Chapter VI (1)

The two days' journey that followed was very much like that of the first day--an early start, two hours' rest in the middle of the day, and the night spent at a road-side tavern. On the third day they left civilization behind them, and their mid-day rest was spent in the woods. They were then upon a lower spur of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The road for the first two days had been fairly good, but on the third day the four roans had all they could do to haul the heavy coach up and down the rough highway. They stood to their work gallantly, though, and Lord Fairfax remarked that the coach could go twenty miles farther up the mountain, where he had a hunting-lodge--a sort of outpost for Greenway Court, and where the coach was stored. Glorious weather had followed them. The air was keener and colder than in the low country, and Lance produced a huge furred mantle, in which he wrapped Lord Fairfax, who sat and read unconcernedly while the coach rolled and jerked and bumped along. George was glad to make half his day's travel on horseback, and the exercise, as a warmer-up, was so much better than the Earl's fur mantle that he felt sometimes like suggesting a gallop to Lord Fairfax. But he had the wit to keep his suggestions to himself, knowing that older men can do their own thinking much better than it can be done for them by fifteen-year-old boys. George had enjoyed every moment of the trip so far. His attacks of homesickness were few, and he got over them by the philosophical reflection that he would have been cruelly disappointed if his mother had not allowed him to come. He began a letter to his mother, writing a little every day, so that if he had a chance to visit the low country it would be all ready to send at a moment's notice. He was very happy. He had in prospect a new and delightful experience in travel and association. When that was over he had the cheerful hospitality and honest gayety of his Christmas at Mount Vernon to look forward to with his brother and his sister-in-law, whom he dearly loved, and dear little Betty; and after that a return home, where he fitted naturally and easily into the position of his mother's best helper and counsellor.

The singular attraction between the man of the world and the unsophisticated young provincial gentleman grew each day. George had never before met any one who had Lord Fairfax's store of experience, as a soldier, a courtier, a man of affairs, and a member of a great literary circle. Nothing was lost on the boy, and the Earl was charmed and interested to find that a chance word dropped here and there would remain in George's memory, who would recall it at a suitable time to ask some intelligent question about it. Lord Fairfax sometimes smiled at himself when he realized how much of his time and thought and conversation was spent upon this boy, but he also realized that an intelligent and receptive young mind is in itself one of the most interesting things in the world, and when combined with the noble personality and high breeding of Madam Washington's son it was irresistible. For the first day or two he always spoke to George as "Mr. Washington," and neither one could tell the exact occasion when he dropped it for the more familiar "George." But it was done, and it put them upon a footing of affection at once. George continued to say "my lord," as that was the proper mode of address, but little by little he revealed his heart to his new friend, and Lord Fairfax read him as an open book. This was not at first, however, for George modestly conceived himself to be a person of no consequence whatever, and was much more eager to hear the Earl speak of his adventures than to tell all the ideas and protests and ambitions he cherished himself.

On the evening of the fourth day they came to a log structure at the foot of the mountains, where the coach was to be left. It was in a cleared space on an open plateau, and above them towered the great peaks of the Blue Ridge, which they must cross on horseback.

The night was bright and beautiful, a great vivid moon sailing majestically in the heavens. There was in the clearing one large cabin, with two beds in it and a large press, besides a table and some chairs. In a smaller cabin two or three men lived the year round, while built on to that was a substantial coach-house, where the great chariot was stored, except when the Earl went upon his lowland journeys in state. When the cavalcade stopped in the clearing Lord Fairfax alighted and walked into the large cabin, followed by George. A fire roared upon the broad, rude hearth, and in ten minutes Lance had unlocked the press, had taken from it some bedlinen and blankets, and had made up the beds and laid the table. Supper had been prepared in advance, and, as Lance was an excellent cook, it was not to be despised--in particular, a great saddle of venison, which had been hanging up for a week in anticipation of the Earl's arrival. George could hardly have told what part of the day's journey he always enjoyed most, but those suppers, with the Earl's entertaining conversation, and his own healthy young appetite, and the delicious sense of well-being when he drew up to the fire afterwards to listen and ask questions, were perfectly delightful to him.

When they were seated at the table and about half through supper, Lord Fairfax asked, smiling,

"How do you like the uncivilized wilderness, George?"

"But this is not the uncivilized wilderness yet," answered George, smiling too. "We have a table and chairs, and knives and forks and plates, and beds and blankets, and silver candlesticks."

"Still, it is the wilderness, and from now on we must depend upon ourselves for company. The true meaning of the wilderness is absence from the haunts of men. We shall be entirely alone at Greenway, except for a few negroes and Indians. You will probably not see a white face, except mine and Lance's, until you leave me."

"It will be quite enough, sir," replied George. "I would rather be with a few people that I like than with a great crowd that I don't like."

"I felt the same in my youth. Afterwards there were circumstances in my life which inclined me to solitude. I came to Virginia in search of it, and I found it; and I also found peace. Once a year I go to the low country--to Belvoir, my cousin William Fairfax's; to your brother's at Mount Vernon; sometimes to see Colonel Byrd at Westover; but I always return to my own fastness gladly. I feel more cheerful now than at any time since we started. My old friends--my books--are waiting for me in my library; I can only take a dozen with me when I go away. My doves and pigeons, my dogs and horses, will all be the happier for my return home. My servants will be glad to have me back--poor souls, they have but a dull time of it all the year round; and I myself, having lived this life so long, find that it suits me. I shall have your company for several weeks; then I shall want you again next year."

"Next year, sir, I shall be sixteen, and perhaps I shall not be my own master. I may be in his Majesty's service. But if I can come to you again, you may be sure I will."

When supper was over the Earl drew his chair up to the fire, and, still wrapped in his fur mantle--for the bitter wind blew through the cracks and crannies of the cabin--sat in a reverie with his deep eyes fixed on the blaze. George had meant that night to ask him something about the siege of Bouchain, but he saw that the Earl was deep in thought, and so said nothing. He began to wonder what his mother and Betty were doing at that time. It was after supper at Ferry Farm, too. His mother was knitting by the table in the parlor, with two candles burning, and Betty was practising at the harpsichord. In his mother's bedroom--"the chamber," as it was called in Virginia--a fire was burning, and around the hearth were gathered the household servants picking the seed from the cotton, which, when warmed by the fire, came out easily. This they did while waiting until they were dismissed at nine o'clock. What was Billy doing? and Rattler? While thinking these thoughts George dropped asleep, and slept soundly until Lance waked him raking down the ashes and preparing for the night.

Next morning George wakened early, as he supposed, seeing how dark it was; but the sound of the rain upon the roof proved that it was not so early, after all. He glanced through one of the two small windows of the cabin and saw the water coming down in torrents. A regular mountain storm was upon them. George sighed as he realized this. It meant weather-bound for several days, as the roads across the mountains would be likely to be impassable after such a storm. And so it proved. For four days there was only an occasional let up in the downpour. Luckily, no snow fell. And Lord Fairfax observed his young guest narrowly in these days of being cooped up in a cabin, and found him less impatient than might have been expected. George, seeing the elaborate preparations that Lance always made for the Earl's comfort, imagined that he would ill support the inconveniences of their enforced delay; but it proved exactly the contrary. Lord Fairfax was not only patient but gay under such annoyances as a leak in the roof and their rations being reduced to corn-bread and smoked venison.

"It reminds me of our old days in the Low Countries," he said to Lance the fourth night they spent at the cabin.

"Yes, my lord; but, saving your honor's presence, we would have thought this a palace in those days. I don't think I ever was dry all over, and warm all over, and had as much as I could eat from the time I went to the Low Countries until after we had taken Bouchain, sir."

"Lance has told me about that adventure, sir," said George, slyly, hoping to hear something more from Lord Fairfax about it.

"Pshaw!" cried the Earl, smiling; "Lance is in his dotage, and can talk of nothing but what happened thirty or forty years ago. Our expedition was a mere prank. I found out nothing, and risked not only my life but this poor fellow's without warrant."

"The Duke, sir," said Lance, very respectfully, "was of another mind. And, sir, I have never thought of Madame Geoffroy, and her fits and her fainting and her furbelows, these thirty-five years without laughing."

At which George went off into such convulsions of laughter that Lord Fairfax knew Lance had told him the whole story.

After four days of stormy weather it became clear and cold. They were only twenty miles from Greenway Court, but the Earl sent a man ahead to find out if the streams were fordable, and whether it were yet worth while to start. The man came back the next day about sunset, saying it would be possible for them to get to Greenway Court the next day.

Although George had stood the confinement in the cabin stoically, he was delighted to be on the move again, and both he and the Earl relished their last supper there the more for knowing it would be the last. All the arrangements were made for an early start on horseback next morning, and at nine o'clock Lord Fairfax and George were about turning in when they heard a timid knock at the door.

Lance, with a candle in his hand, opened the door, and at first saw nothing at all; but as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he saw a negro boy and a dog.

Lance was so surprised that he did not at first speak, but the boy piped up very promptly, "Is Marse George Washington here, suh?"

George, on hearing his name called in that voice, jumped from his chair as if he had been shot, and the next moment was standing face to face with Billy, while Rattler sprang at him with wild barks of delight. Billy's greeting was brief and to the point.

"Heah I is, Marse George, wid Rattler."

"Where on earth did you come from?" asked George, breathlessly, dragging the boy into the cabin. As the light of the fire and the candles fell upon him he looked as if he might have come three hundred miles instead of less than a hundred and fifty, he was so thin, so hollow-eyed, and gaunt. His shoes were quite gone except the uppers, and he was in rags and tatters; yet nothing could dim the joy shining in his beady black eyes, while his mouth came open as if it were on hinges. Lord Fairfax, turning in his chair, was struck by the look of rapturous delight on poor Billy's face. The boy, still grinning, answered:

"F'um Fredericksburg. I tooken de horse mos' ter de ferry, and den I tu'n him loose, kase he had sense 'nough fer ter git ter de boat by hisse'f. So arter I seen him mos' up ter de boat, me an' Rattler, we all lights out arter de kerriage fo' Black Sam an' Gumbo have time fer ter hunt fer me, an' we foller de track clean f'um Fredericksburg ter dis heah place." Billy told this as if it were the commonest thing in the world for a boy and a dog to follow a coach more than a hundred miles from home. George was so astonished he could only stare at Billy and gasp out,

"How did you manage to keep the track?"

"Dun'no', suh," replied Billy, calmly. "Rattler, he know de way better 'n me. When de rains come an' I los' de wheel tracks, I say ter dat ar' dog, 'Lookee heah, dog, we is follerin' Marse George'--_he_ know dat jes as well as a human; an' I say, 'You got ter fin' dat trail an' dem tracks,' an' dat dog he know what I was talkin' 'bout, an' he wag he tail, an' den he lay he nose to de groun', an' heah we is."

The Earl had laid down his book and was listening intently to Billy's story. "And what did you live on--what did you have to eat on the way--let me see--nearly eight days?"

"We didn't have nuttin' much," Billy admitted. "De mornin' we lef home I tooken a big hoe-cake an' put it in my shut when warn' nobody lookin'. De fus' day I eat some, an' gin some ter de dog. Arter dat I foun' chinquapins an' ches'nuts an' some tu'nips 'long de road-side, an' I could eat dem, but de dog couldn', so I kep' dat hoe-cake fur Rattler, an' give him de las' piece yistiddy."

"Billy," asked George, with tears in his eyes, "were you _very_ hungry?"

For the first time a distressed look came into the boy's face. He was at his journey's end, he was with Marse George, he had nothing more on earth to wish for; but the recollection of the hunger of those eight days--the cold, the weariness, the agonies of terror that sometimes attacked him overcame him.

"Yes, suh, I was hungry," he said, with a sob, "dat's Gord's truf; an' ef it hadn' been fur dis heah dog you neber would ha' seed Billy no mo'. But dat dog, he go 'long snuffin', an' he were hongry too, I speck, dough he had some hoe-cake twell yistiddy; an' if de dog coul' hol' out, dis nigger could."

"I'll never, never forget it, Billy, as long as I live," said George, half crying.

Then Lord Fairfax spoke. "But how did you escape from being stopped on the road for a runaway?"

"Dun'no', suh," responded Billy, using his favorite formula. "We didn't meet many white folks on de road, an' when we see 'em comin' we hide in de bushes. I 'ain' never spoke ter a human sence we lef Fredericksburg. In the daytime we hide somewh'yar by de road an' sleep, an' we trabbel 'mos' all night. 'Twas de full o' de moon, an' I see dem tracks jes same as 'twas in daytime. Den, arter I los' 'em, dis heah dog, he jes keep de road hisse'f--an' here I is."

"Lance," cried George, suddenly, "please get something for him to eat--anything--everything you have!"

Billy's eyes glistened as, in a moment, Lance whipped out of the press some cold meat and bread, and he attacked it ravenously. Meanwhile George fed the dog, which was evidently the least starved of the two. When Billy had eaten up everything that could be produced for him, he quietly curled himself up near the fire, and in half a minute he was sleeping the sleep of the just.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Lord Fairfax of George.

"Keep him with me if you will allow me, sir."

"But what will your mother say? He seems to be a strong boy--his journey proves that--and he no doubt has his work at Ferry Farm."

George smiled at the recollection of Billy's "work."

"I don't think, my lord, that Billy is of the slightest use at Ferry Farm unless I am there. My mother, who believes in everybody's being industrious, has done her best to make him work. So have his father and mother, Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey. But except for waiting on me, and taking care of my horse, Billy will absolutely do nothing. He is not surly about it--he is always grinning and laughing and singing--but--I can't explain it exactly--he will work his fingers to the bone for me, but he won't work for anybody else."

"I should think Billy was not a very useful member of society," remarked Lord Fairfax.

George said not a word, but he did not like aspersions of any kind on Billy. Seeing this, Lord Fairfax said, in his usual kind tone:

"If it gives you pleasure, you must, of course, keep him with you--and indeed there is nothing else to be done that I can see; and as you say he is no good to your mother when you are not at home, perhaps he is better off here. He seems a faithful little soul, and I am not surprised that you are touched at his devotion."

George's face assumed an entirely different expression, but he merely said, "Thank you, sir," and in a few minutes, after throwing a bear-robe over Billy, George went to bed himself, with Rattler curled up by him.

Next morning they took the road soon after sunrise. Billy, who had enough of walking for some time to come, was mounted on one of the pack-horses. Two saddle-horses had been brought down from Greenway for the Earl and his young guest; and together they led the procession along the rough mountain road. The scenery was wildly beautiful. Occasionally they wound along mighty precipices, where the horses could scarcely pick their way. Again, they forded mountain streams that could be breasted only by the most tremendous exertions. They made their way through a great cleft in the mountains about mid-day, and began to descend towards the valleys. The distance was but twenty miles, yet so difficult was the road that it was late in the short autumn afternoon before Lord Fairfax, pointing to a collection of roofs that lay directly below them in a sheltered part of the valley, said to George, "There is Greenway Court."

By sunset they were riding up the rough road that led to the house.

It was a large, low building, with stables and offices projecting on each side. The foundation was of stone, rudely but strongly cemented. Half-way up the story and a half which constituted the building the stone ceased, and logs, neatly and even artistically mortised together, were carried to the roof. The effect was not unpleasing, especially as many of the original forest trees had been left, and the building blended well with its surroundings. Broad and shallow stone steps led up to the main entrance, and two great oak doors studded with nails gave entrance to it. George noticed that all of the windows were provided with stout iron-bound shutters, with holes for musketry in them. The door was also pierced for defence, and a very slight examination showed that, if well garrisoned, the building could be converted into a tolerably strong block-house. The Earl, as if reading the thoughts in George's mind, remarked:

"We have to be provided here for attacks from the Indians, incited by the French. The French have determined to extend their encroachments eastward and southward by a chain of forts, and I make no doubt that they contemplate a line that will extend from Canada to Louisiana. They use the Indians as secret though powerful allies, and, by encouraging them to harry and murder the whites in this wild part of the colony of Virginia, they think that it will be abandoned, and that they can advance their out-posts this far. Greenway Court has withstood one siege, and can withstand another. There is a spring directly under the house, and having some knowledge of mechanics, I have concealed the source, which is at a distance from the house, and we get the spring water by merely going down into the cellar. Then I keep constantly on hand, in this same cellar, stores of provisions and ammunition, so we are well able to defend ourselves, even against burning--for the Indians have found out the use of the torch against white men's dwellings. However, I hope we shall have no bouts with them while you are with us."

George said nothing, but he would have been more or less than a boy if he had not longed in his heart for a bout with the savages, of which he had heard much but seen little.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

CLEVER FEATS OF CHIMPANZEES.

BY R. L. GARNER.

Things are often done by monkeys which are very humanlike, but to them the acts may have no meaning whatever, being purely the result of imitation.

In all my researches among monkeys my chief aim has been to determine the innate powers of the mind, and therefore I have not regarded the tricks which they are often taught to do as being an index to their mental qualities. I shall relate a few of the most rational acts that I have known chimpanzees to perform. In these cases the animal was not actuated by fear, but was prompted by his own desire to accomplish a certain end to gratify his own wish.

Moses was the name of the young chimpanzee that lived with me in the jungle. One day as we were taking a stroll through the forest we came to a small branch of running water. Moses never liked to get his feet wet, but I thought on this occasion I would let him wade across it. The stream was not more than four feet wide and two or three inches deep. I first allowed my boy to pass over, and then I followed him, leaving Moses to get over by himself. When he reached the edge of the branch he began to beg for help. I seated myself on a log a few yards away from him, and he sat down on the bank of the stream. After a short time he walked along the bank looking for some means of crossing it without wading; two or three times he walked back and forth, and continued to beg for help. At last he discovered a clump of tall, slender bushes growing on the edge of the stream a few yards above the path; he went to these, took hold of one of them, and stood for a moment holding it; then he began to climb up it. He climbed up the side next to the water, and as he did so, the slender stalk began to bend under his weight. He continued to climb, and the plant continued to bend until the top of it almost touched the ground on the opposite side of the stream, and bore Moses safely across to the opposite bank. He released his hold upon the bush, and ran to me with a grin on his face, which was an evidence that he was conscious of having done a very clever thing. Whether other chimpanzees ever applied this means of crossing water or not I cannot say; but as it is not a constant habit with them, it cannot be called instinct. It was a piece of genuine engineering. No philosopher could have found a better solution to the problem.

Aaron was one of the brightest of his kind that I ever saw; he died in England. On the voyage from Africa to that country I had a cage for him and his companion constructed from parts of my own cage. On board the ship was a stowaway, who helped me to look after my pets; the boy was disposed to play tricks on the chimpanzee, and, whenever he had an opportunity, would do something to annoy him. Aaron was very fond of drinking water out of a long-necked bottle; this was very convenient, as the neck could be thrust through the meshes of the cage, and withdrawn after he had finished. When the boy gave them water, he would turn the bottle up and pour the water over them. They did not like this, and for a time refused to drink at all. At last Aaron found means of escaping; he climbed up on the side of the cage at a safe distance from the front, and about on a level with the neck of the bottle; then holding fast with his feet to the side of the cage, reached across the angle of the corner, took hold of the wires with his hand above the mouth of the bottle, and put his lips to it; when the water was spilled it did not touch him, but fell to the floor. After Elishiba witnessed this a few times she did the same thing, showing that she perfectly understood why he did so and what the result was.

I saw a young chimpanzee in Africa that belonged to a French officer. She was kept on board a small steamer that runs on the Ogowe River. This ape was full of mischief, and had to be tied or watched constantly to keep her out of harm. She had learned to untie all kinds of knots, so that it was very difficult to keep her confined.

On one occasion when I was aboard this steamer her master tied her with a long line to one of the rails alongside the boat. As a rule she always untied the knot next to her first, but on this occasion a new kind of knot had been tied. About six feet from her neck a single loop was tied around one of the iron rails along the side of the deck; then the long noose end of the string was taken to a stanchion about four feet away, and securely tied in the angle formed by the stanchion and the rail. The chimpanzee tried in vain to untie the single knot in the line which was near to her; but as one end was fastened to her neck and the other to the post, there was no loose end to draw through. She slacked the knot, however, as far as possible, but could find no loose end; she drew it tight again, and then examined it. Again she slacked it, and examined each strand separately; she traced one strand of it to the post, then she traced the other to her neck. For a moment she sat as if in deep study; then she slipped the knot along the railing, until it was near the stanchion. She slackened it, and surveyed it with care; she climbed down upon the deck, and pulled first at one strand, then another. Then she climbed around the stanchion and back again; she climbed up over the railing, down on the outside, and back again. She climbed through between the rails and back again two or three times, and again examined the knot; she tightened the loop, and moved it along the rail to the place it was first tied; she climbed up and again examined the knot; she drew first one end and then the other, but found them both fast; she drew the loop out as far as it would come, and, holding it in her hands, she examined each strand of it again; then she cautiously lifted it and put it over her head, crawled through it and the loop was undone. When the loose line dropped on the deck, with one end still fastened to her neck and the other to the post, she realized that she had untied the aggravating loop in the middle. To release the end fast to the post was only the work of a moment; the look of triumph on her face was enough to satisfy any one that she was conscious of her victory. As soon as she was released she gathered the line in a roll in her hands, and set out to explore the boat again.

Away in the interior of the Esyra country I arrived at a town in which there lived a fine strong chimpanzee about five years old; he was playing with the children in the open space between the houses, and appeared to take as much interest in the game as any one of them. When they discovered a white man in the town they all came to take a look, and he showed as much concern as any one else. After a time he came to me and climbed upon my lap; he became a little too familiar, and I had him taken away. Then he and the children resumed their play for a while, and in the mean time I inquired into his history. He was captured in the forest near the town when he was a little babe, and had lived there ever since as one of the family. He ate and played with these children, slept in the same houses with them, and did not seem to realize that he was not a human being.

He belonged to one of the King's sons, who told me that the ape could talk, and that he could understand him. He entertained me with a number of feats that the animal had been taught to do. They were not mere tricks performed for amusement, but they were acts of usefulness. In fact, he was made to occupy somewhat the place of a servant.

One of the things that he required him to do, by way of entertaining me, was to go to the spring and bring a gourd of water. He was reluctant to do this, but he did it. As soon as he delivered the water to his master he ran away and joined the children in their play. I expressed a desire to see him fill the gourd with water, and his master called him again, gave him the vessel, and we went with him. He dipped the gourd in the water with the mouth downward, and having submerged it, turned it on its side, and lifted it up. There was only a little water in the gourd; he repeated this act a number of times until the gourd was almost filled; his master said that as long as the water continued to bubble at the mouth of the gourd the ape would continue to dip it in, showing that he was aware of the cause of the bubbling.

This ape knew all the people of the town by name, and knew his own name; he was required to aid the children in bringing firewood from the forest, and many other chores about the town.

One of the most intelligent and quite the best educated chimpanzee that I have ever seen is Consul II. He is an inmate of the Bellevue Gardens at Manchester, England. He is the most humanlike in his manners of any of his kind that have ever been known in captivity. The many clever feats done by this ape would fill a small volume; he has not been trained to perform them as tricks, simply to amuse or entertain visitors, but many of them he has taken up of his own accord, having seen others do so. The feat that impressed me most was his skill in riding a tricycle, and his taste for that sport. He often takes his machine without being told, and rides all about the place; if he finds it lying on its side, he sets it upright, adjusts the handle-bar, mounts it, and takes a ride. He propels it with ease and guides it with dexterity. No boy of his own age can handle it with more skill. He rides all about the place, around the walks and drives, all over several acres of ground; he steers it around the posts and corners, around the curves of the paths, makes his way through crowds of people without colliding with them. He amuses himself by the hour at this pastime. When he tires of it he sometimes shoves the vehicle up in some corner and leaves it.

Consul also smokes cigar, cigarette, or pipe. He often finds a cigar stub about the place, picks it up, puts it in his mouth, and goes to his keeper for a light. One amusing habit he has is that of spitting; he is not very skilful in this, but is persistent. However, he has the politeness not to spit on the floor; he spreads a piece of paper on the floor, and uses it as a cuspidor.

Consul uses a handkerchief the same as a person does; he eats with a knife and fork, cuts up his food with ease, and never uses his fingers in eating; he can blow a horn, but does not attempt to carry any tune. He knows the first three letters of the alphabet, which he has painted on a set of blocks; when asked for any one of the three, he will select it and hold it up.

I regard the feats described above, except the last one, as being rational, and the result of the innate faculties of the actors. We are only beginning to understand the mental characteristics of animals, but our researches in that field are bearing abundant fruit, and we are now beginning to realize that all of these humbler creatures are component parts of the great scheme of life. When man becomes more fully impressed with the fact that all creatures think and feel in the same manner as himself, although not to the same degree, it will make the bonds of fellowship closer between him and nature.

THE CIRCUS IN THE COUNTRY.

BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.

Nearbye is a very small village, and a country village at that, for it is approached by wagon roads only, and the silence of the streets is never broken by the whistle of a locomotive, as the nearest railway is seven miles off. The shows that come to Nearbye are few and far between, and the people consider them such events that they mark epochs in the history of the town. As in other places an old inhabitant would speak of the year the war began, in Nearbye the people say, "The summer that _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ was played in the Shoemakers' Lot," or "The autumn that the negro minstrels came to town." Now these two shows were ten years apart, but every one remembers the earlier one perfectly, except the children, who have been born since the honest folk of Nearbye wept over the tribulations of Uncle Tom. And even these think they remember the theatrical performance under the tent in the Shoemakers' Lot. This self-deception is due to the fact that they have heard so much about the show that they have persuaded themselves that they saw it. But these two shows have been entirely eclipsed in glory within the past little while, for there was a circus in Nearbye a few weeks ago--a real circus, with a caged lion and tiger, with an elephant, a camel, and a giraffe, as the menagerie part, while there performed in the ring bare-back riders--both men and women--who cavorted around the ring right merrily, and jumped through paper-covered hoops as though they actually enjoyed that kind of thing. Barnum, in my opinion, did much to spoil the circus as we see it in the great cities. Three or four rings in which performances are going on at the same time are extremely bewildering, and few spectators can give such undivided attention to one ring as to keep entire track of all that goes on in it. After an evening at the one-ring circus in the country I am persuaded that I am right in my opinion, and that the old-fashioned circus has much greater power to please than "the greatest show on earth."

I was Miss Kitty's guest when the circus came to Nearbye, and this attention on her part was in recognition of the fact that I had taken her to the Barnum show at Madison Square Garden last spring. I consider that I have been amply repaid. But, really, the best part of the show was not under the circus tent. I doubt very much whether there was a small boy within four miles of Nearbye who slept a wink the night before the circus was to arrive. If any of them slept at all at night, it is very certain that none of them continued that sleep into the daylight, for long before the sun was up the roads leading to the village were dotted here and there with groups of hurrying and impatient youngsters hastening to the Shoemakers' Lot to welcome the arrival of the circus caravan, and to superintend the erection of the tent. Pretty nearly all the small boys in the township were on hand three hours before the first of the circus wagons came. The long wait had tried their patience sadly, and the gay tricks on each other with which they had beguiled the earlier time of waiting had either been exhausted because the country boy's repertoire of pranks is limited, or because their spirits had been stilled by anxiety. It was rather the spirits that had given out than the pranks, I fancy, for I saw evidence now and then of a gulped-down sigh and a half-concealed tear when John or Tom or Billy would reach the sad conclusion that the circus was not coming after all. But the first wagon drove up at half past eight, and by eleven all had arrived. The tent was pitched in short order, the ring was made, the side show was in full working order, and the circus people were as much at home as they ever get to be in their wandering lives.

The small boys were not the only persons attracted to Nearbye in the early hours--not by a jugful, as the average farmer in the Nearbye neighborhood would be apt to say if he were writing this article. People of both sexes and all ages, from the gray-haired great-grandmother to the infant in the arms, came or were brought, as each case required, until there was not a vacant fence post eligible for a hitching-place within half a mile of the circus tent. If half a dozen holidays could have been combined into one, not one-third so many people would have been attracted to Nearbye as were brought by this little circus. Some city people who had gone to Nearbye for their summer vacations put on airs about the show, and laughed at the enthusiastic excitement of the country folk. Miss Kitty observed this in two young men who had been made welcome on the tennis-court at her father's place, and flushed with shame that she should know, even ever so slightly, persons of such affected pretension. She shook her curly little head and whispered to me: "We ought not to know them; they can't be gentlemen." Dear little soul, I dare say she was right. We ought not to have known them, and probably they were not gentlemen; but she will learn, when she gets to be a grown woman, that if she confines her acquaintance only to real ladies and real gentlemen--that is, to men and women who never put on airs and never inconsiderately assume to be better than they are, and who never scoff at simplicity--she will have a very narrow circle, and will know fewer people than almost anybody in the world. But few of the country people cared for the rudeness that Miss Kitty resented. They did not even notice it. They had come to Nearbye to have a good time and to see the sights, all unconscious that they furnished amusement to any one.

As a rule they brought their dinners with them, and at twelve o'clock they attacked baskets and pails for the good things in them. Eating, with hard-working people, whether of the city or country, is not a time of conviviality. They eat because they are hungry, and they get through with the business as quickly and unceremoniously as possible. The dinner hour, therefore, on this day of the circus did not as a rule last more than ten minutes. There was another long wait of nearly two hours. But this wait was relieved somewhat, for every now and then the old lion roared portentously, and filled the souls of the youngsters with delightful apprehension. At one o'clock the slit in the tent, by courtesy called a door, was opened, and the people filed in. By half past one nearly every seat was filled, and the show might have begun then without disappointment to any, for there was no one else to come. All were there save the bedridden; even the two blind people in the township had come to hear, though they could not see.

Of course the show began with what I believe they called in the programme the Grand Entrée. And of course every one who has ever been to a circus will recall how the ladies and gentlemen of the company come into the ring on horseback, and ride round and round with distinguished courtesy towards each other and towards the audience, and then ride out again. This recalls to those who have heard of such a time the days of chivalry, and some others see in the men and women in the sawdust-covered ring the heroes of their story-books. Miss Kitty had just been reading Charles and Mary Lamb's _Tales from Shakespeare_, and one of the ladies suggested to her the fair Rosalind, while the gentleman who cantered by her side seemed very like the bold Orlando.

When this act was over, we were treated to performances by acrobats and gymnasts, and each one seemed more wonderful than any of the rest. Each tumbler, each jumper, each contortionist, each trapeze-swinger, each tight-rope walker was enthusiastically applauded, and the feats of all were regarded by the appreciative audience as entirely wonderful. This must have been very gratifying to the actors. But what pleased best were the acts where horses took part. Country people know about horses, and have opinions of those who ride and drive them. The young lady who rode two bare-back horses at once, now with a foot on each horse and now riding one and driving the other, easily bore off the palm. When she ran by the side of one of her steeds, as he cantered round the ring, and vaulted to his back without touching either mane or rein, and landed squarely upon her little feet, and then stood upright, the audience was so filled with wonder and admiration that there was a pause before the applause began. This evidently excited more wonder and admiration than anything else--more indeed than the bespangled woman who confidingly put her head in the lion's mouth, more than the other one who permitted the elephant to walk over her and then to pick her up with his trunk. But that which diverted the audience most of all was the trick mule--the mule so resourceful of pranks that he threw all the boldest riders among the ambitious youth of Nearbye. When Mike, the young man who is both hostler and barkeeper at the White Horse Tavern, wrapped his legs round the mule's neck and caught hold with both hands of the little fellow's slippery tail the people in the circus tent nearly went wild with delight. It was a hard tussle between Mike and the mule, but the latter rolled over on Mike, who let go, and scampered out of the ring defeated, and terrified lest the mule should kick him.

The two city young men before mentioned sat near us at the performance. They were mightily tickled at Mike's discomfiture. Miss Kitty had not noticed them since expressing a doubt whether they were proper acquaintances. What was my surprise now to hear her speak to one of them, "You try it, Mr. Simpkins," she said; "I am sure you could ride that poor little mule." Mr. Simpkins declined in a way which implied that Miss Kitty was right, that he could ride the mule if he chose. Miss Kitty was evidently disappointed, and I am very much afraid that instead of being sure that Mr. Simpkins could ride the mule, she was very sure he could not. I have never spoken to her about her effort to entice Mr. Simpkins to make himself ridiculous, because I was not at all sure that she was not wrong thus to try to get revenge on one who had made merry at the expense of the simple and honest people who were her friends and neighbors. But even though the feeling was a very wrong one it was very human, and I shared in it myself.

For a week after the circus, Nearbye was more deserted than I have ever known it before. The next Sunday comparatively few people came to church. The circus had been too much for them. They had to stay at home to recover from the excitement of so unusual an entertainment. If the merry clown should ever care to retire from the sawdust ring, and should choose Nearbye as a home, I am sure the people would make him right welcome; and if he wanted an office, I am certain that he could have the pick, and be either constable or justice of the peace, whichever suited him the better. The storekeepers of Nearbye for a fortnight after the circus had gone could not make change for a bill, as the circus treasurer had taken away with him pretty nearly all the silver coins in the township. This circus will doubtless be talked of in Nearbye when many of the barelegged boys who came at daylight to see it have grandsons eager in their turn for the passing shows, and when Miss Kitty has taken to spectacles and caps, and prefers a cozy corner within-doors to the breezy piazza or the hammock beneath the apple-trees.

Many stories are told of actors and musicians who give tickets to their washwomen, their boot-makers, or to others who cannot afford to pay to hear the great ones with whom their trades may have brought them into contact. Seldom, however, do we hear an anecdote with a twist to it like this one concerning Paganini, and so it is possibly worth telling. One of his biographers is responsible for it, but he prefaces the story with the explanation that the great violinist was a most eccentric man, and although as a rule very generous, he was also at times guilty of petty meannesses. This was one of those times. He was to perform in a concert, for which the price of seats was very high. His washwoman had been bemoaning the fate which made her unable to afford to be present. Finally Paganini wrote out an order for a seat in the top gallery, and handed it to her. She thanked him effusively, and boasted to her friends of the present she had got. Great was her surprise, therefore, when she presented her bill for his laundry at the end of the week to have Paganini request her to deduct from the amount of his indebtedness the price of the ticket he had given her to the concert.

ALL SEASONS.

I love to play in winter-time,
When all the earth is white with snow,
When down the gleaming shining hill
My long red sled can go.

I love to play in summer-time,
When in the pond beneath the trees
My pretty ship, with sails puffed out,
Goes skimming in the breeze.

MARIE L. VAN VORST.

A RUN FROM AN "INDIAN DEVIL."

BY TAPPAN ADNEY.

Two generations have passed away from Tobique since the first settlers came, yet so little has man encroached upon the wild domain that the gaunt moose often stops and lingers with the friendly cattle, the shaggy bear as the spring comes round levies tribute on the defenceless flocks, while the balsam smells as sweet, and the crinkle of the crisp snow beneath the moccasined foot is still as pleasant music as of old. The woods seem changed but little; boys have turned men, the men have turned gray, and just a little more moss lies on the fallen tree-trunks. Yet the same change has passed over Tobique as has passed over all the backwoods of Maine and Canada. The dreaded panther, or "Indian devil," as it is known, seldom troubles one now, or startles the forest with its awful cry--so human, so bloodcurdling, that its very mention sends a thrill through one's body.

The dangers of the woods are exaggerated. No living thing is match for a man, and every creature among predatory beasts shuns the society of man. There are exceptions, as there are seasons when our black bear should not be provoked. So in the experience of every woodsman there have been times when the rule has been broken, and it is the man that has been hunted.

Raish Turner, now a man of some fifty years of age, still lives at the Red Rapids, on Tobique. I have stopped at his hospitable dwelling--back a ways from the river, on the slope of the hill, near the timber. There was still the old, low cow-shed alongside the barn, and I have been with him along the old wood road directly back of his place that was the scene of an exciting adventure of his.

Raish, still called "Raish," as when he was a boy of sixteen and hauled wood with oxen, has not forgotten the story, nor yet the long white scar above his temple that he will carry to his grave.

The story is known to every one on Tobique, but it needs to be heard from Raish himself, the sturdy, kindly old back-woodsman, with homespuns in boot-tops, knife sheathed at his belt, and generally an axe over his shoulder.

In the fall of one year, thirty-four years ago, about first fall, two hunters came out of the woods from Pokiok stream, which lay some five miles back of Red Rapids. They came with rather more speed than is customary with those who travel solely for pleasure. Their story, of which they sought to conceal nothing, and which was listened to the more gravely because of their reputation as brave men, was that in the night something had come around the camp, which was an open shelter with a fire in front. The growling of their dog awakened them.

They listened, peering into the darkness, and as they listened they heard a cry. It was not an owl, nor any wild-cat. It seemed at first afar off, not loud, like a child in awful distress, and it affected them strangely. Their dog began to tremble, and show fear that he had never shown before, even before a bear. The hunters jumped to their feet, kindled the fire, which threw a ruddy glare all around.

The thing, which they knew perfectly well, came nearer, uttering now and then that awful cry. They sat with their guns on their knees, speaking in whispers; but it did not attack them, and when daylight came it withdrew. When the sun rose they broke camp and made for the settlement.

Small wonder, then, that there was a stir in the settlement, for the men were known to be bold, fearless hunters, and, moreover, this was the first panther that had come near enough to bother them, for whatever the men in the timber-camps might have to tell, such things did not greatly trouble the settlers along the river.