by the wind. The fires is coming down the river, he said, and the boy has it behind him. Lord of Massey, hear it roar, and know the boy is coming, for I never know him to do a foolish thing in the woods, and it would be downright madness for him to stay in the shanty, or even go to the shanty if the fire had struck the balsam thicket before he made the land in. Lord, if an oar blade should break, but it won't break, the Lord of Massey won't let an oar that the boy is handle and break when the fire is raising behind him, and he's coming back from an errand of Massey, a never-theta man deserted in a time like a report of a rifle rang out quick and sharp through the smoke. God, to be praised, said the trapper, it's the boy's own peace, and he let it off as they shot the rift the fourth bend above. Yes, the boy knows his danger, and he took the bandage of the rift to signal me with his peace, but oars couldn't help him in the rift, and the missing of a single stroke wouldn't count. Ah, trust the boy, got the pups out her all, added the old trapper, his mind instantly reverting to his loved companions, the moment it was relieved from anxiety touching his comrade. It couldn't have been over five minutes after the report of a rifle had sounded before a boat swept suddenly around the bend above the rock and shot like an arrow through the haze toward the trapper. Herbert was at the oars and the two hounds were sitting on their haunches at the stern. The stroke the oarsman was pulling was such as a man pulls when, in answer to some emergency, he is putting forth his whole strength. But though the stroke was an earnest one, there was no apparent hurry in it, for it was long and evenly pulled from dip to finish, and the recovery seemed a trifle leisurely done. The face of the trapper fairly shone with delight, as he saw the boat and the occupants. Indeed, his happiness was too great to be enjoyed silently, and in accordance with his habit, when greatly interested, he broke into speech. Look at that now, he exclaimed, as if speaking to someone at his side. Look at that now, there's a stroke that's worth noting, and is a kind of education in itself. I almost think there wasn't quite enough snap in it, but the boy knows what he's pulling for his life and the life of another man, somewhere below him, not to speak of the pops, and he knows it's good seven miles to the wrappers, and he's pulling every ounce that's in him to pull and to keep his stroke. Now he's come five miles, if he's come a rod, and I warrant he hasn't missed a stroke. Save, when in shooting the raft, he let off his speech, and I know he's got seven miles more to pull, and he's set himself a twelve-mile stroke. And there ain't many men that could do it with the roar of the fire a little way behind him. Yes, the boy has acted with judgment, and has certainly come along like a buck in full jump. I guess I better let him know where I be. Hello here, boy. I have pups. Here I'll be on the pint of the rock, as fresh as a buck, after a morning drink. Ease away a little, Herbert, in your stroke, and move the pups forward a little, and make room for a man and a paddle, for the fire is arteria, and then time has come to giant works. The young man did, as the trapper requested. He intermitted to stroke, and the hounds at a word moved into the middle of the boat, and crouched obediently in the bottom, but whimpering in their gladness at hearing their master's voice again. The boat was under good headway when it passed the point of the ledge on which the trapper was standing. But as it glanced by, the old man leaped with practiced agility to his place in the stern, and had given a full and strong stroke to his paddle before he had fairly settled to his seat. Now, Herbert, he began, ease yourself a bit, for you have had a tough pull, and it's good seven miles to the rapids. The fire is certainly coming in earnest, but the river runs nigh and interstraight till you get within sight of them, and I think we will be that I didn't feel certain that you had the pup, Herbert, for I could see by the signs that you wouldn't have any time to spare. Was it a touch-and-go, boy? The fire was in the pines west of the shanty when I entered it, answered the young man, and the smoke was so thick that I couldn't see it from the river as I landed. I conceded as much, replied the trapper. I conceded as much. Yes, I knowed it would be a cloaked shave if it got him, and I feared you would run a risk that you oughtn't to run in your lob for the dogs. I didn't propose to leave the dogs to die, responded the young man. I think I should have heard their cries in my ears for a year had they been burned to death in the shanty where we left them. Yes, speak with feel, and Herbert, replied the trapper. No, a hunter had no right to desert his dog when Diancher been there, for the creator has made him in their loves and their dangers alike. Did you save the powder and the bullets, boy? I did not, responded Herbert. The sparks were all around me, and the shanty was smoking while I was feeling around for the dog's leash. I heard the canister explode before I reached the first bend. It was a narrow rub, boy, rejoined the trapper. Yes, I conceded it was a narrow rub you had of it, and the holes in your shirt showed that the sparks was falling pretty thick and pretty hot too when you come out of the shanty. How does the stroke tell on you, boy? continued the old man interrogatively. Yes, they pull on a slash and stroke, you see, and there's five miles more of it if there's a rod. The stroke begins to tell on my left side, answered Herbert. But if you were sitting where you could see what's coming down upon us as I can, you would see it wasn't any time for us to take things leisurely. Lord, boy, rejoined the trapper. Do you think I haven't any ears? The fires at the fourth bend above us and the pines on the ridge we passed five minutes ago ought to be blazing by this time. Me, boy, this isn't the first time I've run a race with a fire of the Devil's own kindling, alone and in company both. And my ears have measured the roar and the crackling, until I can tell to a rod he and the most how fur the red line be behind us. What do you think of our chances, queried his companion, shall we get over the carrying time? For I suppose we are making for the big pool, are we not? Yeah, we've been making for the pool, replied the trapper, for it's the only safe spot on the river. And as for the chances, ah, sir, let down if we can't fetch the carrying time. If the fire isn't there ahead of us, it will be on us before we can get to the pool at the other end. Why can't we run the rapids? asked Herbert promptly. The rapids can be run, as you and me know, responded the old man. For we have both did it, although they be unusually swift, and there be spots where good judgment and a quick paddle is needed. Why, exclaimed Herbert, the last time we went down, we never took in a drop of water. It's true, as you think, boy, responded the trapper. Yes, we certainly did, as you say, though few be the men that know the waters that would to believe it. Why, then, exclaimed the young man, can't we do it again? That smoke, boy, that smoke, was the answer. The smoke will be there ahead of us. And who can run a stretch of water like the one I had yonder with his eyes blinded? No, boy, we must get there ahead of the fire, for we can't run the rapids in the smoke. There, he added, yeah, they pull in a murder and stroke, and it's best that I spell you. Down with you, pups, down with you, and last still as a frozen otter while the boy comes over you. With the celerity of long practice in boating, the two men changed places, and with such quickness was the change in position effected that the onrushing shell scarcely lessened its headway. The trapper seized the oars on the instant, while Herbert supported him with equal swiftness with the paddle, and the light-craft raced along like a feather blown by the gale. For several moments the trapper, who by the change in his position, was brought face to face with the pursuing fire, said not a word. His stroke was long and sweeping and pulled with an energy which only perfect skill and tremendous strength can put into action. He looked at the rolling flames with a face undisturbed in its calmness and with eyes that noted knowingly every sign of its progress. The fire is a hotend, he said at length, and it runs three feet to our two. We may get there ahead of it, for there isn't more than a mile further to go, but Lord exclaimed the trapper how it roars, and it makes its own wind as it comes on. Don't break your paddle, shaft boy, but the shaft is a good one, and you may put all the strength into it that you think it will stand. The spectacle on which the trapper was gazing was indeed a terrible one, and the peril of the two men was getting to be extreme. The valley through the center of which the river ran was perhaps a mile in width, at which distance a range of lofty hills on either side walled it in. Down this enclosed stretch the fire was being driven by a wind which sent the blazing evidence of its approach in advance of its terrible progress. The spectacle was indescribable. The dreadful line of flame moved onward like a line of battle when it moves at a charge against a flying enemy. The hungry flames ate up the woods as a monster might eat food when starving. Grasses, shrubs, bushes, thickets of undergrowth, and the great trees which stood and groves over the level plane on either side of the stream disappeared at its touch as if swallowed up. The evergreens crackled and flamed fiery hot. The smoke eddied up in rushing volumes, overhead and far in advance of the onrolling line of fire. The air was darkened with black cinders amid whose somber masses fiery sparks and blazing brands shone and flashed like falling stars. A deer suddenly sprang from the bank into the river ahead of the boat and frenzied with fear swam boldly at thwart its course. He was followed by another and another. Birds flew shrieking through the air. Even the river animals swam uneasily along the banks or peered out of their holes as if nature had communicated to them also the terrible alarm. While like the roar of a cataract, dull, heavy portentous, the wrath of the flames rolled ominously through the air. Amid the sickening smoke which was already rolling in volumes over the boat and the terrible uproar and confusion of nature, Herbert and the trapper kept steadily to their task but every moment the line of fire gained on them. The smoke was already at intervals stifling and the heat of the coming conflagration getting unbearable. Brands began to fall hissing into the water. Twice had Herbert flung a blazing fragment out of the boat and so in a race literally for life with the flames chasing them and their lives in jeopardy they turned the last bend above the carry which began at the head of the rapids. But it was too late. The fiery fragments blown ahead by the high wind had fallen in front of them and the landing at the carry itself was actually enveloped in smoke and flame. The fire be ahead of us boy exclaimed the trapper and death is certainly coming behind. The odds be again us to start with for the smoke is thick and the fire will be in the bends at least halfway down but it's our only chance we must run the rapids. What about the dogs? The pups must jerk for themselves answered the old man I'm sorry but the rabbits be swift and the water shaller on the first half of the stretch and the pups settle the boat half an inch if they settle it a hair yes overboard with your pups overboard with you commanded the trapper you must use the gifts the lord has gun you now or get singed I advise you to keep with the current and come down trailing the boat for man's reason is better than dog's reason touching currents and eddies not to speak of falls but take your own way for your lives be in jeopardy with your masters and you ought for certain to have the chance to die and as you like to but your best chance is to follow the boat as I judge the trapper had continued to talk as if addressing members of the human and not the canine species and long before he had finished his remarks the hounds had taken to the water and were swimming with all their power directly in the wake of the boat as if they had actually understood their masters in junction and were indeed determined to shoot the rapids in his wake the conflagration was now at its fiercest heat the smoke whirled upward in mighty eddies or rolled along in huge convolutions through the fleecy rolls here and there tongues of flame shot fiercely the river steamed the roar of the rushing flames was deafening the tops of the huge pines that stood along the banks would wave and toss as the fiery line reached them and then burst into blaze as if they were but the mighty torches that lighted the path of the passing destruction in all his long and eventful life past amid peril it is doubtful if the trapper had ever been in a wilder scene the rapids were ahead and the fire behind and on either side the great mass of flame had not yet rolled abreast the boat but the blazing brands were already falling in advance it was not a moment to hesitate nor was he a man to falter when action was called for by this time the boat had come nigh the upper rift of the rapids and the motion of the downward suction was beginning to tell on its progress the trapper shipped his oars and lifting his paddle placed himself in a kneeling posture gazing downstream the fire was almost upon them and the smoke too dense for sight but pressing as was the emergency neither man touched his paddle to the water but let the boat go down with the quickening current to the verge of the rapids where the rapid dip of the decline would send it flying this be an uncertain venture Henry cried the trapper shouting to his comrade from the smoke that now made it impossible for the young man even at only the boat's length to see his person this be an uncertain venture and the lord only knows how it we end you know the waters as well as I do and you know the points where things must be did right we'll beat the smoke order we make the first dip and get out of the thickets of it in the first half of the distance unless something happens let her go with the current boy until your sight comes to you for the current knows where it's going and that's more than a mortal can tell in this imponel smoke here we go boy shouted the old man as the boat balanced in its perilous flight on the sharp edge of the uppermost rift here we go boy he shouted out of the smoke and the rush of water it's utter and tough it where we be and it matters mighty little what meets us below two to those who have had no experience in running rapids no adequate conception can be given touching what can with truth be called one of the most exciting experiences that man can pass through the very velocity with which the flight is made is enough of itself to make the sensation startling the skill which is required on the part of the boatman is of the finest order I in hand and readiest wit must work in swift connection some who read these lines perhaps have shall we say enjoyed the sensation which we have always found impossible to describe in words these at least will appreciate the difficulty of our task and also the peril which surrounded the trapper and his companion the first flight down which the boat glanced was a long one the river bed dislobed away in a straight direction for nigh on the fifty rods and at an angle so steep that the water although the bottom was rough fairly flattened itself as it ran and the channel where the current was the deepest gave forth a serpentine sound as it whizzed downward the smoke which hung heavily over the stretch from shore to shore was too dense for the eye to penetrate a yard amid the smoke sparks floated and brands crackling as they fell plunged through it into the steaming water guidance of the frail craft was as the trapper had predicted out of the question the two men could only keep their position as they went streaming downward they kept their seats like statues knowing well that their safety lay in allowing their light shell to follow without the least interruption the pressure of the swift current half down the flight the volume of smoke was parted by some freak of the wind from shore to shore and for a couple of rods they saw the water the blazing banks the fiery treetops and each other the trapper turned his face blackened and stained by the grimy cinders toward his companion and gave one glance in which humor and excitement were equally mingled his mouth was open but the words were lost in the roar of the flame and the rush of the water he had barely time to toss a hand upward as if by gesture he would make good the impossibility of speech before face and hand alike faded from her bird's eyes as the boat plunged again into the smoke the next instant the boat launched down the final pitch of the declivity and shot far out into the smooth water that eddied in a huge circle in the pool below the smoke was at this point less compact for through it the blazing pines on either flame to partially interview it's the devil's own work boy for sartin cried the trapper and the fool or the nave that started the fire ought to be toasted i trust the pops will be reasonable and come down with the current add the fire touch you anywhere not much answered herbert a brand struck me on the shoulder and opened a hole in my shirt that's all how do you feel fried boy he is actually fried if this infernal heat lasts i'll be ready to turn before we reach the second bend how goes the stream below asked herbert all clear for a while answered the trapper all clear for a while put your strength into the paddle till we come to the barge below for the fire be running fast and it's again reason for a mortal to stand this heat long shall we run out of the smoke at the next flight asked herbert i think so boy i think so answered the trapper the maples grow to the bank at the foot of the next step and it isn't in the net to a hardwood to make smoke like a balsam he would have said more but his companion had nodded to him as he had ended the sentence for they had come to the last flight of the rapids and the great pool they glimmering through the branches of the trees below the old man knew what was meant and said i know it boy i know it take the east run for the water be deeper that way and the boat sets deep i won't trouble you for you know the way lord how the water biles now's your time boy to the right with you to the right sweep around and let her go away and downward swept the boat the strong eddies caught it but the controlling paddle was stronger than the eddies and kept it to the line of its safest descent past rocks that stood in mid current against which the swift going water beat and dashed past mossy banks and shadowed curves where the great eddies whirled down over miniature falls into bubbles and froth the light craft swept and with a final plunge and leap jumped the last cascade and darting out into the great basin ran shoreward it touched the beach and the trapper and herbert rose to their feet but for a moment neither stirred or in front of them not thirty feet away at the line where the sand and the green mosses met and looking directly at them stood a man and a girl who was he the two men asked this question a thousand times mentally in the next two months and once afterward they asked it aloud as they looked into each other's eyes across a grave but to the question whether spoken or silent no answer ever came the world has its enigmas and he was one amid the jabbering crowd we chaff and chatter with we meet occasionally a man who never chaffs or chatters a man who sees all things perhaps because of this suffers all things but says nothing at all the sphinxes are still extant the old time ones were of stone and bronze the modern ones are a flesh and blood that's all the difference nay not quite all for the secrets that the ancients held smothered within the folds of their stony silence were only such as nature revealed to them from her desert posts the secrets of sunrises and starry nights and the simoons that swept the sandy plain and of civilizations the murmurs of whose rising and the crash of whose sudden overthrow they needs must hear but the secrets that men hear today and by hearing of which are made silent are the secrets of lives being lived of hearts being broken of intentions so noble and failures so bitter as to make men skeptical whether god keeps watch over the passing events on the earth was he young no was he old no again how old was he forty perhaps it may be fifty the two men who stood looking at him never thought of his age neither then nor afterward never thought whether he was old or young there are people who have no age to those who know them is it because their bodies so little represent them a friend has been away for years he returns enters your room you shake his hand heartily and welcome and then you stand off and look at him you look at his hair and note the gray in it at the wrinkles in his face the dozen and one marks that denote change and say you've grown old old boy and so we judge most men and so they should be judged why because they are not great and strong and so large enough to dwarf their bodies out of sight and dwindle them into insignificance but now and then you meet one whose mind represents him whose soul is so gloriously finished that as in the case of a great painting you do not think of the frame around it nor take notice of it at all he is so strong vitally so great in living force in vital energies in moving and persuading power that he is to you like an immense endless all conquering life wholly independent of his embodiment who might exist in any form angel archangel spirit winged or wingless supernal or infernal and still in all forms in all places in all moral states would remain true to himself and be the same there are some I say who are like this who are not of the earth earthy nor of the body but of the spirit whether good or bad spiritual angel or demon always do you know one such no perhaps not for they are rare very rare but some such there are and if you do not know one or one like to such a one I ask if you do not think of him as I have said body what is body to such a man what is the formation of clay deftly mingled in its chemistry round about such an indomitable dwelling spirit does the old rain sod nest photograph the bird the swiftness and glory of whose wings lived in it once what is age to such a one what has he to do with the passing of years such a one is young and old both from the beginning of his career forever onward he has the freshness of youth the strength of manhood and the sagacity of age fixed permanently in his structure as nature fixes her colors in the fiber of the ash and the oak such have no age how silly to ask how old he is if you ask me I should answer who can tell their earthly parents say they were born on such and such dates were they or had they lived as Mary's son had ages before they took for God's wise purpose flesh who can tell heresy I'm not writing a sermon I'm writing a story and I seek to make my readers think that would not be essential if I were sermonizing good people don't want that kind of preaching but to return was he young was he old neither then nor ever after did Herbert and the trapper think of him as having age and yet he was with them and his body had all the marks which reveal to the noticing eye the measure of man's days this the young man's description of him tall straight and well formed large in size but shapely hair brown with gray in it in all the face a look of great power reserved but ready to act eyes of changeable color that took the shade of the emotion that chance to come and look out of them when unoccupied cold gray and meaningless as a window pane behind which no face is and overall the countenance the look of great gravity divided by but the slightest line from sadness so Herbert described him but he always used to add remember this was only his body and therefore no description at all the girl why certainly you shall know of her and from the same authority the girl that was with this strange man was not a girl merely but both girl and woman for she was at that age when the sweet simplicity of the one and the full charm of the other come into union and a time at least stand in attractive alliance she was of medium height and perfectly formed her hair was brown as were her eyes that were large and a mild of look and overall her face was such an expression of gentleness and peace as I never saw on any other woman's face and she loved the man with so great a love that it made her life and took it both for a moment Herbert and the trapper stood looking at the man and girl who were standing on the edge of the beach looking silently at them and then the trapper said it's still standing in the boat we would not run again yes so sudden like had we seen your friend and if our company be not pleasant to you we will move on and camp on some con fur down and the old man placed his paddle against the beach as if he would depress the boat out into the pool I beg you not to do so answered the man on the beach you have as good a right to this campground as we and I dare say a better one as we are but strangers to the woods while you old man look as if you had made them your home for years yes speak truth friend replied the trapper yes the words to be my home and if living in them gives a man a right you would gain say my claim yes it's thirty years ago since I have did the first drop from this pool and broiled him on the bank there and a toothsome supper he made for me too Lord a messy boy exclaimed the old man half turning toward his companion what a thing memory be thirty year and I've seen some wanderings since then but I remember as though I'd eat him last night just now that drought tasted yes art and friend that we weren't disturbed if we come ashore no no old man answered the other come ashore you and your companion our camp is the other side of the balsam thicket there and after you have built your own we will come down and pass an hour with you unless we should disturb you in your occupation or your pleasure I be a man of the woods as you see replied the trapper and Henry here be my companion and though his home be in the city as consorted with me so much that he's fallen into my habits though it should be said to his credit that the Lord give him natural gifts in that direction and when we be Roman that we take about little with us and our camp be quickly made no no we will have little to offer you and the lady but after when the sun darkens back of the mountain there you will honor an old man by your coming you shall taste some venison that's waited three days for the mouth and is tender as it should be and if the poor here will make its name good you shall have a trout cooked as the hunter cooks it when the fire is hot and the wet moss plenty we will certainly come answered the man I came into the woods to avoid men not to meet them but your face is honest and open as the day old man and your head is white as is the head of wisdom I shall be glad to talk with you and I doubt not your companion is as educated as you are knowing I've seen the coming and I'm going at 70 years since I've been on the earth answered the trapper stroking his head with the peculiar motion of the agent when speaking of their age reflectively I much have a seed of the passions of my kind and many be the lessons that nature has learned me and if the converse of an old man who has lived legally in the clearing would be pleasant to you you're coming well be welcome yes yes boy I see that yeah better a giant you rod and I will start a fire you know the size you want and you'll find them out there where the bubbles make the letter s the two strangers retired toward their own camp and our friends set about their several tasks hervert proceeded to joint his rod and the trapper to make a rude fireplace from the stones that lined the bank at the water's edge the preparations for the forthcoming repast went forward rapidly the pool kept its reputation good and yielded abundantly to the solicitation of hervert's flies the trout were large and in excellent condition and were quickly made ready for the trapper's treatment a large piece of bark peeled from a giant spruce standing near and laid upon the ground served for the table against the dark bark of which the ten dishes freshly scoured in the sand of the beach gleamed bright the venison and trout were cooked as only one accustomed to the woods can do it and the trapper contemplated the work of his skill with pleased complacency at each plate herbert had placed a bunch of checkerberries and a small bouquet of small but exceedingly fragrant flowers adorned the center of the bark table at this moment the man and girl drew near I trust said the man as they approached that we have not kept you waiting by our tardiness air common be true to a minute answered the trapper glancing up at the western mountain the top of whose pines the lower edge of the sun had just touched the meat be ready we certainly can't roast of the bark of the dishes he continued but the victuals be as good as nature allows and you're welcome be hardy we could ask no more said the man courteously and one might almost think that the hand of woman had adorned the table the posies be the boys doing replied the trapper glancing at herbert he has a like and further color and smell and I never know them to eat without a green sprig or a bunch of brat moss or some such thing on the bark I am sure I do not like them any better than you do answered herbert smiling and looking pleasantly into the old man's face there be a the lord's makin respond the trapper there be a the lord's makin and it be fit that mortals should love them as I concede I've lived a good deal alone he continued but I've never lived in a cabin yet that didn't have a few little flowers or a tuft of grass or a speck of green somewhere about it that's ought to make company for a man in the winter evenings and keep his thoughts in cheerful directions your sentiments do honor to your nature responded the other and I am glad to meet with one of your age who having lived among the beauties of nature has not allowed them to become commonplace and unworthy of notice many in the city's show less refinement I concede it is a good deal in the breed answered the trapper there be some that don't know good from evil in nature least ways they don't seem to have any eyes to note the difference and what isn't born in a man or a dog you can't educate into him the breed and settles more pints that the missioners dream as I judge but come friends the victuals be cool and and the mouth loves a warm morsel I am certain said the man as they were partaking of the repass that I never tasted a piece of venison so finely flavored before I've cooked the meat for an eye on the 60 year answered the trapper and have learned not to spoil the sweetness and nature by overdoing it it's a quick game that brings the buck to the camp and a quick fire that puts the stake onto the plate ready for the mouth trusted lady that you enjoy the victuals I do indeed answer the girl and if the cooking were less perfect I should count this as a feast yes yes I understand you answered the old man the sound of the tumble and water be pleasant and the eye eats with the mouth and he glass at the green woods that stretched away and the brightly colored clouds that hum like fleece of gold in the western sky the barbarian eats from a trough remarked herbert civilize him and he erects a table and as you add to his refinement he adorns that table until the furniture of it magnifies the feast and the guests think more of the beauty of the adornments than of the food they swallow and so with pleasant converse the meal progressed soon the sun declined and the darkness began to thicken in the pines the table was moved to one side the dishes cleansed and the fire lighted for the evening with the darkness silence had fallen upon the group not that silence which is awkward and oppressive or which comes from lack of thought but that fine silence rather which is only the thin shadow of the reflective mood and because the thought is inward and over full and so the four sat in silence by the fire above a few great stars shown warmly here and there the rapids flashed white through the gloom from a huge pine on the other side of the pool a horned owl challenged the darkness with his ponderous call suddenly the man broke the silence broke it with a question which led to a remarkable conversation and a tragical result and the question was this friend answer me this question if a man take a life should he give his own life in atonement for the dreadful deed end of story six part one