Chapter II (2)

He had trapped for fur-bearing animals on the North Shores; he had twice fought the rebels at the Red River; he had freighted many and many a "prairie schooner" from the Assiniboine to the Saskatchewan; and then, one glorious morning in July, when the hot yellow sun poured its wealth of heat and light into the velvety plains of Alberta, Maurice descried at the very edge of the western horizon a far-off speck of shining white, apparently not larger than a single lump of sugar. As day followed day, and he traversed mile upon mile, more sugar lumps were visible; and, below their whiteness, the grayish distances grew into mountain shapes. Then he realized that at last he beheld the inimitable glory of the Rockies that swept in snow-tipped grandeur from south to north.

Then followed the years when he, his wife and a little Maurice lived in the fastnesses of those mighty ranges; when he learned to know and follow the trail of the mountain goat; when the rugged passes grew familiar to him as the little village where he had been born in Quebec; when the countless forests of Douglas fir held no mysteries and no fears for him; and, because he had learned these things, because he was brave and courageous, because his life had been clean and honest, he was selected to carry His Majesty's mails from a primitive "landing" on one of the Kootenay Lakes to the great gold mines, forty miles into the interior, and over one of the wildest, loneliest mountain trails in all British Columbia.

Then it was that, once a month, when the mail came in by the tiny steamer, Maurice Delorme would harness up his six tough little mountain-climbing horses, put on his cartridge belt, tuck a formidable revolver into his hip pocket and a good gun beneath the seat of the wagon, toss in the bags of mail and the express packages, say a laughing good-bye to Mrs. Delorme and little Maurice, and "hit the trail" for the gold mines. How he hated to leave those two helpless ones alone in the vast, uninhabited surroundings! But Mrs. Delorme had the fearless courage and self-reliance of the women of the North, and little Maurice was yearly growing, growing, growing. Now he was ten, now twelve, now fourteen--a sturdy young mountaineer, with the sinews of an athlete, and a store of learning, not from books, for he had never known a school, but from the simple teaching of his parents and the unlimited knowledge of woodcraft, of the habits of wild things, of mountain peaks, of plants, of animals, insects and birds, and of the incessant hunt for food that must always be when one lives beyond the pale of civilized markets.

* * * * * * * *

And then one day, when little Maurice was about fifteen years old, his father staggered into their pretty log home, bleeding, crushed and dazed. The fate of the mountaineer had met him, for, during one of those sudden tempests that sweep through the canyons, a wind-riven tree had hurled its length down across the trail, its rotting heart and decaying branches falling--providentially with broken force--sparing the galloping horses and only injuring the driver--for how he escaped death was beyond human explanation.

Little Maurice was then the man of the house. He helped his brave mother dress the sufferer's wounds, he cared for the horses, he provided wood and water, going about whistling softly to himself and trying to shut his eyes to the fact that the food was growing less and less daily, and that the mail day was drawing nearer and nearer. Of course the steamer would bring flour and bacon and tea but it would also bring the mail and express to be transported to the gold mines. His father would never be well enough to drive the mails up that jagged mountain trail; and, worse than that, his father must have fresh meat broth at once. Little Maurice went into the sick-room, and standing beside the bed looked carefully into the face of old Maurice. The eyes were feverish, the forehead puckered with pain, the hands hot and growing thin. Then he turned away, followed his mother outside, and, after a brief talk with her, he reached up for his father's gun, took the stock of ammunition and dry biscuits, whistled for his dog, and, a moment later, was swallowed up in the forest.

The long day slipped by; hour after hour Mrs. Delorme would go to the door, shade her eyes with her hand, and look keenly up the mountain slopes, with their wilderness of pines. Once she saw a faint, blue puff of smoke, and her quick ear caught the sharp crack of a far-off rifle. Then all was silent for hours. The warm September sun had dropped behind the western peaks, and the canyons were purpling with oncoming twilight, when two quick successive shots broke the evening stillness, and echoed like a salute of twenty-one guns far down the valley. Mrs. Delorme ran once again to the door. The shots could not have been five hundred yards distant, for down through the firs came Royal, the magnificent hound, whining and grinning and licking his mouth with delight, and, behind him, Maurice, shouting that he had killed a deer, and was hungry enough to eat half of it himself.

"And, mother," he cried, "I could have got the game at noon to-day, but Royal and I have been hours and hours closing in on him, getting him into the runway, so that, when I did drop him, it would be near home, for I could never pack his carcass all that way. He must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds. Oh, but he's a fat one. And here are some mountain grouse Roy and I got. Daddy will have all the broth he can drink, and you and old Roy here and I will have some venison steaks for supper!"

So, breathless and proud and excited, Maurice chattered on, preparing a huge knife to quarter the deer, the more easily to pack it home.

There was great rejoicing in the log shack that night. Old Maurice swallowed his bowl of hot grouse soup with relish, and clasped his son's hand with the firm grip one man gives to another. The anxious lines left Mrs. Delorme's face, as she laughed and praised young Maurice's prowess as a bread-winner. Royal stretched his long, lithe legs, yawning audibly with weariness and content as he lay beside the stove sniffing the appetizing smells of broiling steaks, knowing well his share would be generous after his long and faithful hunt and obedience to his young master. And so the little mountain home was well supplied with fresh meat, hot soups, smoked venison hams and dried flitches, until the day of fresh supplies, when the primitive steamer tooted its shrill whistle far down the lake, and Mrs. Delorme, young Maurice and Royal all went down to greet the first fellow-beings they had seen for a month, and to receive and care for seven bags of His Majesty's mails, bound for the distant gold mines.

"Why seven bags?" asked Mrs. Delorme of the captain. "We never get more than six."

"The extra is a large consignment of registered mail, madam," he replied. "Big money for the mines, they tell me. You want to keep an eye on that extra bag. Old Maurice doesn't want to lose that."

Then he was told the story of the old driver's accident, and forthwith climbed the steep trail from the landing to the shack to see how things really were. He saw at a glance that Delorme would not be about for some weeks to come; so, after an encouraging word and a kindly good-bye, the captain turned, as he left the door, and, slapping young Maurice on the shoulder in his bluff, hearty way, said:

"Well, kid, I guess you'll have to carry the mails this time. Start good and early to-morrow. I'm a day late bringing them, as it is. The managers of the mines are not the waiting sort, and there's money--money that they need--in that extra bag. Better take a gun with you, boy, and keep a sharp lookout for that registered stuff--mind!"

"Yes, captain," answered young Maurice, very quietly. "I'll land the mail at the mines all right."

And, a few minutes later, the departing whistle of the little steamer was heard far down the lake, as night fell softly and silently on the solitary little mountain home of the Delormes.

* * * * * * * *

In the grey dawn of the next morning Maurice was astir, his horses were being well fed, his mail bags packed securely, his gun looked over sharply. Then came the savory smells of bacon and toast for breakfast, the hurried good-byes, the long, persistent whistle for Royal, the deer hound, his constant chum in all things, then the whizzing crack of the young driver's "blacksnake" whip, a bunching together of the four horses' sturdy little hoofs, a spring forward, and the "mountain mail" was away--away up the yawning canyon, where the peaks lifted on every side, where the black forests crowded out the glorious sunrise, away up the wild gorge, where human foot rarely fell and only the wild things prowled from starlight to daylight the long years through; where the trail wound up and up the steeps, losing itself in the clouds which hung like great festoons of cobwebs half-high against the snow line. In all that vast world Maurice drove on utterly alone, save for the pleasant companionship of his four galloping horses and the cheering presence of Royal, who panted at the rear wheels of the mail coach, and wagged his tail in a frenzy of delight whenever his human friend spoke to him. The climb was so precipitous that it was hours before he could reach the summit, and he was yet some miles from being half way when his well-trained eye caught indications of coming disaster. A thousand trivial things announced that a mountain storm was brewing; the clouds trailed themselves into long, leaden ribbons, then swirled in circles like whirlpools. The huge Douglas firs began to murmur, then whisper, then growl. The sky grew thick and reddish, the gleaming, snow-clad peaks disappeared.

Maurice took in the situation at once. With the instinct of a veteran mail carrier, his first care was to roll his mail bags in a rubber sheet, while the registered sack, doubly protected, he never allowed for a moment to leave its station beneath his knees under the seat. These simple precautions were barely completed before the storm was upon him. A blinding flash set his horses on edge, their sensitive nerves quivering in every flank. Maurice gathered the lines firmly, seized his "blacksnake," and, with a low whistle, urged his animals, that bounded forward, snorting with fear as a crack of thunder followed, booming down the gorges with deafening echoes. In another moment the whole forest seemed alive. The giant pines whipped and swayed together, their supple tips bending and beaten with the fury of the tempest. Above the wild voices of the hurricane came the frequent crash of falling timber; but, through it all, the boy drove on without thought of himself or of shelter, and through it all the splendid animals kept the trail, responding as only the horse can respond to the touch of a guiding rein or the sound of the mountaineer's whistle. But the end came for Maurice, when, upon rounding an abrupt steep, his four animals reared in terror, then seemed to crouch back upon their haunches. The rude log bridge they should have dashed across was gone--in its place gaped a huge fissure, its throat choked with wreckage of trestle and planking.

The unexpected halt nearly pitched Maurice from the wagon, but he steadied first his nerve, then his hands, then his eyes. Why had the bridge gone down, was his first thought. The storm was of far too brief duration to have done the mischief. Then those keen young eyes of his saw beyond the tempest and the ruined bridge. They saw about the useless supports and wooden props fresh chips from a recent axe. In a second his brain grasped the fact that the bridge had been cut away on purpose. His thoughts flew forward--for what purpose was it destroyed? Like a dream seemed to come the captain's voice in his ears: "Better take a gun with you, boy, and keep a sharp lookout for that registered stuff--mind!" And he heard himself reply, "I'll land the mail at the mines all right."

"And I'll do it, too!" he said, aloud. Then, above the hoarse voices of the storm, he heard a low, long, penetrating whistle. Quick as a flash the boy realized his position. He snatched the registered mail bag from between his knees. "Royal! Royal! Good dog!" he called, softly, and the poor, wet, storm-beaten creature came instantly, reaching pathetically toward his young master, his forefeet pawing the wagon wheels, his fine, keen nose sniffing at the mail sack outheld by Maurice.

"Royal, you must watch!" said the boy. "Watch, Royal, watch!" Then, with a strengthy fling of his arm, he hurled the precious bag of registered mail over the rim of the precipice, far down into the canyon, two hundred feet below. For an instant the dog stood rigid. Then, like the needle to the north, he turned, held his sensitive head high in the air for a moment, sniffed audibly and was gone. Then again came that low, long whistle. The horses' ears went erect, and Maurice sat silent, grasping the reins and peering ahead through the now lessening rain. But, with all his young courage, his heart weakened when a voice spoke directly behind him. It said:

"Who are you?"

He turned and faced three men, and, looking directly into the eyes of the roughest-seeming one of the trio, he replied, quietly:

"I think you know who I am."

"Humph! Cool, I must say!" answered the first speaker. "Well, perhaps we can warm you up a bit; but maybe you can save us some trouble by telling us where old Delorme is."

"At home," said Maurice.

"And you've brought the mall in place of Delorme, I suppose? Well, so much the better for us. I'll trouble you to hand me out that bag of registered stuff."

The man ceased speaking, his hand on the rim of the front wheel.

"I have no registered stuff," the boy answered, truthfully. "Just six common mail bags. Do you wish them? As I am only one boy against three men, I suppose there is not much use resisting." Maurice's lip curled in a half sneer, and his eyes never left the big bully's face.

"A lie won't work this time, young fellow!" the man threatened. "Boys, go through that wagon! go over every inch of it now; you'll find the stuff all right."

The other two men emptied the entire load into the trail, then turned and stared at their leader.

"This is a bluff! Rip open those bags!" he growled. And the next moment the contents of the six bags were sprawling in the mud. They contained nothing but ordinary letters and newspapers.

"Sold!" blurted out the man. "We might have known that any yarn 'Saturday Jim' told us would be a lie. He couldn't give a man a straight tip to save his life! Come on, boys! There's nothing doing this trip!" And, swinging about, he turned up an unbroken trail that opened on some hidden pass to the "front." His two pals followed at his heels, muttering sullenly over their ill success.

"No," said Maurice to himself. "You're quite right, gentlemen! There's nothing doing this trip!" But, aloud, he only spoke gently to his wearied horses as he unhitched and secured them to the rear of the wagon, gathered the scattered mail, and then scanned the sky narrowly. The storm was over, but the firs still thrashed their tops in the wind, the clouds still trailed and circled about the mountain summit. For a full hour Maurice sat quietly and thought things. What was to be done? The bridge was gone, the registered mail at the bottom of the canyon, and the day growing shorter every moment. Only one course lay before him. (He would not consider, even for a second, that any way lay open to him behind.) He must get that mail to the mines, or he could never look his father in the face again. He walked cautiously to the brink of the precipice and looked over. It was very steep. Nothing was visible but broken rock, boulders and bracken. No sign of either Royal or the mail bag; but he knew that somewhere, far below, the dog was keeping watch; that his four wise, steady feet had unerringly taken him where his animal instinct had dictated; and Maurice argued that, where his four feet could go, his two could follow. He must recover the bag, select his fleetest horse, and ride bareback on to the mines.

The descent was a long, rough, dangerous business, but Maurice had learned many a climbing trick from the habits of the mountain goat, and at last he stood at the canyon's bottom, a tired, lonely but courageous bit of boyhood, ready to suffer and dare anything so long as he could prove himself worthy of the trust that his father had placed in his strong young hands.

He stood for a moment, awed by the wonder of the granite walls that rose like a vast fortress, towering above him, silent and motionless. Then he gave one clear whistle, then listened. Almost within stone's throw came the response the half-sad, wholly eager whine of a dog. Maurice was beside him in a twinkling, patting and hugging the beautiful animal, who lay, with shining eyes and wagging tail, his forepaws resting on the coarse canvas which bore, woven redly into its warp and woof, the two words: "Canada Mail."

What a meeting it was! Boy and dog, each with a worthy trust, worthily kept. But it was one, two, three hours before Maurice, footsore, exhausted, and with bleeding fingers, followed by Royal, panting and thirsty, regained the trail where the horses stood, ready for the onward gallop, three of them failing to understand why they were to be left in the lonely forest, while the fourth was quickly bridled, packed with the mail sacks and Maurice, and told to "be careful now!" as he picked his way down and around the bridgeless gorge and "hit the trail" on the opposite side.

It was very late that night when the men at the mines heard the even gallop of an approaching horse. Many of the miners had gone to bed grumbling and threatening when no mail had arrived and no wages were paid. The manager and his assistants were still up, however, perplexed and worried that, for the first time, old Maurice Delorme had failed to reach the camp with the company's money bags. But up the rough makeshift of a road came those galloping hoofs, halting before the primitive post office, while the crowd gathered and welcomed a strange trio. The manager himself lifted poor, stiff, tired "Little" Maurice from the back of an equally stiff, tired mountain pony, while a hot, hungry hound whined about, trying to tell the whole story in his wonderful dog fashion; but, when they did hear the real story from Maurice, there was a momentary silence, then a rough old miner fairly shouted, "Well, by the Great Horn Spoon, he's old Maurice Delorme's son all right!" Then came--cheers!

The Whistling Swans

For several evenings early in October the North Street boys had been gathering at Benson's to try and organize a club, but the difficulty seemed to be to decide upon what kind of a club would be most interesting. The ball season would soon be over, the long winter would soon be on them, and things wore a pretty flat outlook, unless they could arrange some interesting diversion for that string of dull days, only broken by Christmas holidays. The West Ward fellows had a Checker Club, the Third Form fellows had a Puzzle Club, the Collegiates had a Canadian Literature Club; even the Mill boys down on the Flats had a Captain Kidd Club, proving themselves at times bandits quite worthy the club's name. Only the North Street boys seemed "out of it," but from the way they talked and shouted and wrangled at these preliminary meetings it looked as if they certainly intended to "come in" out of their isolation. But there had been five meetings without any decision having been arrived at. Every boy of the ten present seemed to want a different sort of club. The things that were suggested would have amazed the members of the various other clubs could they have heard them.

Then, one night when the din and confusion were at fever heat, the door suddenly opened and in walked Benson's father.

"Why, what's all this babel?" he exclaimed, as silence fell on the crowd and the boys got to their feet meekly to greet him with polite "good-evenings." "I never heard such a parrot-and-monkey, Kilkenny-cat outfit in all my life! What's up, fellows?"

Benson's father was generally acknowledged to be a "comedian." No one ever saw him in a temper, or heard him speak a sharp word. He had a droll, woebegone face that never smiled, but a face everybody--from the mayor to the poorest mill hand--loved and respected. How often Benson had come in from school, ill-tempered and sour-visaged at something that had gone wrong in the class-room, only to have that droll face of his father's and some equally droll remark upset all his dignity and indignation into laughter and consequent good nature.

"One at a time, boys, just one at a time, or I shall have bustificated eardrums! What is it all about?"

Then they told him, but, it must be confessed, not one at a time.

"A club, eh?" he questioned, straddling a chair and leaning his arms on the back. "What kind of a club, pleasure club, improvement club, sporting club, what?"

"That's the trouble; we can't hit on it!" they chorused.

For a moment he sat silent, his round, childish eyes surveying the world that hung on his very first words.

"I saw a queer thing as I came up the street to-night", he began, seemingly having forgotten the subject in hand. "A dray-horse was standing before the mill gates, and frisking about its heels was a dandy little cocker spaniel, prettiest little dog you ever saw. The horse got tired leaning on one leg, I guess, for he shifted his position, and, in bringing down his left hind leg, he just pinned the little cocker's foot to the ground with his big hoof. Cocker yelled. Worst row I ever heard--until I came into this room. But what do you suppose Mr. Horse did? Just lifted gently his left fore-hoof, but the squealing did not stop. Then he lifted his right fore-hoof; still the squealing went on. 'Thinks I,' said the horse to himself, 'it must be my right hind-hoof,' so he lifted that. 'No, sir,' he told himself; 'sure, it's my left-hinder'; and lifting that, he released the poor dog, who dashed around to the horse's head, leaping up to his nose, and saying, 'Thank you!' over and over.* And the big, clumsy dray-horse just drew his long face a little longer, and said: 'Never mind, old chap! I didn't mean to hurt you; I'm sorry.' Then came the drayman out of the mill--a nice, considerate, heart-warm, intelligent human being. Oh, yes! we humans know so much more than animals, don't we, fellows? And because the big, patient, kindly dray-horse had, in its restlessness, moved twenty feet from the spot the driver left him at, that creature that is supposed to have known better, just took his whip and licked and lashed that glorious animal, yelling in a frenzy of temper, 'I'll teach you to move, when I leave you! You--' Well, boys, you nor I don't care to hear all he did say."

[*Fact observed by the writer's brother.]

"The brute!" "The big human hulk!" "The sneak!" "And he called himself a man!" were some of the phrases growled out by the indignant boys.

"Yes, a man," continued Benson's father, "_so_ much better than the dray-horse, that knew enough to lift his feet until he lifted the right one. I believe if that horse had the feet of a centipede, he would have gone on lifting them until the dog was released. I tell you, boys, if I could get anyone to help me, I'd start an Animal Rescue Club, to--"

But the good gentleman never finished that sentence. The boys were on top of him, round him, under him, clamoring and shouting for him to organize their club for them, to help them study the habits and ways and "thoughts" of animals, to prevent abuse and cruelty towards them. They voted him in as honorary president, and went home that night the happiest-hearted lot of boys in the country. Just before they dispersed, however, a shy little chap named Jimmy Duffy, who had not much opportunity to speak amid the noise of stronger voices, said:

"But, Mr. Benson, you _do_ think the dray-horse thought and reasoned, don't you?"

"Surely he did, boy! And he spoke, too, in his own simple horse-language, though we cannot understand his tongue; but we should," answered Benson's father.

It was not very long before the "Animal Rescue Club" of North Street became known far and wide, and its influence began to be felt in all quarters. The unfeeling drayman whose act of cruelty first gave rise to the organization was watched, then reported to police headquarters, from where he received a sound lecture because of various other ill-treatments of his horse, and after a time he began to see his own unkindness through the same spectacles as the "Animal Rescuers" viewed it, and within two months he became a considerate, gentle driver.

"If the club never does another thing but reform that one man, and make him kinder to that big, good-hearted horse of his, it has been organized for some purpose," commented Mr. Benson, one evening, when he "dropped in" to one of the meetings. "Keep it up, fellows. Our little four-footed animals serve us well, and deserve consideration in return." And the boys worked hard and faithfully to follow his advice. Homeless cats, stray, mangy dogs, ill-fed horses, neglected cows, street sparrows, pigeons, bluejays, were watched and protected and relieved of their sufferings all that winter through. Finally Benson's father arranged his evenings so that he could spend an hour with the club at each meeting, which time he devoted to "lecturing" on the habits and haunts of animals and birds. Those lectures were the delight of all, for this happy-hearted, boyish man would, in some marvellous fashion, discover all the humorous habits and comical dispositions and actions of every living thing. The little wiry-haired Irish terrier was a comedian, he declared. The bull-moose was a tragedian, the black bear cub was a clown, the lynx a villain, and the migrating birds a sweet, invisible chorus. Then to each and all he would attach some fascinating story, explaining why they resembled these characters. Often the entire club would be roaring with laughter over animal antics and bird capers, then the young faces would be very serious the next minute over some pathetic, heartbreaking tale of hunted deer-mothers trying to protect their pretty fawns, or some father fox lying dead because a swift bullet had caught him as he raided the poultry yard in the endeavor to seize food for the pretty litter of sharp-nosed little cubs, curled up with their mother in a distant cave.

So the boys listened and learned and laughed, and, as spring crept up the calendar, their only regret at the return of the ball season was that the club meetings would be over until next autumn.

* * * * * * * *

It was late in April when little Jimmy Duffy's father was called to Buffalo on business. The night before leaving, he said: "It's most annoying! Here I have to go all that way for just about one hour's talk with a man; an entire day wasted for the sake of one hour, or--hold on, let's see, Jimmy. You have never seen Niagara Falls, have you?"

"No, dad," answered Jimmy, his face eager with hope.

"Then you be ready to come with me to-morrow. I'll get through my business by noon, and you and I will just 'do' the Falls until dark, and get home on the late train. How does that strike you?"

But Jimmy was speechless with delight. For years he had longed to see Niagara, but there was a number of older brothers and sisters, and Jimmy's turn never seemed to have come until to-day. But the treat was here at last. A whole day along with his big dad, prowling about Niagara Falls, feasting his eyes upon its wonders, listening to its everlasting roar as it plunges over the heights! Jimmy did not sleep very much that night, and, long before train time, he was up, dressed in his best suit, even got himself a fresh pocket-handkerchief, scrambled through breakfast, then sat fidgeting on the front doorstep, while his father took a leisurely meal, glanced calmly at his watch occasionally, then, pushing back his chair, stepped briskly into the hall, glanced at the weather, got his light coat and hat, said good-bye to Mrs. Duffy, and called out "Now, then, Jimmy!" But Jimmy was already at the gate, having kissed his mother good-bye almost an hour before, and presently they were swinging up to the station at a good gait, Mr. Duffy silent, thoughtful, engrossed in his coming business engagement, Jimmy dancing, whistling, strung up with excitement that bade fair to continue throughout the day.

It took three hours to reach Buffalo. Then poor Jimmy had to sit in a stuffy outer office while his father and "the man" talked on the other side of a glass door. Jimmy thought they would never stop, but in exactly one hour the door opened, and he heard "the man" say:

"Now, Mr. Duffy, will you come to my club and we will have luncheon together?"

"Not to-day, thanks, Mr. Brown. I have my small boy with me, and we're off for the Falls. Jimmy's never seen them yet."

"Well, well!" answered Mr. Brown. "That's nice! Going to be a boy again yourself, eh, Duffy? Well, have a good time, and good luck to you both!" And the glass door closed.

His business ended, Jimmy's father seemed another person. He chatted and talked and laughed with his son, ordered a splendid luncheon for them both, swung aboard the train, and by two o'clock they were standing on the very edge of the precipice, with the glorious Falls of Niagara thundering into the basin at their feet. The column of filmy mist, the gorgeous rainbows, the stupendous cataract, leaping and snarling like a million wolves--it whirled about Jimmy's brain like a wild dream of No Man's Land, and he walked beside his father in a daze of delight. They prowled through the islands, crossed the cobwebby bridges from rock to rock above the Falls, and finally sprawled on a bald ledge of stone that jutted far out into the turbulent river.

"We'll just rest here a few minutes, James," said his father, playfully. "Then we must go below the Falls and explore the ice-bridge. I see it is yet in perfect condition. You are fortunate, my boy, to be able to see it. There are some winters that never bring an ice-bridge. Then sometimes it thaws in March, so we are lucky to-day."

About them tossed and tumbled the angry rapids, wrangling and brawling around their granite shores, but, above their conflicting noises arose a far, clear, musical sound, like a hundred throats and lips that whistled in unison.

"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Duffy, sitting erect suddenly.

"I don't know," said the boy, scanning the tangled waters with his unpractised young eyes.

"There it is again, dad!" he cried. "It is whistling. A great company, somewhere, whistling!" Then, looking quickly skyward, he pointed excitedly upstream, "Look, look! Birds! They are birds! Great white ones, dad! What are they? There's the whistle again!"

Mr. Duffy shaded his eyes from the sun, and watched; for there, in the smooth waters above the rapids, were settling, one by one, a magnificent host of snow-white swans, their wearied bodies almost drooping into the river, their exhausted pinions dropping, nerveless and trailing, into the dark, deceptive stream, which lured them like a snare to its breast.

"Jimmy, Jimmy!" shouted Mr. Duffy, "they're swans, and they're dead played out! They're migrating north for the summer! I bet they've flown a thousand miles! See, boy, they're spent, dead beat!"

Jimmy fairly held his breath. The magnificent band of birds were slowly floating towards them. Now they could distinguish each regal body, feathered in dazzling white, each bill, scarlet as a July poppy, each gracefully lifted throat. But the majestic creatures floated swiftly and silently on, on, on!

"Father!" The boy's voice trembled huskily. "Oh, father, you don't think they are in any danger of going over, do you?" His begging, pleading tones revealed his own childish fears.

"Oh, _surely_ not!" answered Mr. Duffy, but his tone lacked confidence. Then, after a brief silence, he almost groaned: "Jimmy, they're done for! They don't see their danger, and they're too tired to rise if they do. Oh, boy, if we could save them!"

But Jimmy stood rigid, staring, his heart slowly breaking, breaking. Anyone could see now that the stately battalion was doomed. With utter unconsciousness they drifted on, exhausted with their far journey from the lagoons and marshes of Chesapeake Bay, where the torrid suns had driven them from their winter haunts, to wing their way to their summer home in the far, white North.

"Oh, Jimmy, the pity of it!" murmured Mr. Duffy. But the boy stood wordless, as the irresistible giant current caught the trusting birds and swept them, with a hideous, overpowering force, to the very brink of the Horseshoe Fall. The boy, thrilling with the horror of it, shut his eyes, and flung himself, face downward, on the rocks. A strange, inarticulate moan left the man's lips. The boy lifted his head, lifted his eyes, but the river was empty.

They ran breathlessly across the cobwebby bridges, around Goat Island, then to the shore, then to the elevator, and descended to the ice-bridge; but, above the angry battle of Niagara, arose the plaintive, dying cries of scores of snow-white birds, the shouts of gathering sightseers. Against the ruthless edges of ice lay, bleeding and broken, what was left of that superb company homeward bound. Their poor, twisted legs, their crushed heads, their flattened bodies, their pitiful, dying struggles, would melt a heart of stone. No more those graceful throats would whistle through the April airs, beneath the early suns and the late morning stars. The sweet, wild chorus was stilled forever.

By the time Jimmy and his father arrived, crowds of people had descended with stones and sticks anything they could lay their hands on--and were beating the remaining spark of life out of the helpless birds, then seizing and quarrelling over the bodies, without one word of pity or regret for the dreadful catastrophe, so long as they could secure the coveted specimens of this rare migratory bird. Then Jimmy noticed that some few had actually escaped injury, but, before he could reach them, older and stronger people had rushed upon the terrified and weakened creatures, and were clubbing them to death.

"Stop it! stop it!" he shouted. "Those birds are not injured! Save them! Let them go!"

"Not if _I_ know it!" yelled back a huge fellow with the face of a greedy demon. "Why, these birds are worth twenty dollars apiece!" he blurted, "and I'm going to have every one of them."

Down, down, down, went one after another as they tried to rise and spread their magnificent wings, until only one remained. With the quickness of a cat, Jimmy flung his thin little body between the flopping victim and the upraised club.

"You strike that swan if you dare!" he cried, fiercely, glaring up at the would-be murderer with indignant eyes.

"Hello, bantam! You after twenty dollars, too?" sneered the man.

"No; I'm after this swan's life, and I'm going to have it!" growled the boy. "The bird is mine!"

"Yes, Jimmy," said his father, approaching sadly. "And it's the only one that has life. I have counted one hundred and sixteen, either dead or slain."*

[*It is a fact that occurred in April, 1908, that a company of one hundred and sixteen whistling swans were carried over Niagara Falls, and that the only one which escaped the weapons of destroyers was rescued by a little boy, and cared for exclusively by him.]

The boy took off his coat, wrapping it about the superb bird, then carried it carefully to the elevator, and, soon after reaching the summit of the shore, had it fed and tended, then gently crated for shipment home. The tired bird submitted without protest to being measured. From tip to tail it measured fifty-one inches, with the magnificent expansion of wing of eighty-one inches, the only survivor of that glorious white company that was whistling its way to the North. And it was the kindly, boyish hand of little Jimmy Duffy, youngest member of the "Animal Rescue Club," that had saved it from a crueller death than even old, heartless Niagara could have given it, and it was his hands that gently removed the bars of the crate in the Duffys' big backyard.

"There, you beautiful thing," he said, as he removed the last slat, "stay with us if you can, but go when and where you want. There are no prisons around here."

But the next morning the swan was still in the yard. The ducks talked to it, but its sad, wondering eyes and listless wings spoke louder than words of its weariness and woe. Scores of boys came to see it that day, and the evening brought Benson's father. After hearing the story all he could say was: "It's a good thing for me that I was not there. I'm a pretty big fellow, and can lick chaps that are even bigger than I am, and if I'd caught that brute killing those uninjured birds, I'd have thrown him into the Whirlpool Rapids, sure as you're born; I'd be in jail now, and probably get hanged in the autumn. Yes, taking it altogether, I'm glad I wasn't there!"

Of course, many of the townspeople were for having Jimmy confine the bird, or at least send it to a museum, or enclose it in a wire netting; but the boy replied:

"No, thanks. I have seen enough of them die, and I don't want my swan to die of a broken heart."

But the swan stayed on day after day, seemingly content and happy. Then there dawned a beautiful day in May. The sun shone hot and level on the little backyard. In the middle of the morning a clear, musical, distinct whistle brought Jimmy running to the side door. The swan's head was uplifted, its crimson beak pointing away from the sun. Presently it spread its regal wings and floated up, up, up. One more clear, lingering whistle, and it was away, while Jimmy watched it with eyes both dumbly sad and unspeakably glad, until it was but a radiant white speck sailing into the north, to search for others of its kind.

The Delaware Idol*

[*This tale is absolutely true. The writer's father was the boy who destroyed the Delaware idol, the head of which is at this time one of the treasures in the family collection of Indian relics and curios.]

Young "Wampum" sat listening to the two old hunters as they talked and chuckled, boasted and bragged, and smoked their curious stone pipes hour after hour. He was a splendid boy, this Wampum of the Mohawks, as quick and lithe as a lynx. His face was strikingly handsome, for it lacked the usual melancholy of the redman, having in its place a haughty, daring expression that gave it the appearance of extreme bravery, and even a dash of wild majesty. That he was a favorite with the older men of his tribe was generally acknowledged, for he was a magnificent hunter, an unerring shot, and, best of all, he could go without food for untold hours, always a thing to be very proud of among the Indian people. So the two old hunters told their stories and laughed over adventures with the same freedom as if the boy had not been present.

"Yes," said old "Fire-Flower," beginning his story, "that was the strangest bear hunt the Grand River ever saw. These white men think they can come here and kill game, but a bear knows more than a paleface, at least that one did."

"Fish-Carrier," the other hunter, nodded his head understandingly, refilled his stone pipe, and said tauntingly, "I know some Indians that don't know as much as a bear."

Fire-Flower chuckled, passing the insinuation with a knowing smile. "No bear knows more than _this_ Indian," he boasted. "At least no bear I ever came across could outwit me."

"We'll hear what you have to tell," answered Fish-Carrier, with great condescension.

Young Wampum sat erect then. He knew the tale was going to be a good one.

Teasingly, old Fire-Flower took an unnecessarily long time to "light up," but his two auditors were Indians, like himself, and had patience with his whims. Then the great hunter settled himself, and began his story by shaking his head, boastingly, and chuckling:

"It was two white men, and, as usual, they knew nothing, but they had good guns, and a fine canoe, and they paddled many days to get to the 'Indian Bush' to hunt. I was up there, across from the island in the river, when I first saw them, and their faces were paler than any paleface I ever saw before or since. It seems they had pulled up on the shore, built a little campfire to make their tea and to eat, when out of the bush arose a big black bear, gruffing and grunting and eating berries. When they saw it they gave a worse war-whoop than the Cherokees ever did. They reached for their guns, then started to shake and tremble as though the bush ague were upon them. 'He's chewing!' yelled one. 'He's chewing at us, he'll eat us alive.' But the other put on a face like a great brave. 'We'll kill him,' he said with great boasting. 'That's what we came for, to kill bears.' But just then the bear came towards them, still eating his berries. They were too scared to fire. One just struck him over the head with his gun, then they both turned and made for the canoe. The blow made the bear angry as the Thunder God, and before they could push off shore the bear got his claws on the edge of the canoe, and away they all went sailing into midstream, the palefaces paddling for all their lives, and the black bear clinging on to the canoe. In their fright they had left their guns ashore, and while one paddled, the other beat the bear's head with the paddle blade. It was then that I first saw them. I stood on the shore with a very sickness from laughter in all my bones." Here he ceased talking, for Fish-Carrier and Wampum had broken into such bursts of merriment that Fire-Flower was compelled to join them.

"Oh, that I could have seen them, that I could have seen it all!" moaned Fish-Carrier between gasps. "That must have been a thing to make men laugh for many moons." But Wampum said nothing; it was not the etiquette of his race that he should join in the talk of older men, unasked, but he, too, gulped down his uproarious laughter while Fire-Flower proceeded.

"The black bear was getting the best of them, for the beating on the head maddened him. He began to climb up the edge of the canoe, and his great weight was beginning to overbalance it. I called to them, but as I do not speak the white man's language, they did not understand. Fear gripped at their hearts, and, as the bear climbed into the canoe, they leaped into the river and swam for shore, while the canoe drifted slowly down stream, the big black bear seated proudly within it like some great brave who had scalped his enemies."

Another outburst of mirth shook his listeners.

"I am an old man," continued Fire-Flower, "but I have never seen anything which made me laugh so hard, so long, so loud. The palefaces swam back to their camp and their guns, calling out to me over and over to save their canoe for them. So I put out in my own dugout and gave chase. I caught their canoe, overturned it, and into the water rolled the bear. Then as he came at me, catching my canoe in his big claws, I just drowned him the old Indian way."*

[*The above incident really occurred on the Grand River, about the year 1850, the writer's father having witnessed it.]

More laughter greeted this. Then young Wampum made bold to speak. "My uncle," he addressed Fire-Flower, "I am but a boy, only beginning to hunt, though the great braves have been kind in giving me praise for what I have done already, but I am full of ignorance when compared to you and the great hunters; so, to help me in the days to come, will you not tell me how you drowned the bear, for I do not know all these things?"

"A fine boy, Wampum is. He knows whom to ask advice and learning from," said Fire-Flower pompously, greatly pleased at the boy's flattery. "It is an easy thing to do, to drown a bear," he said. "The frailest canoe is safe even in the clutches of the fiercest. Just lay your paddle lightly across the bear's neck, back of his ears. He will at once catch at it each side with his claws, and he will pull, pull his own head under water. The more he struggles the deeper he sinks."

"Yes, that is the Indian fashion of killing a bear in midstream," echoed Fish-Carrier, "and it is a great thing for a hunter to know."

"Thank you for telling me," said the boy, rising to take his leave. "I value all this wisdom I can learn from my own people."

"And where do you go now, Wampum?" asked Fire-Flower. "Will you not stay and learn more wise things? You are brave, and we like you to hear us talk."

"And your talk is good," replied the boy, smiling. "You make me feel like the laughing loon bird, when you tell your tales and smile and laugh yourselves. But I must leave you. I am to drive the missionary to-day. He goes to the Delaware line once more."

"Ha! The Delawares!" sneered old Fire-Flower. "I like not those Delawares. They worship idols. It is not good to dance around idols."

"Not good," again echoed Fish-Carrier.

"Still the Delawares are not really bad people," said Wampum. "I don't like their hideous idol, and some day I hope to see it cut down," he added earnestly.

"Then it will be a brave man who will do it," asserted Fire-Flower. "The Delawares are a fierce tribe. Their eyes are too black. They cannot be trusted. We Mohawks are brave, but I know of none who would dare cut down that idol."

"I hope the Black Coat* won't try it himself," said Fish-Carrier. "He is a good man. I don't want to see the Delawares kill him."

[*The Indians call missionaries "The Black Coats."]

"He certainly _will_ try it himself," said Wampum. "His heart is set on turning the dark Delaware to his Christianity."

Fire-Flower sneered. "How little those white men know, even such great white men as the Black-Coat!" he remarked loftily. "He thinks because the Mohawks all turned to his Christianity, that he can get the dark Delawares. He seems to think there is small difference in Indians, that they are all alike. He does not know that we Mohawks despise the Delawares because they worship idols. Before we were Christians we worshipped the Great Spirit, the God of all good, but _never_ idols. What good can come of people who dance round idols?" and the old hunter wrinkled his very nose in contempt.

Young Wampum knew his place too well to argue with the arrogant old hunter, so he smilingly said good-bye, and leaving them to their pipes and their memories, he set out for the Mission house, from whence he was to drive the Reverend James Nelson over to the "Delaware Line" to have one of his frequent talks with the stubborn old chief, "Single-Pine," who for ten years had held out against Christianity, clinging with determined loyalty to the religion of his forefathers, worshipping the repulsive wooden idol that, even in their old pagan state, the Mohawks so despised. Wampum was a great friend of Mr. Nelson's. He was only a boy of sixteen, but he helped in all the church work, translated Mr. Nelson's speeches from English into Mohawk and the various other Indian dialects spoken on the Reserve, drove him about through the rough forest roads, paddled him down the river, and was the closest companion the good missionary had in all that wild, remote country. Even Wampum's parents were Christian church workers, but, kindly as their hearts were, they, too, shook their heads sorrowfully over the hopelessness of trying to Christianize the dark, idol-worshipping Delawares.

"Ah, Wampum, boy," greeted the missionary as the young Indian presented himself at the mission house, "we have good work before us to-day. I hear the Delawares are having a feast day. They have been dancing about that deplorable idol for two days and two nights. They tell me that old Chief Single-Pine danced eight hours without ceasing; that they have decorated the idol with silver brooches, wampum beads, every precious thing they possess. It is terrible, and my heart aches, boy, when I think how hopeless it seems. I fear they will be worshipping that wooden thing long after you and I have ceased working for Christ's kingdom."

"Mr. Nelson," said the boy, half-shyly. "I don't agree with you. I heard, not long ago, that old Chief Single-Pine said he only kept to the idol because his people did--that he dared not cross them, but that after these ten years of your talking with him, he himself believed in the white man's Christ."

"Oh, Wampum, if I could only believe that! If I could, I would die happy. Who told you this glorious thing?" cried the encouraged missionary.

"A Delaware boy," replied Wampum, "but when he told me he spat, like a snake does venom. He said he and all the tribe hated Single-Pine, for listening to you."

For a moment the missionary was silent, then he arose, the dawn of a majestic hope in his face. "They may hate him," he said, "but they will follow him. He is most powerful. They dare not rebel where he leads. If we have won Single-Pine to Christianity, we have won the whole tribe, Wampum. You have never failed me yet; will you stand by me now? Will you help me in this great work?"

"I will help you, sir," replied the boy, his young face glowing with zeal.

"But," hesitated the missionary, "remember, it is dangerous. They are a fierce, savage tribe, these Delawares. Suppose--" and the good man's voice ceased. He thought of his wife and his two baby girls. Then he shuddered.

Wampum seemed to catch that thought, and instantly a strange inspiration lighted up his wonderful dark face. He set his strong white teeth together, but kept his determination to himself.

As they prepared to leave the Mission house, Wampum hung back a little, and when Mr. Nelson was not looking, he slipped into the woodshed, got the axe, and adroitly hid it under the wagon-seat. He told himself that in case of trouble he would at least have some weapon with which to defend the missionary's life, and fight for his own. Had the man of peace known this, he would have remonstrated, but Wampum, although a Christian, had good fighting Indian blood in his veins, and had no such horror of battle. He was like one of the old Crusaders, ready to fight for his faith, even if the fighting had to be done with an axe.