Chapter IX: Sophy Has an Adventure

“WHAT is it?” whispered Sophy. “Oh, Peter, is it a ghost?”

“A ghost! Pooh, what nonsense! I’ll never bring you again, Sophy. You promised you wouldn’t be afraid of anything.”

“Oh, but, Peter, that was such a queer noise, and so dreadful! If you could only tell me what it was!”

“An owl, very likely. Sometimes they make queer noises like that. Let’s try to find it. Sik ’em, Sirius, sik ’em, sir!” And disengaging himself from Sophy’s detaining hand he and the dog dashed into a by-path and disappeared from sight.

Sophy tried to follow, but there were many intersecting paths or tracks in this part of the woods, and she was not in the least sure which one her brother had taken. She ran along one, only to find that it was rendered impassable by some brambles, so she turned and went back to her starting-point to try another. She hoped that she should not again hear that terrible cry. It might be an owl, as Peter had suggested, but then again it might not. Peter did not really know for a certainty what it was. And then, as suddenly as it had come before, rang out once more this unearthly shriek. Sophy covered her face with her hands for an instant. Then, indifferent as to what might become of her if only she could get as far as possible from this terrible creature, whatever it might be, she fled in the opposite direction to that from which the sound appeared to come.

Peter and Sirius pursued their way with unerring instinct to a large tree, upon the unleaved branch of which sat an immense owl. What had at first disturbed it Peter could not guess, but at his approach the owl gave another cry and then, spreading its wings, flew aimlessly away into the deeper woods, flapping blindly among the trees as it went.

It was unusual to see an owl so active in the daytime, and Peter, his naturalist’s nature all alive, followed closely, anxious to see what would happen next. He stopped long enough, however, to try to discover what had frightened the bird, but could find nothing. Then he concluded that the enemy, whatever it was, must have disappeared.

It was a great horned owl, he was almost sure, and he knew that one of that species was rarely seen so near civilization. He followed it as closely as possible, but during his short stop to look for the cause of its fright the owl had disappeared, and Peter did not see it again. After spending some time in a fruitless search for it, he returned to the edge of the wood, supposing that he should find Sophy where he had left her; but his thoughts were now distracted by something else.

The excited barking of Sirius proved that he had come upon prey of some sort, and sure enough, when Peter reached the dog he saw that he had discovered the entrance to a nest of field mice beneath an old log, and already he had killed one of the parents. Peter hoped to be in time to save the other, but he was not, and scarcely liked to scold Sirius for the double murder, for he knew the dog was only following the instincts of his kind. He determined to secure the young ones, however, if young ones there were.

He turned over the log, and there beneath it he found a neatly made nest of long grasses, built between the detached bark and the log itself, and containing a number of tiny baby-mice. They were orphans now, alas! the father and mother having both been killed by Sirius, but Peter determined that the little ones should not suffer for this misfortune. Carefully removing the nest from its resting-place, he laid it in his cap and started for home. He would have liked to examine the log further, for it seemed to be an interesting place. A colony of large black ants, which had fashioned for themselves a most elaborate dwelling, were running about now in a distracted manner, owing to the sudden upheaval of the log, which had probably been their undisturbed home for a long time; and Peter would have been glad to watch them.

But from the way in which Sirius was barking and sniffing at a hole in the log, Peter was led to suspect that another nest of mice might be there, and rather than have that family also broken up, and because he had no way of disposing of the little creatures in his cap, he hurried away from the fascinating scene, calling to the dog to follow.

He took a short cut across the woody pasture, which lay on the outskirts of the thicker woods, his mind so absorbed with the adventure, that there was no room for thought of Sophy. He had forgotten her as completely as though she did not exist.

Then, too, to his delight and surprise, he came across some fungi. They were growing in a grassy place at the border of the field, and just above the river. It seemed very early in the season for mushrooms, but still these might be of an edible variety, and if they were, would it not be an excellent plan to take them home for supper? The family refrained always from eating the cultivated mushrooms which Peter could sell, but if they were beginning already to grow wild, they surely might be indulged in.

Peter placed his cap on the top of a rock, which was too high and too steep for Sirius to scale, and proceeded to test the fungi. Were they edible or not? Unfortunately they were not, as he soon discovered by bruising the gills. A white milk exuded, and his reading had taught Peter that such were to be avoided. Greatly disappointed, he picked up his capful of mice once more and continued on his way.

Arrived at the barn, he made the little orphans as comfortable as possible in a place which was quite protected from an attack by Sirius. He looked for Carney, but the boy was not to be found. Victoria, however, was busy with her violets, and Peter consulted with her as to the best method of disposing of his new pets.

“Dear me!” exclaimed Victoria, when he showed them to her. “They are the cunningest things I ever saw, but you are not going to keep them, are you, Peter? Why not set them free?”

“Vic, you must be perfectly crazy,” said Peter. “Set them free, these poor little things without any father or mother? They would be eaten right up by something. I had no idea you were so cruel. I am going to keep them until they’re old enough to look out for themselves, and then I’ll take them out to the pasture and let them go, if they want to.”

“I don’t know what Katherine will say, she hates mice so.”

“Katherine needn’t know anything about them. She never comes near the barn.”

“Do you know where Sophy is?” Victoria called after him as he walked off, but Peter did not hear her. He had placed his new pets as comfortably as possible, and now he hastened back to the fascinating log, a good mile away though it was.

Sirius accompanied him, but was ordered to remain at a safe distance, lest the other families of mice should be disturbed, and the dog was forced to content himself with digging a hole and burrowing so deep after imaginary prey, that nothing could be seen but a wagging tail above the ground.

Peter remained there until almost dark, watching the ants, which had apparently recovered from the shock of the disturbance, and were trying now to make themselves as comfortable as possible after the fright. Some were carrying the eggs to a more retired place than that in which they were, now that the log had been turned upon another side, while others were engaged in repairing the injured passage-ways of their dwelling.

At last the pangs of hunger warned Peter that it must be nearly supper time, and he again went home, Sirius following, covered with brown earth, but happy as a king, even though his search underground had failed to bring anything to light that was desirable.

When Peter reached home, his three elder sisters came hurrying to meet him.

“Where is Sophy?” they cried with one voice. “What have you done with her?”

Peter stopped short in his walk across the grass.

“I don’t know,” said he, a sudden dismay striking him as he spoke. “Didn’t she come home?”

“No! We haven’t seen her since she went with you. Oh, Peter, where is the child?”

* * * * *

Sophy in the meantime had wandered far into the woods. In her desire to escape from the creature, whoever or whatever it might be, that had so frightened her, she paid no heed to her whereabouts. Blindly she ran on, stumbling, falling, and picking herself up again only to run and fall once more. These woods were not very extensive, but the paths in them were many and were confusing, and Sophy without being in the least aware of it went around and around in a complete circle more than once.

At one time she was very near the road, and had a carriage chanced to pass at that moment she would have heard it and would have discovered where she was, and could then have easily made her way home by the road; but there was no sound but the chirping and twittering of the newly arrived birds among the branches of the tall trees of this little forest.

When she paused from sheer exhaustion, she heard a stealthy rustling among the dead leaves and the underbrush, and presently a snake emerged, raising its head when it saw her, and darting out its forked tongue in anger. It was a harmless little creature, and no doubt was as anxious to escape from this intruder as she could be to avoid the snake, but Sophy did not stop to consider this. She forgot completely that Peter had often told her that the snakes which frequented these woods and meadows were not dangerous, and she fled precipitately from the spot.

At last her aimless wandering brought her to the extreme edge of the wood at the point farthest away from home. To her joy she saw an open space before her, and actually a piece of the sky was visible. It was growing late apparently. The shadows of evening had crept upon her in the woods without her being conscious of them. Now it seemed as if it must be twilight, although it was yet far from being dark.

As she trudged along, too tired to run, she fancied that she heard the voices of men. She paused for a moment, fearing new dangers. Yes, some men were not far off, and as they were speaking some strange jargon, Sophy suspected that they were Italians. She was very much afraid of Italians, with their dark skins and fiery black eyes. There were many at work upon the railroad, and the child would go a long way around to avoid meeting them even in broad daylight, and when she was with some one else. Now when she was alone, and it was almost dark, she was terrified indeed. The dangers of the forest were as nothing to this. She was about to turn and run back when she heard their voices growing fainter. Apparently they were leaving the spot for the night. If she waited long enough, she could go home.

Sophy thought that she should feel safer if she were to say her prayers, so she knelt down in the dead leaves and repeated “Our Father” very softly, adding before she rose, “And please, God, take me safe home. I’m so frightened. For Jesus Christ’s sake, Amen.” When she had finished she felt braver. It was all very quiet, and the men had gone. She walked out of the wood and found in the dim light a footpath, which she followed. It led past the base of the embankment of the railroad, a sandy embankment which towered far above her, and she soon reached the carriage road which passed under the railroad at this point.

Sophy knew this road well, and she knew that by following it towards the right she should eventually reach home, although it was a long distance. She wondered where Peter was, if he had come back to look for her, if he was in the forest now, searching for her. And the girls, what were they doing? Were they sitting down to supper now without her? She wondered if her silver mug had been filled with nice rich milk as usual, and if there was toast to-night for supper. Perhaps Honor was cooking something on the chafing-dish, as she did sometimes by way of a great treat. Sophy did wish that she was there. She was so hungry and it was so far! It seemed as if she must keep walking all night in order to reach there.

At last, quite exhausted, she sat down upon a rock by the roadside. She must rest for a few moments at the foot of the long hill which loomed up before her. There was a little house at the top, she knew, and a short distance farther on their own place began, although their house was a half-mile beyond. She had just made up her mind to continue her weary march, when she saw two young men or boys emerge from the woods from the other side of the road from those in which she had been. She was sitting in the shadow of some large bushes, and she thought if she kept very still that they might not notice her. She scarcely dared to breathe, but she heard very distinctly the beating of her heart, and the sound frightened her. As the boys approached, she heard one of them say:

“An’ yer won’t tell me nothin’? Well, then, yer don’t git any of the stuff.”

“I don’t want it,” replied the other, as they passed her.

To Sophy’s astonishment, she recognized the voice as that of Dave Carney. Was it—could it possibly be he? She peered after him, and then springing to her feet she ran as fast as she could up the road in pursuit.

“Dave! Dave!” she cried. “Wait for me! I’m lost, and I’m so glad to see you. Oh, _so_ glad!”

And then to Carney’s astonishment a small hand was thrust into his hand, and a small and anxious face was turned up towards his face.

“Why, where’d you come from?” he asked, stopping abruptly in his walk, while his companion uttered an exclamation of anger.

“I went to the woods with Peter, and I got lost. There was a terrible scream, and it frightened me dreadfully, and I’ve been all this time trying to find my way home. Oh, Dave, I’m _so_ glad to see you!” said the child, forgetting her fatigue, and dancing with glee, while she still tightly grasped his hand. “You’ve no idea how dreadful it was. Who is that, Dave? Is it your brother? He looks just like you.”

“No matter who I am,” said the stranger, roughly. “I ain’t got no use for yer, that’s one thing, sure. Now just yer remember, Dave! yer can’t work yer pious notions on me, an’ I’ll do as I like. I’ve been crooked a good long time, now, an’ I’ll stay crooked. Yer was as crooked yerself once, an’ I guess yer are yet, only yer find it don’t pay just at the present time. I’ll leave yer here,” he added with an oath, and suddenly disappeared among the trees by the roadside.

“That surely can’t be your brother, Dave,” said Sophy, disapprovingly. “I don’t like the way he talks, at all. I’m glad he went away. Oh, I’m so glad I saw you, though! I don’t feel half as tired now.”

Dave said little,—he was a lad of few words,—but he held the little girl’s hand and helped her over the rough or the steep places in the road; and at last they were in sight of the house, and the light which shone from an upper window seemed like a beacon of hope to the little wanderer.

And presently she was in the house, with Honor’s arms about her, and Katherine taking her hat and coat, while Victoria ran to the barn, calling to Peter that she was found. He and Victoria had been to the place in the woods where he had left her, and then had come back to get lanterns, and to ask some neighbors to join in the search. The brother and sisters had been quite beside themselves with anxiety, and their joy and relief when Sophy appeared was almost too great for words.

As for Sophy herself, she felt amply repaid for her fatigue and fear when she found herself the centre of importance. She was led in state to the supper table, she was helped before any of the others with the choicest viands, including an egg which B. Lafferty cooked in a little dish especially for her, and brought to her with much circumstance, and, crowning feature of the occasion, a vase of wild flowers which Katherine had gathered that afternoon was placed beside her plate.

When her appetite was somewhat appeased, Sophy recounted her adventures, and even Peter refrained from condemning her with cold criticism, when she described her fear of the snake which had “stuck out its tongue at her.” In fact, she was in every sense of the word the heroine of the evening, and it was so unusual an experience that she could not help enjoying it.

“I wonder where Dave had been,” remarked Honor. “It was odd that he should have come along just at the right moment for you, Sophy. I am perfectly thankful that he did. Do you suppose that was his brother, Peter?”

“Don’t know,” replied Peter, as he helped himself to toast, and proceeded to butter it with a lavish hand. “Carney’s got a brother, only he never says much about him.”

“Peter, it is very bad form to spread butter on your bread or your toast like that!” said Katherine. “You ought to put it on just where you are going to eat it.”

“Pshaw! Who cares for form?” demanded Peter, crunching his toast with an air of distinct enjoyment. “What I want is taste, not form, Miss K. R. Starr.”

“It really tastes better Katherine’s way,” remarked Victoria, “if you have never tried it; but don’t change on our account, for the world! By the way, the people are really moving into the house on the hill. I saw some wagon loads of furniture going up there to-day. I do hope we shall like them.”

“I can’t see that it makes any difference whether we like them or not,” said Honor. “We shan’t see anything of them.”

“But why not, Honor?” asked Katherine. “They are going to be very near neighbors, and I can’t see why, if they are nice people, we shouldn’t be neighborly to them.”

“Father always liked us to be neighborly to our neighbors, even if he didn’t go about much himself,” added Victoria.

“It was very different then,” said Honor. “We weren’t working for our living. Those people, if they are rich and don’t know anything about us, will probably look down upon us, and I shall never expose myself to anything of that sort. No indeed. Let us keep to ourselves as much as we can, and to the old friends who know about us.”

“Well, I am interested in them anyhow,” said Victoria. “There are a father and mother and two children, I believe, and the boy’s name is Roger. I hope it will be some one for Peter. I heard all that from the postmistress, in case you want to know my authority.”

“I wish you wouldn’t gossip with the postmistress, Vic,” said Honor, with some severity. “It seems to me it is a queer thing to do.”

“But why?” asked her sister, imperturbably. “She’s known me and I’ve known her all my life. Why shouldn’t we have a little agreeable conversation together when I go for the letters? She told me this morning when she handed me Aunt Sophia’s postal card saying she was coming to see us next week, that she guessed—the postmistress guessed, I mean—that my Aunt Ward would be out here before long. Now that shows that she is a clever woman, as well as an honest one, for Aunt Sophia had only signed her initials, S.S.W,’ and yet she knew right away who it was from. And it wasn’t really necessary for her to let me know she had read the postal card, was it? So that was very honest. Oh, I like her, and she tells me a lot I want to know.”