Title: Boys of Other Countries
Author: Taylor, Bayard
Language: English
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                        BOYS OF OTHER COUNTRIES


                                   BY

                             BAYARD TAYLOR

                      ENLARGED EDITION, INCLUDING

                THE ROBBER REGION OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA


                             _ILLUSTRATED_


                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
                          NEW YORK AND LONDON
                       =The Knickerbocker Press=



                          COPYRIGHT, 1876, BY
                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS


                          COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY
                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS


                    COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY MARIE TAYLOR
         IN RENEWAL OF COPYRIGHT ORIGINALLY REGISTERED IN 1876


                          COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
                              MARIE TAYLOR


[Illustration]

                  Made in the United States of America



                                CONTENTS


                                                        PAGE
              I. THE LITTLE POST-BOY                       3

             II. THE PASHA’S SON                          25

            III. JON OF ICELAND                           47

             IV. THE TWO HERD-BOYS                       129

              V. THE YOUNG SERF                          151

             VI. STUDIES OF ANIMAL NATURE                203

            VII. A ROBBER REGION OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA  235



                                   I
                          The Little Post-Boy


In my travels about the world I have made the acquaintance of a great
many children, and I might tell you many things about their dress, their
speech, and their habits of life in the different countries I have
visited. I presume, however, that you would rather hear me relate some
of my adventures in which children participated, so that the story and
the information shall be given together. Ours is not the only country in
which children must frequently begin at an early age to do their share
of work and accustom themselves to make their way in life. I have found
many instances among other races, and in other climates, of youthful
courage, and self-reliance, and strength of character, some of which I
propose to relate to you.

This one shall be the story of my adventure with a little post-boy, in
the northern part of Sweden.

Very few foreigners travel in Sweden in the winter on account of the
intense cold. As you go northward from Stockholm, the capital, the
country becomes ruder and wilder, and the climate more severe. In the
sheltered valleys along the Gulf of Bothnia and the rivers which empty
into it, there are farms and villages for a distance of seven or eight
hundred miles, after which fruit-trees disappear, and nothing will grow
in the short, cold summers except potatoes and a little barley. Farther
inland, there are great forests and lakes, and ranges of mountains where
bears, wolves, and herds of wild reindeer make their home. No people
could live in such a country unless they were very industrious and
thrifty.

I made my journey in the winter, because I was on my way to Lapland,
where it is easier to travel when the swamps and rivers are frozen, and
the reindeer-sled can fly along over the smooth snow. It was very cold
indeed, the greater part of the time; the days were short and dark, and
if I had not found the people so kind, so cheerful, and so honest, I
should have felt inclined to turn back more than once. But I do not
think there are better people in the world than those who live in
Norrland, which is a Swedish province commencing about two hundred miles
north of Stockholm.

They are a tall, strong race, with yellow hair and bright blue eyes, and
the handsomest teeth I ever saw. They live plainly, but very
comfortably, in snug wooden houses, with double windows and doors to
keep out the cold; and since they cannot do much out-door work, they
spin and weave and mend their farming implements in the large family
room, thus enjoying the winter in spite of its severity. They are very
happy and contented, and few of them would be willing to leave that cold
country and make their homes in a warmer climate.

Here there are neither railroads nor stages, but the government has
established post-stations at distances varying from ten to twenty miles.
At each station a number of horses, and sometimes vehicles, are kept,
but generally the traveller has his own sled, and simply hires the
horses from one station to another. These horses are either furnished by
the keeper of the station or some of the neighboring farmers, and when
they are wanted a man or boy goes along with the traveller to bring them
back. It would be quite an independent and convenient way of travelling,
if the horses were always ready; but sometimes you must wait an hour or
more before they can be furnished.

I had my own little sled, filled with hay and covered with reindeer
skins to keep me warm. So long as the weather was not too cold, it was
very pleasant to speed along through the dark forests, over the frozen
rivers, or past farm after farm in the sheltered valleys, up hill and
down until long after the stars came out, and then to get a warm supper
in some dark-red post cottage, while the cheerful people sang or told
stories around the fire. The cold increased a little every day, to be
sure, but I became gradually accustomed to it, and soon began to fancy
that the Arctic climate was not so difficult to endure as I had
supposed. At first the thermometer fell to zero; then it went down ten
degrees below; then twenty, and finally thirty. Being dressed in thick
furs from head to foot, I did not suffer greatly; but I was very glad
when the people assured me that such extreme cold never lasted more than
two or three days. Boys of twelve or fourteen very often went with me to
bring back their fathers’ horses, and so long as those lively,
red-cheeked fellows could face the weather, it would not do for me to be
afraid.

One night there was a wonderful aurora in the sky. The streamers of red
and blue light darted hither and thither, chasing each other up to the
zenith and down again to the northern horizon with a rapidity and a
brilliance which I had never seen before. “There will be a storm soon,”
said my post-boy; “one always comes after these lights.”

Next morning the sky was overcast, and the short day was as dark as our
twilight. But it was not quite so cold, and I travelled onward as fast
as possible. There was a long tract of wild and thinly settled country
before me and I wished to get through it before stopping for the night.
Unfortunately it happened that two lumber-merchants were travelling the
same way and had taken the horses; so I was obliged to wait at the
stations until horses were brought from the neighboring farms. This
delayed me so much that at seven o’clock in the evening I had still one
more station of three Swedish miles before reaching the village where I
had intended to spend the night. Now, a Swedish mile is nearly equal to
seven English, so that this station was at least twenty miles long.

[Illustration:

  “Boys of twelve or fourteen very often went with me to bring back
    their father’s horses”

  Drawing by F. S. Coburn
]

I decided to take supper while the horse was eating his feed. They had
not expected any more travellers at the station, and were not prepared.
The keeper had gone on with the two lumber-merchants; but his wife—a
friendly, rosy-faced woman—prepared me some excellent coffee, potatoes,
and stewed reindeer-meat, upon which I made a satisfactory meal. The
house was on the border of a large, dark forest, and the roar of the icy
northern wind in the trees seemed to increase while I waited in the warm
room. I did not feel inclined to go forth into the wintry storm, but,
having set my mind on reaching the village that night, I was loath to
turn back.

“It is a bad night,” said the woman, “and my husband will certainly stay
at Umea until morning. His name is Niels Petersen, and I think you will
find him at the post-house when you get there. Lars will take you, and
they can come back together.”

“Who is Lars?” I asked.

“My son,” said she. “He is getting the horse ready. There is nobody else
about the house to-night.”

Just then the door opened, and in came Lars. He was about twelve years
old; but his face was so rosy, his eyes so clear and round and blue, and
his golden hair was blown back from his face in such silky curls, that
he appeared to be even younger. I was surprised that his mother should
be willing to send him twenty miles through the dark woods on such a
night.

“Come here, Lars,” I said. Then I took him by the hand, and asked, “Are
you not afraid to go so far to-night?”

He looked at me with wondering eyes, and smiled; and his mother made
haste to say: “You need not fear, sir. Lars is young, but he’ll take you
safe enough. If the storm doesn’t get worse, you’ll be at Umea by eleven
o’clock.”

I was again on the point of remaining; but while I was deliberating with
myself, the boy had put on his overcoat of sheep-skin, tied the lappets
of his fur cap under his chin and a thick woolen scarf around his nose
and mouth so that only the round blue eyes were visible, and then his
mother took down the mittens of hare’s fur from the stove, where they
had been hung to dry. He put them on, took a short leather whip, and was
ready.

I wrapped myself in my furs, and we went out together. The driving snow
cut me in the face like needles, but Lars did not mind it in the least.
He jumped into the sled, which he had filled with fresh, soft hay,
tucked in the reindeer-skins at the sides, and we cuddled together on
the narrow seat, making everything close and warm before we set out. I
could not see at all, when the door of the house was shut, and the horse
started on the journey. The night was dark, the snow blew incessantly,
and the dark fir-trees roared all around us. Lars, however, knew the
way, and somehow or other we kept the beaten track. He talked to the
horse so constantly and so cheerfully, that after a while my own spirits
began to rise, and the way seemed neither so long nor so disagreeable.

“Ho there, Axel!” he would say. “Keep the road,—not too far to the left.
Well done. Here’s a level; now trot a bit.”

So we went on,—sometimes up hill, sometimes down hill,—for a long time,
as it seemed. I began to grow chilly, and even Lars handed me the reins,
while he swung and beat his arms to keep the blood in circulation. He no
longer sang little songs and fragments of hymns, as when we first set
out; but he was not in the least alarmed, or even impatient. Whenever I
asked (as I did about every five minutes), “Are we nearly there?” he
always answered, “A little farther.”

Suddenly the wind seemed to increase.

“Ah,” said he, “now I know where we are; it’s one mile more.” But one
mile, you must remember, meant _seven_.

Lars checked the horse, and peered anxiously from side to side in the
darkness. I looked also but could see nothing.

“What is the matter?” I finally asked.

“We have got past the hills on the left,” he said. “The country is open
to the wind, and here the snow drifts worse than anywhere else on the
road. If there have been no ploughs out to-night we’ll have trouble.”

You must know that the farmers along the road are obliged to turn out
with their horses and oxen, and plough down the drifts, whenever the
road is blocked up by a storm.

In less than a quarter of an hour we could see that the horse was
sinking in the deep snow. He plunged bravely forward, but made scarcely
any headway, and presently became so exhausted that he stood quite
still. Lars and I arose from the seat and looked around. For my part, I
saw nothing except some very indistinct shapes of trees; there was no
sign of an opening through them. In a few minutes the horse started
again, and with great labor carried us a few yards farther.

“Shall we get out and try to find the road?” said I.

“It’s no use,” Lars answered. “In these new drifts we would sink to the
waist. Wait a little, and we shall get through this one.”

It was as he said. Another pull brought us through the deep part of the
drift, and we reached a place where the snow was quite shallow. But it
was not the hard, smooth surface of the road; we could feel that the
ground was uneven, and covered with roots and bushes. Bidding Axel stand
still, Lars jumped out of the sled, and began wading around among the
trees. Then I got out on the other side, but had not proceeded ten steps
before I began to sink so deeply into the loose snow that I was glad to
extricate myself and return. It was a desperate situation, and I
wondered how we should ever get out of it.

I shouted to Lars, in order to guide him, and it was not long before he
also came back to the sled. “If I knew where the road is,” said he, “I
could get into it again. But I don’t know; and I think we must stay here
all night.”

“We shall freeze to death in an hour!” I cried. I was already chilled to
the bone. The wind had made me very drowsy, and I knew that if I slept I
should soon be frozen.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Lars cheerfully. “I am a Norrlander, and Norrlanders
never freeze. I went with the men to the bear-hunt, last winter, up on
the mountains, and we were several nights in the snow. Besides, I know
what my father did with a gentleman from Stockholm on this very road,
and we’ll do it to-night.”

“What was it?”

“Let me take care of Axel first,” said Lars. “We can spare him some hay
and one reindeer-skin.”

It was a slow and difficult task to unharness the horse, but we
accomplished it at last. Lars then led him under the drooping branches
of a fir-tree, tied him to one of them, gave him an armful of hay, and
fastened the reindeer-skin upon his back. Axel began to eat, as if
perfectly satisfied with the arrangement. The Norrland horses are so
accustomed to cold that they seem comfortable in a temperature where one
of ours would freeze.

When this was done, Lars spread the remaining hay evenly over the bottom
of the sled and covered it with the skins, which he tucked in very
firmly on the side towards the wind. Then, lifting them on the other
side, he said: “Now take off your fur coat, quick, lay it over the hay,
and then creep under it.”

I obeyed as rapidly as possible. For an instant I shuddered in the icy
air; but the next moment I lay stretched in the bottom of the sled,
sheltered from the storm. I held up the ends of the reindeer-skins while
Lars took off his coat and crept in beside me. Then we drew the skins
down and pressed the hay against them. When the wind seemed to be
entirely excluded Lars said we must pull off our boots, untie our
scarfs, and so loosen our clothes that they would not feel tight upon
any part of the body. When this was done, and we lay close together,
warming each other, I found that the chill gradually passed out of my
blood. My hands and feet were no longer numb; a delightful feeling of
comfort crept over me; and I lay as snugly as in the best bed. I was
surprised to find that, although my head was covered, I did not feel
stifled. Enough air came in under the skins to prevent us from feeling
oppressed.

There was barely room for the two of us to lie, with no chance of
turning over or rolling about. In five minutes, I think, we were sound
asleep, and I dreamed of gathering peaches on a warm August day at home.
In fact, I did not wake up thoroughly during the night; neither did
Lars, though it seemed to me that we both talked in our sleep. But as I
must have talked English and he Swedish, there could have been no
connection between our remarks. I remember that his warm, soft hair
pressed against my chin, and that his feet reached no further than my
knees. Just as I was beginning to feel a little cramped and stiff from
lying so still I was suddenly aroused by the cold wind on my face. Lars
had risen up on his elbow, and was peeping out from under the skins.

“I think it must be near six o’clock,” he said. “The sky is clear, and I
can see the big star. We can start in another hour.”

I felt so much refreshed that I was for setting out immediately; but
Lars remarked, very sensibly, that it was not yet possible to find the
road. While we were talking, Axel neighed.

“There they are!” cried Lars, and immediately began to put on his boots,
his scarf and heavy coat. I did the same, and by the time we were ready
we heard shouts and the crack of whips. We harnessed Axel to the sled,
and proceeded slowly in the direction of the sounds, which came, as we
presently saw, from a company of farmers, out thus early to plough the
road. They had six pairs of horses geared to a wooden frame, something
like the bow of a ship, pointed in front and spreading out to a breadth
of ten or twelve feet. The machine not only cut through the drifts but
packed the snow, leaving a good, solid road behind it. After it had
passed, we sped along merrily in the cold morning twilight and in little
more than an hour reached the post-house at Umea, where we found Lars’s
father prepared to return home. He waited, nevertheless, until Lars had
eaten a good warm breakfast, when I said good-bye to both, and went on
towards Lapland.

Some weeks afterwards, on my return to Stockholm, I stopped at the same
little station. This time the weather was mild and bright, and the
father would have gone with me to the next post-house; but I preferred
to take my little bed-fellow and sled-fellow. He was so quiet and
cheerful and fearless that, although I had been nearly all over the
world, and he had never been away from home,—although I was a man and he
a young boy,—I felt that I had learned a lesson from him, and might
probably learn many more, if I should know him better. We had a merry
trip of two or three hours, and then I took leave of Lars forever. He is
no doubt still driving travellers over the road, a handsome, courageous,
honest-hearted young man, perhaps with his own son growing up to take
his place, and help some later stranger like myself through a winter
storm.



                                   II
                            The Pasha’s Son


A good many years ago I spent a winter in Africa. I had intended to go
up the Nile only as far as Nubia, visiting the great temples and tombs
of Thebes on the way; but when I had done all this, and passed beyond
the cataracts at the southern boundary of Egypt, I found the journey so
agreeable, so full of interest, and attended with so much less danger
than I had supposed, that I determined to go on for a month or two
longer, and penetrate as far as possible into the interior. Everything
was favorable to my plan. I crossed the great Nubian Desert without
accident or adventure, reached the ancient region of Ethiopia, and
continued my journey until I had advanced beyond all the cataracts of
the Nile, to the point where the two great branches of the river flow
together.

This point, which you will find on your maps in the country called
Sennaar, bordering Abyssinia on the northwestern side, has become very
important within the last twenty or thirty years. The Egyptians, after
conquering the country, established there their seat of government for
all that part of Africa, and very soon a large and busy town arose where
formerly there had only been a few mud huts of the natives. The town is
called Khartoum, and I suppose it must contain, by this time, forty or
fifty thousand inhabitants. It is built on a sandy plain, studded here
and there with clumps of thorny trees. On the east side the Blue Nile,
the source of which was discovered by the Scotch traveller, Bruce, in
the last century, comes down clear and swift from the mountains of
Abyssinia; on the west, the broad, shallow, muddy current of the White
Nile, which rises in the great lakes discovered by Speke and Baker
within the last twenty years, makes its appearance. The two rivers meet
just below the town, and flow as a single stream to the Mediterranean, a
distance of fifteen hundred miles.

Formerly all this part of Africa was considered very wild, barbarous,
and dangerous to the traveller. But since it has been brought under the
rule of the Egyptian government, the people have been forced to respect
the lives and property of strangers, and travelling has become
comparatively safe. I soon grew so accustomed to the ways of the
inhabitants that by the time I reached Khartoum I felt quite at home
among them. My experience had already taught me that, where a traveller
was badly treated, it was generally his own fault. You must not despise
a people because they are ignorant, because their habits are different,
or because they sometimes annoy you by a natural curiosity. I found that
by acting in a kind yet firm manner towards them, and preserving my
patience and good-nature, even when it was tried by their slow and
careless ways, I avoided all trouble, and even acquired their friendly
good-will.

When I reached Khartoum, the Austrian Consul invited me to his house;
and there I spent three or four weeks in that strange town, making
acquaintance with the Egyptian officers, the chiefs of the desert
tribes, and the former kings of the different countries of Ethiopia.
When I left my boat, on arriving, and walked through the narrow streets
of Khartoum, between mud walls, very few of which were even whitewashed,
I thought it a miserable place, and began to look out for some garden
where I might pitch my tent, rather than live in one of those
dirty-looking habitations. The wall around the Consul’s house was of mud
like the others; but when I entered I found clean, handsome rooms which
furnished delightful shade and coolness during the heat of the day. The
roof was of palm-logs, covered with mud, which the sun baked into a hard
mass, so that the house was in reality as good as a brick dwelling. It
was a great deal more comfortable than it appeared from the outside.

There were other features of the place, however, which it would be
difficult to find anywhere except in Central Africa. After I had taken
possession of my room, and eaten breakfast with my host, I went out to
look at the garden. On each side of the steps leading down from the door
sat two apes, who barked and snapped at me. The next thing I saw was a
leopard tied to the trunk of an orange-tree. I did not dare to go within
reach of his rope, although I afterwards became well acquainted with
him. A little farther, there was a pen full of gazelles and an antelope
with immense horns; then two fierce, bristling hyenas; and at last,
under a shed beside the stable, a full-grown lioness, sleeping in the
shade. I was greatly surprised when the Consul went up to her, lifted up
her head, opened her jaws so as to show the shining white tusks, and
finally sat down upon her back.

She accepted these familiarities so good-naturedly that I made bold to
pat her head also. In a day or two we were great friends; she would
spring about with delight whenever she saw me, and would purr like a cat
whenever I sat down upon her back. I spent an hour or two every day
among the animals, and found them all easy to tame except the hyenas,
which would gladly have bitten me if I had allowed them a chance. The
leopard, one day, bit me slightly in the hand; but I punished him by
pouring several buckets of water over him, and he was always very
amiable after that. The beautiful little gazelles would cluster around
me, thrusting up their noses into my hand, and saying, “_Wow! wow!_” as
plainly as I write it. But none of these animals attracted me so much as
the big lioness. She was always good-humored, though occasionally so
lazy that she would not even open her eyes when I sat down on her
shoulder. She would sometimes catch my foot in her paws as a kitten
catches a ball, and try to make a plaything of it,—yet always without
thrusting out her claws. Once she opened her mouth and gently took one
of my legs in her jaws for a moment; and the very next instant she put
out her tongue and licked my hand. There seemed to be almost as much of
the dog as of the cat in her nature. We all know, however, that there
are differences of character among animals, as there are among men; and
my favorite probably belonged to a virtuous and respectable family of
lions.

The day after my arrival I went with the Consul to visit the Pasha, who
lived in a large mud palace on the bank of the Blue Nile. He received us
very pleasantly, and invited us to take seats in the shady courtyard.
Here there was a huge panther tied to one of the pillars, while a little
lion, about eight months old, ran about perfectly loose. The Pasha
called the latter, which came springing and frisking towards him. “Now,”
said he, “we will have some fun.” He then made the lion lie down behind
one of the pillars, and called to one of the black boys to go across the
courtyard on some errand. The lion lay quite still until the boy came
opposite to the pillar, when he sprang out and after him. The boy ran,
terribly frightened; but the lion reached him in five or six leaps,
sprang upon his back and threw him down, and then went back to the
pillar as if quite satisfied with his exploit. Although the boy was not
hurt in the least, it seemed to me like a cruel piece of fun. The Pasha,
nevertheless, laughed very heartily, and told us that he had himself
trained the lion to frighten the boys.

Presently the little lion went away, and when we came to look for him,
we found him lying on one of the tables in the kitchen of the palace,
apparently very much interested in watching the cook. The latter told us
that the animal sometimes took small pieces of meat, but seemed to know
that it was not permitted, for he would run away afterwards in great
haste. What I saw of lions during my residence in Khartoum satisfied me
that they are not very difficult to tame,—only, as they belong to the
cat family, no dependence can be placed on their continued good
behavior.

Among the Egyptian officers in the city was a Pasha named Rufah, who had
been banished from Egypt by the Viceroy. He was a man of considerable
education and intelligence, and was very unhappy at being sent away from
his home and family. The climate of Khartoum is very unhealthy, and this
unfortunate Pasha had suffered greatly from fever. He was uncertain how
long his exile would continue; he had been there already two years, and
as all the letters directed to him passed through the hands of the
officers of government, he was quite at a loss how to get any help from
his friends. What he had done to cause his banishment, I could not
ascertain; probably he did not know himself. There are no elections in
those Eastern countries; the people have nothing to do with the choice
of their own rulers. The latter are appointed by the Viceroy at his
pleasure, and hold office only so long as he allows them. The envy or
jealousy of one Pasha may lead to the ruin of another, without any fault
on the part of the latter. Probably somebody else wanted Rufah Pasha’s
place, and slandered him to the Viceroy for the sake of getting him
removed and exiled.

The unhappy man inspired my profound sympathy. Sometimes he would spend
the evening with the Consul and myself, because he felt safe in our
presence, to complain of the tyranny under which he suffered. When we
met him at the houses of the other Egyptian officers, he was very
careful not to talk on the subject, lest they should report the fact to
the government.

Being a foreigner and a stranger, I never imagined that I could be of
any service to Rufah Pasha. I did not speak the language well, I knew
very little of the laws and regulations of the country, and moreover, I
intended simply to pass through Egypt on my return. Nevertheless, one
night, when we happened to be walking the streets together, he whispered
that he had something special to say to me. Although it was bright
moonlight, we had a native servant with us, to carry a lantern. The
Pasha ordered the servant to walk on in advance; and a turn of the
narrow, crooked streets soon hid him from our sight. Everything was
quiet, except the rustling of the wind in the palm-trees which rose
above the garden-walls.

“Now,” said the Pasha, taking my hand, “now we can talk for a few
minutes, without being overheard. I want you to do me a favor.”

“Willingly,” I answered, “if it is in my power.”

“It will not give you much trouble,” he said, “and may be of great
service to me. I want you to take two letters to Egypt,—one to my son,
who lives in the town of Tahtah, and one to Mr. Murray, the English
Consul-General, whom you know. I cannot trust the Egyptian merchants,
because, if these letters were opened and read, I might be kept here
many years longer. If you deliver them safely, my friends will know how
to assist me, and perhaps I may soon be allowed to return home.”

I promised to deliver both letters with my own hands, and the Pasha
parted from me in more cheerful spirits at the door of the Consul’s
house. After a few days I was ready to set out on the return journey;
but, according to custom, I was first obliged to make farewell visits to
all the officers of the government. It was very easy to apprise Rufah
Pasha beforehand of my intention, and he had no difficulty in slipping
the letters into my hand without the action being observed by any one. I
put them into my portfolio, with my own letters and papers, where they
were entirely safe, and said nothing about the matter to any one in
Khartoum.

Although I was glad to leave that wild town, with its burning climate,
and retrace the long way back to Egypt, across the Desert and down the
Nile, I felt very sorry at being obliged to take leave forever of all my
pets. The little gazelles said, “_Wow! Wow!_” in answer to my
“Good-bye”; the hyenas howled and tried to bite, just as much as ever;
but the dear old lioness I know would have been sorry if she could have
understood that I was going. She frisked around me, licked my hand, and
I took her great tawny head into my arms, and gave her a kiss. Since
then I have never had a lion for a pet, and may never have one again. I
must confess, I am sorry for it; for I still retain my love for lions
(four-footed ones, I mean) to this day.

Well, it was a long journey, and I should have to write many days in
order to describe it. I should have to tell of fierce sand-storms in the
Desert; of resting in palm-groves near the old capital of Ethiopia; of
plodding day after day, through desolate landscapes, on the back of a
camel, crossing stony ranges of mountains, to reach the Nile again, and
then floating down with the current in an open boat. It was nearly two
months before I could deliver the first of the Pasha’s letters,—that
which he had written to his son. The town of Tahtah is in Upper Egypt,
near Siout; you will hardly find it on the maps. It stands on a little
mound, several miles from the Nile, and is surrounded by the rich and
beautiful plain which is every year overflowed by the river.

There was a head wind, and my boat could not proceed very fast; so I
took my faithful servant, Achmet, and set out on foot, taking a path
which led over the plain between beautiful wheat-fields and orchards of
lemon-trees. In an hour or two we reached Tahtah,—a queer, dark old
town, with high houses and narrow streets. The doors and balconies were
of carved wood, and the windows were covered with lattices, so that no
one could look in, although those inside could easily look out. There
were a few sleepy merchants in the bazaar, smoking their pipes and
enjoying the odors of cinnamon and dried roses which floated in the air.

After some little inquiry, I found Rufah Pasha’s house, but was not
admitted, because the Egyptian women are not allowed to receive the
visits of strangers. There was a shaded entrance-hall, open to the
street, where I was requested to sit, while the black serving-woman went
to the school to bring the Pasha’s son. She first borrowed a pipe from
one of the merchants in the bazaar, and brought it to me. Achmet and I
sat there, while the people of the town, who had heard that we came from
Khartoum and knew the Pasha, gathered around to ask questions.

They were all very polite and friendly, and seemed as glad to hear about
the Pasha as if they belonged to his family. In a quarter of an hour the
woman came back, followed by the Pasha’s son and the schoolmaster, who
had dismissed his school in order to hear the news. The boy was about
eleven years old, but tall for his age. He had a fair face, and large
dark eyes, and smiled pleasantly when he saw me. If I had not known
something of the customs of the people, I should have given him my hand,
perhaps drawn him between my knees, put an arm around his waist and
talked familiarly; but I thought it best to wait and see how he would
behave towards me.

He first made me a graceful salutation, just as a man would have done,
then took my hand and gently touched it to his heart, lips, and
forehead, after which he took his seat on the high divan, or bench, by
my side. Here he again made a salutation, clapped his hands thrice, to
summon the woman, and ordered coffee to be brought.

“Is your Excellency in good health?” he asked.

“Very well, praised be Allah!” I answered.

“Has your Excellency any commands for me? You have but to speak; you
shall be obeyed.”

“You are very kind,” said I; “but I have need of nothing. I bring you
greetings from the Pasha, your father, and this letter, which I promised
him to deliver into your own hands.”

Thereupon I handed him the letter, which he laid to his heart and lips
before opening. As he found it a little difficult to read, he summoned
the schoolmaster, and they read it together in a whisper.

In the meantime coffee was served in little cups, and a very handsome
pipe was brought by somebody for my use. After he had read the letter,
the boy turned to me with his face a little flushed, and his eyes
sparkling, and said, “Will your Excellency permit me to ask whether you
have another letter?”

“Yes,” I answered; “but it is not to be delivered here.”

“That is right,” said he. “When will you reach Cairo?”

“It depends on the wind; but I hope in seven days from now.”

The boy again whispered to the schoolmaster, but presently they both
nodded, as if satisfied, and nothing more was said on the subject.

Some sherbet (which is nothing but lemonade flavored with rose-water)
and pomegranates were then brought to me, and the boy asked whether I
would not honor him by remaining during the rest of the day. If I had
not seen his face, I should have supposed I was visiting a man,—so
dignified and self-possessed and graceful was the little fellow. The
people looked on as if they were quite accustomed to such mature manners
in children. I was obliged to use as much ceremony with the child as if
he had been the governor of the town. But he interested me,
nevertheless, and I felt curious to know the subject of his consultation
with the schoolmaster. I was sure they were forming some plan to have
the Pasha recalled from exile.

After two or three hours I left, in order to overtake my boat, which was
slowly working its way down the Nile. The boy arose, and walked by my
side to the end of the town, the other people following us. When we came
out upon the plain, he took leave of me with the same salutations, and
the words, “May God grant your Excellency a prosperous journey!”

“May God grant it!” I responded; and all the people repeated, “May God
grant it!”

The whole interview seemed to me like a scene out of the _Arabian
Nights_. To me it was a pretty, picturesque experience, which cannot be
forgotten; to the people, no doubt, it was an every day matter.

When I reached Cairo, I delivered the other letter, and in a fortnight
afterwards left Egypt; so that I could not ascertain, at the time,
whether anything had been done to forward the Pasha’s hopes. Some months
afterwards, however, I read in a European newspaper, quite accidentally,
that Rufah Pasha had returned to Egypt from Khartoum. I was delighted
with the news; and I shall always believe, and insist upon it, that the
Pasha’s wise and dignified little son had a hand in bringing about the
fortunate result.



                                  III
                             Jon of Iceland


                                   I

The boys of Iceland must be content with very few acquaintances and
playmates. The valleys which produce grass enough for the farmer’s
ponies, cattle, and sheep are generally scattered widely apart, divided
by ridges of lava so hard and cold that only a few wild flowers succeed
in growing in their cracks and hollows. Then, since the farms must be
all the larger, because the grass is short and grows slowly in such a
severe northern climate, the dwellings are rarely nearer than four or
five miles apart; and were it not for their swift and nimble ponies, the
people would see very little of each other except on Sundays, when they
ride long distances to attend worship in their little wooden churches.

But of all boys in the island, not one was so lonely in his situation as
Jon Sigurdson. His father lived many miles beyond that broad, grassy
plain which stretches from the Geysers to the sea, on the banks of the
swift river Thiörvǎ. On each side there were mountains so black and bare
that they looked like gigantic piles of coal; but the valley opened to
the southward as if to let the sun in, and far away, when the weather
was clear, the snowy top of Mount Hecla shone against the sky. The
farmer Sigurd, Jon’s father, was a poor man, or he would not have
settled so far away from any neighbors; for he was of a cheerful and
social nature, and there were few at Kyrkedal who could vie with him in
knowledge of the ancient history and literature of Iceland.

The house was built on a knoll, under a cliff which sheltered it from
the violent west and northwest winds. The walls, of lava stones and
turf, were low and broad; and the roofs over dwelling, storehouses, and
stables were covered deep with earth, upon which grew such excellent
grass that the ponies were fond of climbing up the sloping corners of
the wall in order to get at it. Sometimes they might be seen, cunningly
balanced on the steep sides of the roof, grazing along the very
ridge-poles, or looking over the end of the gable when some member of
the family came out of the door, as much as to say, “Get me down if you
can!” Around the buildings there was a square wall of enclosure, giving
the place the appearance of a little fortress.

On one side of the knoll a hot spring bubbled up. In the morning or
evening, when the air was cool, quite a little column of steam arose
from it, whirling and broadening as it melted away; but the water was
pure and wholesome as soon as it became cold enough for use. In front of
the house, where the sun shone warmest, Sigurd had laid out a small
garden. It was a great labor for him to remove the huge stones and roll
them into a protecting wall, to carry good soil from the places where
the mountain rills had gradually washed it down from above, and to
arrange it so that frosts and cold rains should do the least harm; and
the whole family thought themselves suddenly rich, one summer, when they
pulled their first radishes, saw the little bed of potatoes coming into
blossom, and the cabbages rolling up their leaves in order to make, at
least, baby-heads before the winter came.

Within the house, all was low and dark and dismal. The air was very
close and bad, for the stables were only separated from the
dwelling-room by a narrow passage, and bunches of dry salt fish hung on
the walls. Besides, it was usually full of smoke from the fire of peat,
and, after a rain, of steam from Sigurd’s and Jon’s heavy woollen coats.
But to the boy it was a delightful, a comfortable home, for within it he
found shelter, warmth, food, and instruction. The room for visitors
seemed to him the most splendid place in the world, because it had a
wooden floor, a window with six panes of glass, a colored print of the
King of Denmark, and a geranium in a pot. This was so precious a plant
that Jon and his sister Gudrid hardly dared to touch its leaves. They
were almost afraid to smell it, for fear of sniffing away some of its
life; and Gudrid, after seeing a leaf of it laid on her dead sister’s
bosom, insisted that some angel, many hundred years ago, had brought the
seed straight down from heaven.

These were Sigurd’s only children. There had been several more, but they
had died in infancy, from the want of light and pure air, and the great
distance from help when sickness came. Gudrid was still pale and
slender, except in summer, when her mild, friendly face took color from
the sun; but Jon, who was now fourteen, was a sturdy, broad-breasted
boy, who promised to be as strong as his father in a few years more. He
had thick yellow hair, curling a little around his forehead; large
bright blue eyes; and a mouth rather too broad for beauty, if the lips
had not been so rosy and the teeth so white and firm. He had a serious
look, but it was only because he smiled with his eyes oftener than with
his mouth. He was naturally true and good, for he hardly knew what evil
was. Except his parents and his sister he saw no one for weeks at a
time; and when he met other boys after church at Kyrkedal, so much time
was always lost in shyly looking at each other and shrinking from the
talk which each wanted to begin, that no very intimate acquaintance
followed.

But in spite of his lonely life, Jon was far from being ignorant. There
were the long winter months, when the ponies—and sometimes the
sheep—pawed holes in the snow in order to reach the grass on the bottoms
beside the river; when the cows were warmly stabled and content with
their meals of boiled hay; when the needful work of the day could be
done in an hour or two, and then Sigurd sat down to teach his children,
while their mother spun or knit beside them, and from time to time took
part in the instruction. Jon could already read and write so well that
the pastor at Kyrkedal lent him many an old Icelandic legend to copy; he
knew the history of the island, as well as that of Norway and Denmark,
and could answer (with a good deal of blushing) when he was addressed in
Latin. He also knew something of the world, and its different countries
and climates; but this knowledge seemed to him like a strange dream, or
like something that happened long ago and never could happen again. He
was accustomed to hear a little birch-bush, four or five feet high,
called “a tree,” and he could not imagine how any tree could be a
hundred feet high, or bear flowers and fruit. Once, a trader from
Rejkiavik—the chief seaport of Iceland—brought a few oranges to
Kyrkedal, and Sigurd purchased one for Jon and Gudrid. The children kept
it day after day, never tired of enjoying the splendid color and
strange, delightful perfume; so when they decided to cut the rind at
last the pulp was dried up and tasteless. A city was something of which
Jon could form no conception, for he had never even seen Rejkiavik; he
imagined that palaces and cathedrals were like large Icelandic
farm-houses, with very few windows and turf growing on the roofs.


                                   II

Sigurd’s wealth, if it could be called so, was in a small flock of
sheep, the pasture for which was scattered in patches for miles up and
down the river. The care of these sheep had been intrusted chiefly to
Jon, ever since he was eight years old, and he had learned their natures
and ways—their simple animal virtues and silly animal vices—so
thoroughly that they acquired a great respect for him, and very rarely
tried to be disobedient. Even Thor, the ram, although he sometimes
snorted and tossed his horns in protest, or stamped impatiently with his
forefeet, heeded his master’s voice. In fact, the sheep became Jon’s
companions, in the absence of human ones; he talked to them so much
during the lonely days that it finally seemed as if they understood a
great deal of his speech.

There was a rough bridle-path leading up the valley of the Thiörvǎ; but
it was rarely travelled, for it struck northward into the cold, windy,
stony desert which fills all the central part of Iceland. For a hundred
and fifty miles there was no dwelling, no shelter from the fierce and
sudden storms, and so little grass that the travellers who sometimes
crossed the region ran the risk of losing their ponies from starvation.
There were lofty plains of black rock, as hard as iron; groups of bare,
snowy-headed mountains; and often, at night, you could see a pillar of
fire in the distance, showing that one of the many volcanoes was in
action. Beyond this terrible wilderness the grassy valleys began again,
and there were houses and herds, increasing as you came down to the
bright bays along the northern shore of the island.

[Illustration:

  “In fact the sheep became Jon’s companions in the absence of human
    ones”

  Drawing by F. S. Coburn
]

More than once, a trader or government messenger, after crossing the
desert, had rested for a night under Sigurd’s roof; and many were the
tales of their adventures which Jon had treasured up in his memory.
Sometimes they spoke of the _trolls_ or mischievous fairies who came
over with the first settlers from Norway, and were still supposed by
many persons to lurk among the dark glens of Iceland. Both Sigurd and
the pastor at Kyrkedal had declared that there were no such creatures,
and Jon believed them faithfully; yet he could not help wondering as he
sat upon some rocky knoll overlooking his sheep, whether a strange
little figure _might_ not come out of the chasm opposite, and speak to
him. The more he heard of the terrors and dangers of the desert to the
northward, the more he longed to see them with his own eyes and know
them through his own experience. He was not the least afraid; but he
knew that his father would never allow him to go alone, and to disobey a
father was something of which he had never heard, and could not have
believed to be possible.

When he was in his fifteenth year, however (it was summer, and he was
fourteen in April), there came several weeks when no rain fell in the
valley. It was a lovely season for the garden; even the geranium in the
window put forth twice as many scarlet blossoms as ever before. Only the
sheep began to hunger; for the best patch of grass in front of the house
was carefully kept for hay, and the next best, further down the river,
for the ponies. So Jon was obliged to lead his flock to a narrow little
dell, which came down to the Thiörvǎ, three or four miles to the
northward. Here, for a week they nibbled diligently wherever anything
green showed itself at the foot of the black rocks; and when the pasture
grew scanty again, they began to stare at Jon in a way which many
persons might have thought stupid. _He_ understood them; they meant to
say: “We’ve nearly finished this; find us something more!”

That evening, as he was leading his flock into the little enclosure
beside the dwelling, he heard his father and mother talking. He thought
it no harm to listen, for they had never said anything that was not kind
and friendly. It seemed, however, that they were speaking of him, and
the very first words he heard made his heart beat more rapidly.

“Two days’ journey away,” said Sigurd, “are excellent pastures that
belong to nobody. There is no sign of rain yet, and if we could send Jon
with the sheep——”

“Are you sure of it?” his wife asked.

“Eyvindur stopped to talk with me,” he answered; “and he saw the place
this morning. He says there were rains in the desert, and, indeed, I’ve
thought so myself, because the river has not fallen; and he never knew
as pleasant a season to cross the country.”

“Jon might have to stay out a week or two; but, as you say, Sigurd, we
should save our flock. The boy may be trusted, I’m sure; only, if
anything should happen to him?”

“I don’t think he’s fearsome,” said Sigurd; “and what should happen to
him there that might not happen near home?”

They moved away, while Jon clasped the palms of his hands hard against
each other, and stood still for a minute to repeat to himself all he had
heard. He knew Eyvindur, the tall, strong man with the dark, curling
hair, who rode the swift, cream-colored pony with black mane and tail.
He knew what his father meant—nothing else than that he, Jon, should
take the sheep two days’ journey away, to the very edge of the terrible
wilderness, and pasture them there, alone, probably for many days! Why,
Columbus, when he set sail from Palos, could not have had a brighter
dream of unknown lands! Jon went in to supper in such a state of
excitement that he hardly touched the dried fish and hard oaten bread;
but he drank two huge bowls of milk and still felt thirsty. When, at
last, Sigurd opened his lips and spake, and the mother sat silent with
her eyes fixed upon her son’s face, and Gudrid looked frightened, Jon
straightened himself as if he were already a man, and quietly said:
“I’ll do it!”

He wanted to shout aloud for joy; but Gudrid began to cry.

However, when a thing had once been decided in the family, that was the
end of any question or remonstrance, and even Gudrid forgot her fears in
the interest of preparing a supply of food for Jon during his absence.
They slept soundly for a few hours; and then, at two o’clock in the
morning, when the sun was already shining on the snowy tops of the Arne
Mountains, Jon hung the bag of provisions over his shoulder, kissed his
parents and sister, and started northward, driving the sheep before him.


                                  III

In a couple of hours he reached the farthest point of the valley which
he had ever visited, and all beyond was an unknown region. But the
scenery, as he went onward, was similar in character. The mountains were
higher and more abrupt, the river more rapid and foamy, and the patches
of grass more scanty—that was all the difference. It was the Arctic
summer, and the night brought no darkness; yet he knew when the time for
rest came, by watching the direction of the light on the black mountains
above. When the sheep lay down, he sought a sheltered place under a
rock, and slept also.

Next day the country grew wilder and more forbidding. Sometimes there
was hardly a blade of grass to be seen for miles, and he drove the sheep
at full speed, running and shouting behind them, in his eagerness to
reach the distant pasture which Eyvindur had described. In the
afternoon, the valley appeared to come suddenly to an end. The river
rushed out of a deep cleft between the rocks, only a few feet wide, on
the right hand; in front there was a long, stony slope, reaching so high
that the clouds brushed along its summit. In the bottom there was some
little grass, but hardly enough to feed the flock for two days.

Jon was disappointed, but not much discouraged. He tethered Thor
securely to a rock, knowing that the other sheep would remain near him,
and set out to climb the slope. Up and up he toiled; the air grew sharp
and cold; there was snow and ice in the shaded hollows on either side,
and the dark, strange scenery of Iceland grew broader below him.
Finally, he gained the top; and now, for the first time, felt that he
had found a new world. In front, toward the north, there was a plain
stretching as far as he could see; on the right and left there were
groups of dark, frightful, inaccessible mountains, between the sharp
peaks of which sheets of blue ice plunged downward like cataracts, only
they were silent and motionless. The valley behind him was a mere cleft
in the stony, lifeless world; his sheep were little white dots, no
bigger, apparently, than flowers of life-everlasting. He could only
guess, beyond the dim ranges in the distance, where his father’s
dwelling lay; and, for a single moment, the thought came into his mind
and made him tremble,—should he ever see it again?

The pasture, he reflected, must be sought for in the direction from
which the river came. Following the ridge to the eastward, it was not
long before he saw a deep basin, a mile in diameter, opening among the
hills. The bottom was quite green, and there was a sparkle here and
there, where the river wound its way through it. This was surely the
place, and Jon felt proud that he had so readily discovered it. There
were several glens which furnished easy paths down from the table-land,
and he had no difficulty, the next morning, in leading his flock over
the great ridge. In fact, they skipped up the rocks as if they knew what
was coming, and did not wait for Jon to show them the way into the
valley.

The first thing the boy did, after satisfying himself that the sheep
were not likely to stray away from such excellent pasturage, was to seek
for a cave or hollow among the rocks, where he could find shelter from
storms. There were several such places; he selected the most convenient,
which had a natural shelf for his store of provisions, and, having dried
enough grass to make a warm, soft bed, he found himself very comfortably
established. For three or four days he was too busy to feel his
loneliness. The valley belonged to nobody; so he considered it his own
property, and called it Gudridsdale, after his sister. Then, in order to
determine the boundaries of this new estate, he climbed the heights in
all directions, and fixed the forms of every crag and hollow firmly in
his memory. He was not without the secret hope that he might come upon
some strange and remarkable object,—a deserted house, a high tree, or a
hot fountain shooting up jets like the Great Geyser,—but there was
nothing. Only the black and stony wilderness near at hand, and a
multitude of snowy peaks in the distance.

Thus ten days passed. The grass was not yet exhausted, the sheep grew
fat and lazy, and Jon had so thoroughly explored the neighborhood of the
valley that he could have found his way in the dark. He knew that there
were only barren, uninhabitable regions to the right and left; but the
great, bare table-land stretching to the northward was a continual
temptation, for there were human settlements beyond. As he wandered
farther and farther in that direction, he found it harder to return;
there was always a ridge in advance, the appearance of a mountain pass,
the sparkle of a little lake,—some promise of something to be seen by
going just a little beyond his turning-point. He was so careful to
notice every slight feature of the scenery,—a jutting rock here, a
crevice there,—in case mist or rain should overtake him on the way, that
the whole region soon became strangely familiar.

Jon’s desire to explore the road leading to the northward grew so
strong, that he at last yielded to it. But first he made every
arrangement for the safety of the sheep during his absence. He secured
the ram Thor by a long tether and an abundance of cut grass, concealed
the rest of his diminishing supply of provisions; climbed the nearest
heights and overlooked the country on all sides without discovering a
sign of life, and then, after a rest which was more like a waking dream
than a slumber, began his strange and solitary journey.

The sun had just become visible again, low in the northeast, when he
reached the level of the table-land. There were few clouds in the sky,
and but little wind blowing; yet a singular brownish haze filled the
air, and spots of strong light soon appeared on either side of the sun.
Jon had often seen these “mock suns” before; they are frequent in
northern latitudes, and are supposed to denote a change in the weather.
The phenomenon, and the feeling of heaviness in the air, led him to
study the landmarks very keenly and cautiously as he advanced. In two or
three hours he had passed the limits of his former excursions; and now,
if a storm should arise, his very life might depend on his being able to
find the way back.

During the day, however, there was no change in the weather. The lonely,
rugged mountains, the dark little lakes of melted snow lying at their
feet, the stony plain, with its great, irregular fissures where the lava
had cracked in cooling,—all these features of the great central desert
of Iceland lay hard and clear before his eyes. Like all persons who are
obliged to measure time without a watch or clock, he had a very correct
sense of the hours of the day, and of the distances he walked from point
to point. Where there was no large or striking object near at hand, he
took the trouble to arrange several stones in a line pointing to the
next landmark behind him, as a guide in case of fog.

It was an exciting, a wonderful day in his life, and Jon never forgot
it. He never once thought of the certain danger which he incurred.
Instead of fear, he was full of a joyous, inspiring courage; he sang and
shouted aloud, as some new peak or ridge of hills arose far in front, or
some other peak, already familiar, went out of sight far behind him. He
scarcely paused to eat or rest, until nearly twelve hours had passed,
and he had walked fully thirty miles. By that time the sun was low in
the west, and barely visible through the gathering haze. The wind moaned
around the rocks with a dreary, melancholy sound, and only the cry of a
wild swan was heard in the distance. To the north the mountains seemed
higher, but they were divided by deep gaps which indicated the
commencement of valleys. There, perhaps, there might be running streams,
pastures, and the dwellings of men!

[Illustration:

  “All these features of the great central desert of Iceland lay hard
    and clean before his eyes”

  Drawing by F. S. Coburn
]

Jon had intended to return to his flock on the morrow, but now the
temptation to press onward for another day became very great. His limbs,
however, young and strong as they were, needed some rest; and he
speedily decided what to do next. A lighter streak in the rocky floor of
the plain led his eye toward a low, broken peak—in reality, the crater
of a small extinct volcano—some five miles off, and lying to the right
of what he imagined to be the true course. On the left there were other
peaks, but immediately in front nothing which would serve as a landmark.
The crater, therefore, besides offering him some shelter in its
crevices, was decidedly the best starting-point, either for going on or
returning. The lighter color of the rock came from some different
mixture in the lava of an old eruption, and could easily be traced
throughout the whole intervening distance. He followed it rapidly, now
that the bearings were laid down, and reached the ruins of the volcano a
little after sunset.

There was no better bed to be found than the bottom of a narrow cleft,
where the winds, after blowing for many centuries, had deposited a thin
layer of sand. Before he lay down, Jon arranged a line of stones,
pointing toward the light streak across the plain, and another line
giving the direction of the valleys to the northward. To the latter he
added two short, slanting lines at the end, forming a figure like an
arrow-head, and then, highly satisfied with his ingenuity, lay down in
the crevice to sleep. But his brain was so excited that for a long time
he could do nothing else than go over, in memory, the day’s journey. The
wind seemed to be rising, for it whistled like a tremendous fife through
the rocky crevice; father and mother and Gudrid seemed to be far, far
away, in a different land; he wondered at last whether he was the same
Jon Sigurdson who drove the flock of sheep up the valley of the
Thiörvǎ—and then, all at once, he stopped wondering and thinking, for he
was too soundly asleep to dream even of a roasted potato.


                                   IV

How much time passed in the sleep he could never exactly learn; probably
six to seven hours. He was aroused by what seemed to be icy-cold rats’
feet scampering over his face, and as he started and brushed them away
with his hand, his ears became alive to a terrible, roaring sound. He
started up, alarmed, at first bewildered, then suddenly wide awake. The
cold feet upon his face were little threads of water trickling from
above; the fearful roaring came from a storm—a hurricane of mixed rain,
wind, cloud, and snow. It was day, yet still darker than the Arctic
summer night, so dense and black was the tempest. When Jon crept out of
the crevice, he was nearly thrown down by the force of the wind. The
first thing he did was to seek the two lines of stones he had arranged
for his guidance. They had not been blown away as he feared; and the
sight of the arrow-head made his heart leap with gratitude to the
Providence which had led him, for without that sign he would have been
bewildered at the very start. Returning to the cleft, which gave a
partial shelter, he ate the greater part of his remaining store of food,
fastening his thick coat tightly around his breast and throat, and set
out on the desperate homeward journey, carefully following the lighter
streak of rock across the plain.

He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he fancied he heard a
sharp, hammering sound through the roar of the tempest, and paused to
listen. The sound came rapidly nearer; it was certainly the hoofs of
many horses. Nothing could be seen; the noise came from the west, passed
in front of Jon, and began to die away to the eastward. His blood grew
chilled for a moment. It was all so sudden and strange and ghostly that
he knew not what to think; and he was about to push forward and get out
of the region where such things happened, when he heard, very faintly,
the cry which the Icelanders use in driving their baggage-ponies. Then
he remembered the deep gorge he had seen to the eastward, before
reaching the crater; the invisible travellers were riding toward it,
probably lost, and unaware of their danger.

This thought passed through Jon’s mind like a flash of lightning; he
shouted with all the strength of his voice.

He waited, but there was no answer. Then he shouted again, while the
wind seemed to tear the sound from his lips and fling it away—but on the
course the hoofs had taken.

This time a cry came in return; it seemed far off, because the storm
beat against the sound. Jon shouted a third time, and the answer was now
more distinct. Presently he distinguished words:

“Come here to us!”

“I cannot!” he cried.

In a few minutes more he heard the hoofs returning, and then the forms
of ponies became visible through the driving snow-clouds. They halted,
forming a semicircle in front of him; and then one of three dim,
spectral riders leaning forward again called: “Come here!”

“I cannot!” Jon answered again.

Thereupon, another of the horsemen rode close to him, and stared down
upon him. He said something which Jon understood to be: “Erik, it is a
little boy!”—but he was not quite sure, for the man’s way of talking was
strange. He put the words in the wrong places, and pronounced them
curiously.

The man who had first spoken jumped off his horse. Holding the bridle,
he came forward and said, in good, plain Icelandic:

“Why couldn’t you come when I called you?”

[Illustration:

  “Jon’s meeting with the horsemen”
]

“I am keeping the road back,” replied Jon; “if I move, I might lose it.”

“Then why did you call us?”

“I was afraid you had lost your way, and might get into the chasm; the
storm is so bad you could not see it.”

“What’s that?” exclaimed the first who had spoken.

Jon described the situation as well as he could, and the stranger at
last said, in his queer, broken speech: “Lost way—we; can guide—you—know
how?”

The storm raged so furiously that it was with great difficulty that Jon
heard the words at all; but he thought he understood the meaning. So he
looked the man in the face, and nodded, silently.

“Erik—pony!” cried the latter.

Erik caught one of the loose ponies, drew it forward, and said to Jon:

“Now mount and show us the way!”

“I cannot!” Jon repeated. “I will guide you: I was on my way already,
but I must walk back just as I came, so as to find the places and know
the distances.”

“Sir,” said Erik, turning to the other traveller, “we must let him have
his will. It is our only chance of safety. The boy is strong and
fearless, and we can surely follow where he was willing to go alone.”

“Take the lead, boy!” the other said; “more quick, more money!”

Jon walked rapidly in advance, keeping his eyes on the lighter colored
streak in the plain. He saw nothing, but every little sign and landmark
was fixed so clearly in his mind that he did not feel the least fear or
confusion. He could hardly see, in fact, the foremost of the ponies
behind him, but he caught now and then a word, as the men talked with
each other. They had come from the northern shore of the island; they
were lost, they were chilled, weary; their ponies were growing weak from
hunger and exposure to the terrible weather; and they followed him, not
so much because they trusted his guidance, as because there was really
nothing else left for them to do.

In an hour and a half they reached the first landmark; and when the men
saw Jon examining the line of stones he had laid, and then striking
boldly off through the whirling clouds, they asked no questions, but
urged their ponies after him. Thus several hours went by. Point after
point was discovered, although no object could be seen until it was
reached; but Jon’s strength, which had been kept up by his pride and his
anxiety, at last began to fail. The poor boy had been so long exposed to
the wind, snow, and icy rain, that his teeth chattered in his head, and
his legs trembled as he walked. About noon, fortunately, there was a
lull in the storm; the rain slackened, and the clouds lifted themselves
so that one might see for a mile or more. He caught sight of the rocky
corner for which he was steering, stopped and pointed toward one of the
loose ponies.

Erik jumped from the saddle, and threw his arms around Jon, whose senses
were fast vanishing. He felt that something was put to his lips, that he
was swallowing fire, and that his icy hands were wrapped in a soft,
delicious warmth. In a minute he found that Erik had thrust them under
his jacket, while the other two were bending over him with anxious
faces. The stranger who spoke so curiously held a cake to his mouth,
saying: “Eat—eat!” It was wonderful how his strength came back!

Very soon he was able to mount the pony and take the lead. Sometimes the
clouds fell dense and dark around them; but when they lifted only for a
second, it was enough for Jon. Men and beasts suffered alike, and at
last Erik said:

“Unless we get out of the desert in three hours, we must all perish!”

Jon’s face brightened. “In three hours,” he exclaimed, “there will be
pasturage and water and shelter.”

He was already approaching the region which he knew thoroughly, and
there was scarcely a chance of losing the way. They had more than one
furious gust to encounter—more than one moment when the famished and
exhausted ponies halted and refused to move; but toward evening the last
ridge was reached, and they saw below them, under a dark roof of clouds,
the green valley-basin, the gleam of the river, and the scattered white
specks of the grazing sheep.


                                   V

The ram Thor bleated loudly when he saw his master. Jon was almost too
weary to move hand or foot, but he first visited every sheep, and
examined his rough home under the rock, and his few remaining
provisions, before he sat down to rest. By this time, the happy ponies
were appeasing their hunger, Erik and his fellow-guide had pitched a
white tent, and there was a fire kindled. The owner of the tent said
something which Jon could not hear, but Erik presently shouted:

“The English gentleman asks you to come and take supper with us!”

Jon obeyed, even more from curiosity than hunger. The stranger had a
bright, friendly face, and stretched out his hand as the boy entered the
tent. “Good guide—eat!” was all he was able to say in Icelandic, but the
tone of his voice meant a great deal more. There was a lamp hung to the
tent-pole, an india-rubber blanket spread on the ground, and cups and
plates, which shone like silver, in readiness for the meal. Jon was
amazed to see Erik boiling three or four tin boxes in the kettle of
water; but when they had been opened, and the contents poured into
basins, such a fragrant steam rose as he had never smelled in his life.
There was pea-soup, and Irish stew, and minced collops and beef, and
tea, with no limit to the lumps of sugar, and sweet biscuits, and
currant jelly! Never had he sat down to such a rich, such a wonderful
banquet. He was almost afraid to take enough of the dishes, but the
English traveller filled his plate as fast as it was emptied, patted him
on the back, and repeated the words: “Good guide—eat!” Then he lighted a
cigar, while Erik and the other Icelander pulled out their horns of
snuff, threw back their heads, and each poured nearly a teaspoonful into
his nostrils. They offered the snuff to Jon, but he refused both that
and a cigar. He was warm and comfortable, to the ends of his toes, and
his eyelids began to fall, in spite of all efforts to hold them up,
after so much fatigue and exposure as he had endured.

In fact, his senses left him suddenly, although he seemed to be aware
that somebody lifted and laid him down again—that something soft came
under his head, and something warm over his body—that he was safe, and
sheltered, and happy.

When he awoke it was bright day. He started up, striking his head
against a white, wet canvas, and sat a moment, bewildered, trying to
recall what had happened. He could scarcely believe that he had slept
all night in a tent, beside the friendly Englishman; but he heard Erik
talking outside, and the crackling of a fire, and the shouting of some
one at a distance. The sky was clear and blue; the sheep and ponies were
nibbling sociably together, and the Englishman, standing on a rock
beside the river, was calling attention to a big salmon which he had
just caught. Gudridsdale, just then, seemed the brightest and liveliest
place in Iceland.

Jon knew that he had probably saved the party from death; but he thought
nothing of that, for he had saved himself along with them. He was simply
proud and overjoyed at the chance of seeing something new—of meeting
with a real Englishman, and eating (as he supposed) the foreign, English
food. He felt no longer shy, since he had slept a whole night beside the
traveller. The two Icelandic guides were already like old friends; even
the pony he had ridden seemed to recognize him. His father had told him
that Latin was the language by which all educated men were able to
communicate their ideas; so as the Englishman came up with his salmon
for their breakfast, he said, in Latin:

“To-day is better than yesterday, sir.”

The traveller laughed, shook hands heartily, and answered in Latin,
with—to Jon’s great surprise—two wrong cases in the nouns:

“Both days are better for you than for me. I have learned less at
Oxford.”

But the Latin and Icelandic together were a great help to conversation,
and almost before he knew what he was doing, Jon had told Mr. Lorne—so
the traveller was named—all the simple story of his life, even his claim
to the little valley-basin wherein they were encamped, and the giving it
his sister’s name. Mr. Lorne had crossed from the little town of
Akureyri, on the northern shore of Iceland, and was bound down the
valley of Thiörvǎ to the Geysers, thence to Hekla, and finally to
Rejkiavik, where he intended to embark for England. As Jon’s time of
absence had expired, his provisions being nearly consumed, and as it was
also necessary to rest a day for the sake of the traveller’s ponies, it
was arranged so that all should return in company to Sigurd’s farm.

That last day in Gudridsdale was the most delightful of all. They
feasted sumptuously on the traveller’s stores, and when night came the
dried grass from Jon’s hollow under the rock was spread within the tent,
making a soft and pleasant bed for the whole party.

Mounted on one of the ponies, Jon led the way up the long ravine,
cheerily singing as he drove the full-fed sheep before him. They reached
the level of the desert table-land, and he gave one more glance at the
black, scattered mountains to the northward where he had passed two such
adventurous days. In spite of all that he had seen and learned in that
time, he felt a little sad that he had not succeeded in crossing the
wilderness. When they reached the point where their way descended by a
long, deep slope to the valley of the Thiörvǎ, he turned for yet another
farewell view. Far off, between him and the nearest peak, there seemed
to be a moving speck. He pointed it out to Erik, who, after gazing
steadily a moment, said, “It is a man on horseback.”

“Perhaps another lost traveller!” exclaimed Mr. Lorne; “let us wait for
him.”

It was quite safe to let the sheep and loose ponies take their way in
advance; for they saw the pasture below them. In a quarter of an hour
the man and horse could be clearly distinguished. The former had
evidently seen them also, for he approached much more rapidly than at
first.

All at once Jon cried out: “It is our pony, Heimdal! It must be my
father!”

He sprang from the saddle as he spoke, and ran towards the strange
horseman. The latter presently galloped up, dismounted, walked a few
steps, and sat down upon a stone. But Jon’s arms were around him, and as
they kissed each other, the father burst into tears.

“I thought thou wert lost, my boy,” was all he could say.

“But here I am, father!” Jon proudly exclaimed.

“And the sheep?”

“Fat and sound, every one of them.”

Sigurd rose and mounted his horse, and as they all descended the slope
together Jon and Erik told him all that had happened. Mr. Lome, to whom
the occurrence was explained, shook hands with him, and, pointing to
Jon, said in his broken way: “Good son—little man!” Whereupon they all
laughed, and Jon could not help noticing the proud and happy expression
of his father’s face.

On the afternoon of the second day they reached Sigurd’s farmhouse; but
the mother and Gudrid, who had kept up an anxious lookout, met them
nearly a mile away. After the first joyous embrace of welcome, Sigurd
whispered a few words to his wife, and she hastened back to put the
guest-room in order. Mr. Lorne found it so pleasant to get under a roof
again, that he ordered another halt of two days before going on to the
Geysers and Hekla. No beverage ever tasted so sweet to him as the great
bowl of milk which Gudrid brought as soon as he had taken his seat, and
the radishes from the garden seemed a great deal better than the little
jar of orange marmalade which he insisted on giving in exchange for
them.

“Oh, is it indeed orange?” cried Gudrid. “Jon, Jon, now we shall know
what the taste is!”

Their mother gave them a spoonful apiece, and Mr. Lorne smiled as he saw
their wondering, delighted faces.

“Does it really grow on a tree?—and how high is the tree?—and what does
it look like?—like a birch?—or a potato-plant?” Jon asked, in his
eagerness, without waiting for the answers. It was very difficult for
him to imagine what he had never seen, even in pictures, or anything
resembling it. Mr. Lorne tried to explain how different are the
productions of nature in warmer climates, and the children listened as
if they could never hear enough of the wonderful story. At last Jon
said, in his firm, quiet way, “Some day I’ll go there!”

“You will, my boy,” Mr. Lorne replied; “you have strength and courage to
carry out your will.”

Jon never imagined that he had more strength or courage than any other
boy, but he knew that the Englishman meant to praise him, so he shook
hands as he had been taught to do on receiving a gift.

The two days went by only too quickly. The guest furnished food both for
himself and the family, for he shot a score of plovers and caught half a
dozen fine salmon. He was so frank and cheerful that they soon became
accustomed to his presence, and were heartily sorry when Erik and the
other Icelandic guide went out to drive the ponies together, and load
them for the journey. Mr. Lorne called Sigurd and Jon into the
guest-room, untied a buckskin pouch, and counted out fifty silver
rix-dollars upon the table. “For my little guide!” he said, putting his
hand on Jon’s thick curls. Father and son, in their astonishment,
uttered a cry at the same time, and neither knew what to say. But,
brokenly as Mr. Lorne talked, they understood him when he said that Jon
had probably saved his life, that he was a brave boy and would make a
good, brave man, and that if the father did not need the money for his
farm expenses, he should apply it to his son’s education.

The tears were running down Sigurd’s cheeks. He took the Englishman’s
hand, gave it a powerful grip, and simply said, “It shall be used for
his benefit.”

Jon was so strongly moved that, without stopping to think, he did the
one thing which his heart suggested. He walked up to Mr. Lorne, threw
his arms around his neck, and kissed him very tenderly.

“All is ready, sir!” cried Erik, at the door. The last packages were
carried out and tied upon the baggage-ponies, farewells were said once
more, and the little caravan took its way down the valley. The family
stood in front of the house, and watched until the ponies turned around
the first cape of the hills and disappeared; then they could only sit
down and talk of all the unexpected things that had happened. There was
no work done upon the farm that day.


                                   VI

The unusual warmth of the summer, which was so injurious to the pastures
lying near the southern coast, brought fortune to Sigurd’s farm. The
price of wool was much higher than usual, and owing to Jon’s excursion
into the mountains, the sheep were in the best possible condition. They
had never raised such a crop of potatoes, nor such firm, thick-headed
cabbages, and by great care and industry a sufficient supply of hay had
been secured for the winter.

“I am afraid something will happen to us,” said Sigurd one day to his
wife; “the good luck comes too fast.”

“Don’t say that!” she exclaimed. “If we were to lose Jon——”

“Jon!” interrupted Sigurd. “Oh, no; look at his eyes, his breast, his
arms, and his legs—there are a great many years of life in them! He
ought to have a chance at the school in Rejkiavik, but we can hardly do
without him this year.”

“Perhaps brother Magnus would take him,” she said.

“Not while I live,” Sigurd replied, as he left the room, while his wife
turned with a sigh to her household duties. Her family, and especially
her elder brother, Magnus, who was a man of wealth and influence, had
bitterly opposed her marriage with Sigurd, on account of the latter’s
poverty, and she had seen none of them since she came to live on the
lonely farm. Through great industry and frugality they had gradually
prospered; and now she began to long for a reconciliation, chiefly for
her husband’s and children’s sake. It would be much better for Jon if he
could find a home in his uncle’s house when they were able to send him
to school.

So, when they next rode over to Kyrkedal on a Sabbath day in the late
autumn, she took with her a letter to Magnus, which she had written
without her husband’s knowledge, for she wished to save him the pain of
the slight, in case her brother should refuse to answer or should answer
in an unfriendly way. It was a pleasant day for all of them, for Mr.
Lorne had stopped a night at Kyrkedal, and Erik had told the story of
Jon’s piloting them through the wilderness; so the pastor, after
service, came up at once to them and patted Jon on the head, saying;
“_Bene fecisti, fili!_” And the other boys, forgetting their usual
shyness, crowded around and said: “Tell us all about it!” Everything was
as wonderful to them as it still seemed to Jon in his memory, and when
each one said: “If I had gone there I should have done the same thing!”
Jon wondered that he and the boys should ever have felt so awkward and
bashful when they came together. Now it was all changed; they talked and
joked like old companions, and cordially promised to visit each other
during the winter, if their parents were willing.

On the way home Sigurd found that he had dropped his whip, and sent Jon
back to look for it, leaving his wife and Gudrid to ride onward up the
valley. Jon rode at least half a mile before he found it, and then came
galloping back, cracking it joyously. But Sigurd’s face was graver and
wearier than usual.

“Ride a little while with me,” he said; “I want to ask thee something.”
Then, as Jon rode beside him in the narrow tracks which the ponies’
hoofs had cut through the turf, he added: “The boys at Kyrkedal seemed
to make much of thee; I hope thy head is not turned by what they said.”

“Oh, father!” Jon cried; “they were so kind, so friendly!”

“I don’t doubt it,” his father answered. “Thou hast done well, my son,
and I see that thou art older than thy years. But suppose there were a
heavier task in store for thee,—suppose that I should be called
away,—couldst thou do a man’s part, and care properly for thy mother and
thy little sister?”

Jon’s eyes filled with tears, and he knew not what to say.

“Answer me,” Sigurd commanded.

“I never thought of that,” Jon answered, in a trembling voice; “but if I
were to do my best, would not God help me?”

“He would!” Sigurd exclaimed with energy. “All strength comes from Him,
and all fortune. Enough—I can trust thee, my son; ride on to Gudrid, and
tell her not to twist herself in the saddle, looking back!”

Sigurd attended to his farm for several days longer, but in a silent,
dreamy way, as if his mind were busy with other thoughts. His wife was
so anxiously waiting the result of her letter to Magnus, that she paid
less attention to his condition than she otherwise would have done.

But one evening, on returning from the stables, he passed by the table
where their frugal supper was waiting, entered the bedroom, and sank
down, saying:

“All my strength has left me; I feel as if I should never rise again.”

They then saw that he had been attacked by a dangerous fever, for his
head was hot, his eyes glassy, and he began to talk in a wild,
incoherent way. They could only do what the neighbors were accustomed to
do in similar cases,—which really was worse than doing nothing at all
would have been. Jon was despatched next morning, on the best pony, to
summon the physician from Skalholt; but, even with the best luck, three
days must elapse before the latter could arrive. The good pastor of
Kyrkedal came the next day and bled Sigurd, which gave him a little
temporary quiet, while it reduced his vital force. The physician was
absent, visiting some farms to the eastward,—in fact, it was a full week
before he made his appearance. During this time Sigurd wasted away, his
fits of delirium became more frequent, and the chances of his recovery
grew less and less. Jon recalled, now, his father’s last conversation,
and it gave him both fear and comfort. He prayed, with all the fervor of
his boyish nature, that his father’s life might be spared; yet he
determined to do his whole duty, if the prayer should not be granted.


                                  VII

At the end of two weeks, Sigurd’s wife received a letter from her
brother, and it was better than she had dared to hope. Magnus wrote that
his wife was dead, his son was a student in Copenhagen, and he was all
alone in the big house at Rejkiavik. He was ready to give Jon a home,
even to take herself and her husband, provided the latter could sell his
farm to good advantage and find some employment which would add to his
means. “He must neither live an idle life nor depend on my help,” Magnus
said; and his sister felt that he was right, although he told the truth
in rather a hard, unfriendly way.

She read the letter to Sigurd the next morning, as he was lying very
weak and quiet, but in his right mind. His eyes slowly brightened, and
he murmured, at last, with difficulty:

“Sell the farm to Thorsten, for his eldest son, and go to Magnus. Jon
will take my place.”

Jon, who had entered the room in time to hear these words, sat down on
the bed and held his father’s hand in both his own. The latter smiled
faintly, opened his lips to speak again, and then a sudden quivering
passed over his face, and he lay strangely still. It was a long time
before the widow and children could believe he was dead. They said to
each other, over and over again, amid their tears: “He was happy; the
trouble for our sakes was taken away from his heart;”—and Jon thought to
himself: “If I do my best, as I promised, he will be still happier in
heaven.”

When Sigurd’s death was known, the neighbors came and helped them until
the funeral was over, and the sad little household resumed, as far as
possible, its former way of life. Thorsten, a rich farmer of Kyrkedal,
whose son was to be married in the spring, came, a few weeks later, to
make an offer for the farm. No doubt he hoped to get it at a low price;
for money has a greater value in Iceland, where there is so little of
it. But the widow said at once, “I shall make no bargain unless Jon
agrees with me;” and then Jon spoke up, looking a great deal more like a
full-grown, honest man than he supposed:

“We only want the fair value of the farm, neighbor Thorsten. We want it
because we need it, and everybody will say it is just and right that we
should have it. If we cannot get that, I shall try to go on and do my
father’s work. I am only a boy now, but I shall get bigger and stronger
every year.”

“Thy father could not have spoken better words,” said Thorsten.

He made what he considered a fair offer, and it was very nearly as much
as Jon and his mother had reckoned upon; the latter, however, insisted
on waiting until she had consulted with her brother Magnus.

Not many days after that, Magnus himself arrived at the farm. He was a
tall man, with dark hair, large gray eyes, a thin, hard mouth, and an
important, commanding air. It was a little hard for Jon to say “uncle”
to this man, whom he had never seen, and of whom he had heard so little.
Magnus, although stern, was not unfriendly, and when he had heard of all
that had been said and done, he nodded his head and said:

“Very prudent; very well, so far!”

It was, perhaps, as well that the final settlement of affairs was left
to Uncle Magnus, for he not only obtained an honest price for the farm,
but sold the ponies, cows, and sheep to much better advantage than the
family could have done. He had them driven to Kyrkedal, and sent
messengers to Skalholt and Myrdal, and even to Thingvalla, so that quite
a number of farmers came together, and they had dinner in the church.
Some of the women and children also came, to say “good-bye” to the
family; but when the former whispered to Jon, “You’ll come back to us
some day, as a pastor or a _skald_” (author), Magnus frowned and shook
his head.

“The boy is in a fair way to make an honest, sensible man,” he said.
“Don’t you spoil him with your nonsense!”

When they all set out together for Rejkiavik, Jon reproached himself for
feeling so light-hearted, while his mother and Gudrid wept for miles of
the way. He was going to see a real town, to enter school, to begin a
new and wonderful life; and just beyond Kyrkedal there came the first
strange sight. They rode over the grassy plain toward the Geysers, the
white steam of which they had often seen in the distance; but now, as
they drew near a gray cone, which rose at the foot of the hill on the
west, a violent thumping began in the earth under their feet. “He is
going to spout!” cried the guide, and he had hardly spoken when the
basin in the top of the cone boiled over furiously, throwing huge
volumes of steam into the air. Then there was a sudden, terrible jar,
and a pillar of water, six feet in diameter, shot up to the height of
nearly a hundred feet, sparkling like liquid gold in the low, pale,
sunshine. It rose again and again, until the subterranean force was
exhausted; then the water fell back into the basin with a dull sound,
and all was over.

They could think or talk of nothing else for a time, and when they once
more looked about them the landscape had changed. All was new to the
children, and only dimly remembered by their mother. The days were very
short and dark, for winter was fast coming on; it was often difficult to
make the distance from one farmhouse to another, and they twice slept in
the little churches, which are always hospitably opened for travellers
because there are no inns in Iceland. After leaving the valley, they had
a bitterly cold and stormy journey over a high field of lava, where
little piles of stones, a few yards apart, are erected to guide the
traveller. Beyond this, they crossed the Raven’s Cleft, a deep, narrow
chasm, with a natural bridge in one place, where the rocks have fallen
together from either side; then, at the bottom of the last slope of the
lava-plains, they entered the Thingvalla Forest.

Jon was a little disappointed; still he had never seen anything like it.
There were willow and birch bushes, three or four feet high, growing
here and there out of the cracks among the rocks. He could look over the
tops of them from his pony, as he rode along, and the largest trunk was
only big enough to make a club. But there is no other “forest” in
Iceland; and the people must have something to represent a forest, or
they would have no use for the word!

It was fast growing dark when they reached Thingvalla, and the great,
shattered walls of rock which inclose the valley appeared much loftier
than by day. On the right, a glimmering waterfall plunged from the top
of the cliff, and its roar filled the air. Magnus pointed out, on the
left, the famous “Hill of the Law,” where for nearly nine hundred years
the people of Iceland had assembled together to discuss their political
matters. Jon knew all about the spot, from the many historical legends
and poems he had read, and there was scarcely another place in the whole
world which he could have had greater interest in seeing. The next
morning, when it was barely light enough to travel, they rode up a kind
of rocky ladder, through a great fissure called the _Almannagjá_, or
“People’s Chasm,” and then pushed on more rapidly across the barren
table-land. It was still forty miles to Rejkiavik,—a good two days’
journey at that season,—and the snows, which already covered the
mountains, were beginning to fall on the lower country.

On the afternoon of the second day, after they had crossed the Salmon
River, Magnus said:

“In an hour we shall see the town!”

But the first thing that came in sight was only a stone tower or beacon,
which the students had built upon a hill.

“Is that a town?” asked Gudrid; whereupon the others laughed heartily.

Jon discreetly kept silent, and waited until they had reached the foot
of the beacon, when—all at once—Rejkiavik lay below them. Its two or
three hundred houses stretched for half a mile over a belt of land
between the sea and a large lake. There was the prison, built all of cut
stone; the old wooden cathedral, with its square spire; the large,
snow-white governor’s house, and the long row of stores and warehouses,
fronting the harbor—all visible at once! To a boy who had never before
seen a comfortable dwelling, nor more than five houses near together,
the little town was a grand, magnificent capital. Each house they passed
was a new surprise to him; the doors, windows, chimneys, and roofs were
all so different, so large and fine. And there were more people in the
streets than he had ever before seen together.

At last Magnus stopped before one of the handsomest dwellings, and
helped his sister down from her pony. The door opened, and an old
servant came forth. Jon and Gudrid, hand in hand, followed them into a
room which seemed to them larger and handsomer than the church at
Kyrkedal, with still other rooms opening out of it, with wonderful
chairs, and pictures, and carpets upon which they were afraid to walk.
This was their new home.


                                  VIII

Even before their arrival, Jon discovered that his Uncle Magnus was a
man who said little, but took good notice of what others did. The way to
gain his favor, therefore, was to accept and discharge the duties of the
new life as they should arise. Having adopted the resolution to do this,
it was surprising how soon these duties became familiar and easy. He
entered the school, where he was by no means the lowest or least
promising scholar, assisted his mother and Gudrid wherever it was
possible, and was so careful a messenger that Magnus by degrees
intrusted him with matters of some importance. The household, in a
little while, became well-ordered and harmonious, and although it lacked
the freedom and homelike feeling of the lonely farm on the Thiörvǎ, all
were contented and happy.

Jon had a great deal to learn, but his eagerness helped him. His memory
was naturally excellent, and he had been obliged to exercise it so
constantly—having so few books, and those mostly his own written
copies—that he was able to repeat, correctly, large portions of the
native _sagas_, or poetical histories. He was so well advanced in Latin
that the continuance of the study became simply a delight; he learned
Danish, almost without an effort, from his uncle’s commercial partner
and the Danish clerk in the warehouse; and he took up the study of
English with a zeal that was heightened by his memories of Mr. Lorne.

We cannot follow him, step by step, during this period, although many
things in his life might instruct and encourage other earnest,
struggling boys. It is enough to say that he was always patient and
cheerful, always grateful for his opportunity of education, and never
neglectful of his proper duties to his uncle, mother, and sister.
Sometimes, it is true, he was called upon to give up hours of sport,
days of recreation, desires which were right in themselves but could not
be gratified,—and it might have gone harder with him to do so, if he had
not constantly thought: “How would my father have acted in such a case?”
And had he not promised to take the place of his father?

So three years passed away. Jon was eighteen, and had his full stature.
He was strong and healthy, and almost handsome; and he had seen so much
of the many strangers who every summer come to Rejkiavik—French
fishermen, Spanish and German sailors, English travellers and Danish
traders—that all his old shyness had disappeared. He was able to look
any man in the eyes, and ask or answer a question.

It was the beginning of summer, and the school had just closed. Jon had
been assisting the Danish clerk in the warehouse; but toward noon, when
they had an idle hour, a sailor announced that there was a new arrival
in the harbor; so he walked down the beach of sharp lava-sand to the
wooden jetty where strangers landed. A little distance off shore a yacht
was moored; the English flag was flying at the stern, and a boat was
already pulling toward the landing-place. Jon rubbed his eyes, to be
sure that he saw clearly; but no! the figure remained the same; and now,
as the stranger leaped ashore, he could no longer contain himself. He
rushed across the beach, threw his arms around the man, and cried out,
“Lorne! Lorne!”

The latter was too astonished to recognize him immediately.

“Don’t you know me?” Jon asked; and then, half laughing, half crying,
said in Latin, “To-day is better than yesterday.”

“Why, can this be my little guide?” exclaimed Mr. Lorne. “But to be sure
it is! There are no such wise eyes in so young a head anywhere else in
the world.”

Before night the traveller was installed in the guest-room in Uncle
Magnus’s house; and then they truly found that he had not forgotten
them. After supper he opened a box, and out there came a silver watch
for Jon; a necklace, that could not be told from real pearls, for
Gudrid; and what a shawl for the mother! Even Uncle Magnus was touched,
for he brought up a very old, dusty bottle of Portugal wine, which he
had never been known to do before, except one day when the Governor came
to see him.

“And now,” said Mr. Lorne, when he was a little tired of being thanked
so much, “I want something in return. I am going, by way of the Broad
Fiord, to the northern shore of Iceland, and back through the desert;
and I shall not feel safe unless Jon goes with me.”

“Oh!” cried Jon.

“I am not afraid this time,” said Gudrid.

Magnus looked at his sister, and then nodded. “Take the boy!” he said.
“He can get back before school commences again; and we are as ready to
trust him with you as you are to trust yourself with him.”

What a journey that was! They had plenty of ponies, and a tent, and
provisions in tin cans. Sometimes it rained or snowed, and they were wet
and chilly enough at the end of the day, but then the sun shone again,
and the black mountains became purple and violet and their snows and
ice-fields sparkled in the blue of the air. They saw many a wild and
desolate landscape, but also many a soft green plain and hay-meadow
along the inlets of the northern shore; and in the little town of
Akureyri Jon at last found a tree—the only tree in Iceland! It is a
mountain-ash, about twenty feet high, and the people are so proud of it
that every autumn they wrap the trunk and boughs, and even the smallest
twigs, in woollen cloth, lest the severity of the winter should kill it.

They visited the _Myvatn_ (Mosquito Lake) in the northeastern part of
the island, saw the volcanoes which in 1875 occasioned such terrible
devastation, and then crossed the great central desert to the valley of
the Thiörvǎ. So it happened that Jon saw Gudridsdale again, but under
pleasanter aspects than before, for it was a calm, sunny day when they
reached the edge of the table-land and descended into the lovely green
valley. It gave him a feeling of pain to find strangers in his father’s
house, and perhaps Mr. Lorne suspected this, for he did not stop at the
farm, but pushed on to Kyrkedal, where the good old pastor entertained
them both as welcome guests. At the end of six weeks they were back in
Rejkiavik, hale and ruddy after their rough journey, and closer friends
than ever.

Each brought back his own gain—Mr. Lorne was able to speak Icelandic
tolerably well, and Jon was quite proficient in English. The former had
made the trip to Iceland especially to collect old historical legends
and acquire new information concerning them. To his great surprise, he
found Jon so familiar with the subject, that, during the journey, he
conceived the idea of taking him to Scotland for a year, as an assistant
in his studies; but he said nothing of this until after their return.
Then, first, he proposed the plan to Magnus and Jon’s mother, and
prudently gave them time to consider it. It was hard for both to
consent, but the advantages were too evident to be rejected. To Jon,
when he heard it, it seemed simply impossible; yet the preparations went
on,—his mother and Gudrid wept as they helped, Uncle Magnus looked
grave,—and at last the morning came when he had to say farewell.

The yacht had favorable winds at first. They ran along the southern
shore to Ingolf’s Head, saw the high, inaccessible summits of the
Skaptar Jökull fade behind them, and then Iceland dropped below the sea.
A misty gale began to blow from the southwest, forcing them to pass the
Faroe Islands on the east, and afterward the Shetland Isles; but, after
nearly coming in sight of Norway, the wind changed to the opposite
quarter, and the yacht spread her sails directly for Leith. One night,
when Jon awoke in his berth, he missed the usual sound of waves against
the vessel’s side and the cries of the sailors on deck—everything seemed
strangely quiet; but he was too good a sleeper to puzzle his head about
it, so merely turned over on his pillow. When he arose the quiet was
still there. He dressed in haste and went on deck. The yacht lay at
anchor in front of buildings larger than a hundred Rejkiaviks put
together.

“This is Leith,” said Mr. Lorne, coming up to him.

“Leith?” Jon exclaimed; “it seems like Rome or Jerusalem! Those must be
the King’s palaces.”

“No, my boy,” Mr. Lorne answered, “they are only warehouses.”

“But what are those queer green hills behind the houses? They are so
steep and round that I don’t see how anybody could climb up.”

“Hills?” exclaimed Mr. Lorne. “Oh, I see now! Why, Jon, those are
trees.”

Jon was silent. He dared not doubt his friend’s word, but he could not
yet wholly believe it. When they had landed, and he saw the great
trunks, the spreading boughs, and the millions of green leaves, such a
feeling of awe and admiration came over him that he began to tremble. A
wind was blowing, and the long, flexible boughs of the elms swayed up
and down.

“Oh, Mr. Lorne!” he cried. “See! they are praying! Let us wait a while;
they are saying something—I hear their voices. Is it English?—can you
understand it?”

[Illustration:

  “The halt on the journey”
]

Mr. Lorne took him by the hand and said: “It is praise, not prayer. They
speak the same language all over the world, but no one can understand
all they say.”

There is one rough little cart in Rejkiavik, and this is the only
vehicle in Iceland. What then, must have been Jon’s feelings when he saw
hundreds of elegant carriages dashing to and fro, and great wagons drawn
by giant horses? When they got into a cab, it seemed to him like sitting
on a moving throne. He had read and heard of all these things, and
thought he had a clear idea of what they were; but he was not prepared
for the reality. He was so excited, as they drove up the street to
Edinburgh, that Mr. Lorne, sitting beside him, could feel the beating of
his heart. The new wonders never ceased: there was an apple tree with
fruit; rose bushes in bloom; whole beds of geraniums in the little
gardens; windows filled with fruit or brilliant silks or silver-ware;
towers that seemed to touch the clouds, and endless multitudes of
people! As they reached the hotel, all he could say, in a faltering
voice, was, “Poor old Iceland!”

The next day they took the train for Lanark, in the neighborhood of
which Mr. Lorne had an estate. When Jon saw the bare, heather-covered
mountains, and the swift brooks that came leaping down their glens, he
laughed and said:

“Oh, you have a little of Iceland even here! If there were trees along
the Thiörvǎ, it would look like yonder valley.”

“I have some moorland of my own,” Mr. Lorne remarked; “and if you ever
get to be homesick, I’ll send you out upon it to recover.”

But when Jon reached the house, and was so cordially welcomed by Mrs.
Lorne, and saw the park and gardens where he hoped to become familiar
with trees and flowers, he thought there would be as much likelihood of
being homesick in heaven as in such a place.

Everything he saw tempted him to visit and examine it. During the first
few days he could scarcely sit still in the library and take part in Mr.
Lorne’s studies. But his strong sense of duty, his long habits of
patience and self-denial soon made the task easy, and even enabled him
to take a few more hours daily for his own improvement. His delight in
all strange and beautiful natural objects was greatly prolonged by this
course. He enjoyed everything far more than if he had rapidly exhausted
its novelty. Mr. Lorne saw this quality of Jon’s nature with great
satisfaction, and was very ready to give advice and information which he
knew would be earnestly heeded.

It was a very happy year; but I do not believe that it was the happiest
of Jon’s life. Having learned to overcome the restlessness and
impatience which are natural to boyhood, he laid the basis for greater
content in life as a man. When he returned to Rejkiavik, in his
twentieth year, with a hundred pounds in his pocket and a rich store of
knowledge in his head, all other tasks seemed easy. It was a great
triumph for his mother, and especially for Gudrid, now a bright,
blooming maiden of sixteen. Uncle Magnus brought up another dusty bottle
to welcome him, although there were only six more left; and all the
neighbors came around in the evening. Even the Governor stopped and
shook hands, the next day, when Jon met him in the street. His mother,
who was with him, said, after the Governor had passed: “I hope thy
father sees thee now.” The same thought was in Jon’s heart.

And now, as he is no longer a boy, we must say good-bye to him. We have
no fears for his future life; he will always be brave and manly and
truthful. But, if some of my readers are still curious to know more of
him, I may add that he is a very successful teacher in the school at
Rejkiavik; that he hopes to visit Mr. Lorne, in Scotland, very soon; and
I should not be in the least surprised if he were to join good old Dr.
Hjaltalin, and pay a visit to the United States.



                                   IV
                           The Two Herd-Boys


When I was in Germany, several years ago, I spent a few weeks of the
summer-time in a small town among the Thuringian Mountains. This is a
range on the borders of Saxony, something like our Green Mountains in
height and form, but much darker in color, on account of the thick
forests of fir which cover them. I had visited this region several times
before, and knew not only the roads but most of the footpaths, and had
made some acquaintance with the people; so I felt quite at home among
them, and was fond of taking long walks up to the ruins of castles on
the peaks, or down into the wild, rocky dells between them.

The people are mostly poor, and very laborious; yet all their labor
barely produces enough to keep them from want. There is not much farming
land, as you may suppose. The men cut wood, the women spin flax and
bleach linen, and the children gather berries, tend cattle on the high
mountain pastures, or act as guides to the summer travellers. A great
many find employment in the manufacture of toys, of which there are
several establishments in this region, producing annually many thousands
of crying and speaking dolls, bleating lambs, barking dogs, and roaring
lions.

Behind the town where I lived, there was a spur of the mountains,
crowned by the walls of a castle built by one of the dukes who ruled
over that part of Saxony eight or nine hundred years ago. Beyond this
ruin, the mountain rose more gradually, until it reached the highest
ridge, about three miles distant. In many places the forest had been cut
away, leaving open tracts where the sweet mountain grass grew thick and
strong, and where there were always masses of heather, harebells,
foxgloves, and wild pinks. Every morning all the cattle of the town were
driven up to these pastures, each animal with a bell hanging to its
neck, and the sound of so many hundred bells tinkling all at once made a
chime which could be heard at a long distance.

One of my favorite walks was to mount to the ruined castle, and pass
beyond it to the flowery pasture-slopes, from which I had a wide view of
the level country to the north and the mountain-ridges on both sides.
Here it was very pleasant to sit on a rock, in the sunny afternoon, and
listen to the continual sound of bells which filled the air. Sometimes
one of the herd-boys would sing, or shout to the others across the
intervening glens, while the village girls, with baskets of bark, hunted
for berries along the edges of the forests. Although so high on the
mountain, the landscape was never lonely.

One day, during my ramble, I came upon two smaller herds of cattle, each
tended by a single boy. They were near each other, but not on the same
pasture, for there was a deep hollow, or dell, between. Nevertheless
they could plainly see each other, and even talk whenever they liked, by
shouting a little. As I came out of a thicket upon the clearing, on one
side of the hollow, the herd-boy tending the cattle nearest to me was
sitting among the grass, and singing with all his might the German song
commencing,

                               “Tra, ri, ro!
                       The summer’s here I know!”

His back was towards me, but I noticed that his elbows were moving very
rapidly. Curious to learn what he was doing, I slipped quietly around
some bushes to a point where I could see him distinctly, and found that
he was knitting a woollen stocking. Presently he lifted his head, looked
across to the opposite pasture and cried out, “Hans! the cows!”

I looked also, and saw another boy of about the same age start up and
run after his cattle, the last one of which was entering the forests.
Then the boy near me gave a glance at his own cattle, which were quietly
grazing on the slope, a little below him, and went on with his knitting.
As I approached, he heard my steps and turned towards me, a little
startled at first; but he was probably accustomed to seeing strangers,
for I soon prevailed upon him to tell me his name and age. He was called
Otto, and was twelve years old; his father was a wood-cutter, and his
mother spun and bleached linen.

“And how much”, I asked him, “do you get for taking care of the cattle?”

“I am to have five thalers” (about four dollars), he answered, “for the
whole summer; but it doesn’t go to me—it’s for father. But then I make a
good many groschen by knitting, and _that’s_ for my winter clothes. Last
year I could buy a coat, and this year I want to get enough for trousers
and new shoes. Since the cattle know me so well, I have only to talk and
they mind me; and that, you see, gives me plenty of time to knit.”

“I see,” I said; “it’s a very good arrangement. I suppose the cattle
over on the other pasture don’t know their boy? He has not got them all
out of the woods yet.”

“Yes, they know him,” said Otto, “and that’s the reason they slip away.
But the cattle mind some persons better than others; I’ve seen that
much.”

Here he stopped talking, and commenced knitting again. I watched him
awhile, as he rapidly and evenly rattled off the stitches. He evidently
wanted to make the most of his time. Then I again looked across the
hollow, where Hans—the other boy—had at last collected his cows. He
stood on the top of a rock, flinging stones down the steep slope. When
he had no more, he stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled loudly,
to draw Otto’s attention; but the latter pretended not to hear. Then I
left them; for the shadow of the mountain behind me was beginning to
creep up the other side of the valley.

A few days afterwards I went up to the pasture again, and came, by
chance, to the head of the little dell dividing the two herds. I had
been wandering in the fir-forest, and reached the place unexpectedly.
There was a pleasant view from the spot, and I seated myself in the
shade, to rest and enjoy it. The first object which attracted my
attention was Otto, knitting as usual, beside his herd of cows. Then I
turned to the other side to discover what Hans was doing. His cattle,
this time, were not straying; but neither did he appear to be minding
them in the least. He was walking backwards and forwards on the
mountainside, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. Sometimes, where the
top of a rock projected from the soil, he would lean over it, and look
along it from one end to the other, as if he were trying to measure its
size; then he would walk on, pull a blue flower, and then a yellow one,
look at them sharply, and throw them away. “What is he after?” I said to
myself. “Has he lost something, and is he trying to find it? or are his
thoughts so busy with something else that he doesn’t really know what he
is about?”

I watched him for nearly half an hour, at the end of which time he
seemed to get tired, for he gave up looking about and sat down in the
grass. The cattle were no doubt acquainted with his ways—(It is
astonishing how much intelligence they have!)—and they immediately began
to move towards the forest, and would soon have wandered away, if I had
not headed them off and driven them back. Then I followed them, much to
the surprise of Hans, who had been aroused by the noise of their bells
as they ran from me.

“You don’t keep a very good watch, my boy!” I said.

As he made no answer, I asked, “Have you lost anything?”

“No,” he then said.

“What have you been hunting so long?”

He looked confused, turned away his head, and muttered, “Nothing.”

This made me sure he had been hunting something, and I felt a little
curiosity to know what it was. But although I asked him again, and
offered to help him hunt it, he would tell me nothing. He had a restless
and rather unhappy look, quite different from the bright, cheerful eyes
and pleasant countenance of Otto.

His father, he said, worked in a mill below the town, and got good
wages; so he was allowed half the pay for tending the cattle during the
summer.

“What will you do with the money?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ll soon spend it,” he said. “I could spend a hundred times that
much, if I had it.”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed. “No doubt it’s all the better that you haven’t
it.”

He did not seem to like this remark, and was afterwards disinclined to
talk; so I left him and went over to Otto, who was as busy and cheerful
as ever.

“Otto,” said I, “do you know what Hans is hunting all over the pasture?
Has he lost anything?”

“No,” Otto answered; “he has not lost anything, and I don’t believe he
will find anything, either. Because, even if it is all true, they say
you never come across it when you look for it, but it just shows itself
all at once, when you’re not expecting.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

Otto looked at me a moment, and seemed to hesitate. He appeared also to
be a little surprised; but probably he reflected that I was a stranger,
and could not be expected to know everything, for he finally asked,
“Don’t you know, sir, what the shepherd found, somewhere about here, a
great many hundred years ago?”

“No,” I answered.

“Not the key-flower?”

Then I _did_ know what he meant, and understood the whole matter in a
moment. But I wanted to know what Otto had heard of the story, and
therefore said to him, “I wish you would tell me.”

“Well,” he began, “some say it was true, and some that it wasn’t. At any
rate, it was a long, long while ago, and there’s no telling how much to
believe. My grandmother told _me_; but then she didn’t know the man; she
only heard about him from her grandmother. He was a shepherd, and used
to tend his sheep on the mountain,—or maybe it was cows, I’m not
sure,—in some place where there were a great many kobolds and fairies.
And so it went on from year to year. He was a poor man, but very
cheerful, and always singing and making merry; but sometimes he would
wish to have a little more money, so that he need not be obliged to go
up to the pastures in the cold foggy weather. That wasn’t much wonder,
sir, for it’s cold enough up here, some days.

“It was in summer, and the flowers were all in blossom, and he was
walking along after his sheep, when all at once he saw a wonderful
sky-blue flower of a kind he had never seen before in all his life. Some
people say it was sky-blue, and some that it was golden-yellow; I don’t
know which is right. Well, however it was, there was the wonderful
flower, as large as your hand, growing in the grass. The shepherd
stooped down and broke the stem; but just as he was lifting up the
flower to examine it, he saw that there was a door in the side of the
mountain. Now he had been over the ground a hundred times before, and
had never seen anything of the kind. Yet it was a real door, and it was
open, and there was a passage into the earth. He looked into it for a
long time, and at last plucked up heart and in he went. After forty or
fifty steps, he found himself in a large hall, full of chests of gold
and diamonds. There was an old kobold, with a white beard, sitting in a
chair beside a large table in the middle of the hall. The shepherd was
at first frightened, but the kobold looked at him with a friendly face,
and said, ‘Take what you want, and don’t forget the best!’

“So the shepherd laid the flower on the table, and went to work and
filled his pockets with the gold and diamonds. When he had as much as he
could carry, the kobold said again, ‘Don’t forget the best!’ ‘That I
won’t,’ the shepherd thought to himself, and took more gold and the
biggest diamonds he could find, and filled his hat, so that he could
scarcely stagger under the load. He was leaving the hall, when the
kobold cried out, ‘Don’t forget the best!’ But he couldn’t carry any
more, and went on, never minding. When he reached the door in the
mountainside, he heard the voice again, for the last time, ‘Don’t forget
the best!’

“The next minute he was out on the pasture. When he looked around, the
door had disappeared: his pockets and hat grew light all at once, and
instead of gold and diamonds he found nothing but dry leaves and
pebbles. He was as poor as ever, and all because he had forgotten the
best. Now, sir, do you know what the best was? Why, it was the flower,
which he had left on the table in the kobold’s hall. _That_ was the
key-flower. When you find it and pull it, the door is opened to all the
treasures under ground. If the shepherd had kept it, the gold and
diamonds would have stayed so; and, besides, the door would have been
always opened to him, and he could then help himself whenever he
wanted.”

Otto had told the story very correctly, just as I had heard it told by
some of the people before. “Did you ever look for the key-flower?” I
asked him.

He grew a little red in the face, then laughed, and answered: “Oh, that
was the first summer I tended the cattle, and I soon got tired of it.
But I guess the flower doesn’t grow any more, now.”

“How long has Hans been looking for it?”

“He looks every day,” said Otto, “when he gets tired doing nothing. But
I shouldn’t wonder if he was thinking about it all the time, or he’d
look after his cattle better than he does.”

As I walked down the mountain that afternoon I thought a great deal
about these two herd-boys and the story of the key-flower. Up to this
time the story had only seemed to me to be a curious and beautiful
fairy-tale; but now I began to think it might mean something more. Here
was Hans, neglecting his cows, and making himself restless and unhappy,
in the hope of some day finding the key-flower; while Otto, who
remembered that it can’t be found by hunting for it, was attentive to
his task, always earning a little, and always contented.

Therefore, the next time I walked up to the pastures, I went straight to
Hans. “Have you found the key-flower yet?” I asked.

There was a curious expression upon his face. He appeared to be partly
ashamed of what he must now and then have suspected to be a folly, and
partly anxious to know if I could tell him where the flower grew.

“See here, Hans,” said I, seating myself upon a rock. “Don’t you know
that those who hunt for it never find it. Of course you have not found
it, and you never will, in this way. But even if you should, you are so
anxious for the gold and diamonds that you would be sure to forget the
best, just as the shepherd did, and would find nothing but leaves and
pebbles in your pockets.”

“Oh, no!” he exclaimed; “that’s just what I wouldn’t do.”

“Why, don’t you forget your work every day?” I asked. “You are
forgetting the best all the time,—I mean the best that you have at
present. Now, I believe there is a key-flower growing on these very
mountains; and, what is more, Otto has found it!”

He looked at me in astonishment.

“Don’t you see,” I continued, “how happy and contented he is all the day
long? He does not work as hard at his knitting as you do in hunting for
the flower; and although you get half your summer’s wages, and he
nothing, he will be richer than you in the fall. He will have a small
piece of gold, and it won’t change into a leaf. Besides, when a boy is
contented and happy he has gold and diamonds. Would you rather be rich
and miserable, or poor and happy?”

This was a subject upon which Hans had evidently not reflected. He
looked puzzled. He was so accustomed to think that money embraced
everything else that was desirable, that he could not imagine it
possible for a rich man to be miserable. But I told him of some rich men
whom I knew, and of others of whom I had heard, and at last bade him
think of the prosperous brewer in the town below, who had so much
trouble in his family, and who walked the streets with his head hanging
down.

I saw that Hans was not a bad boy; he was simply restless, impatient,
and perhaps a little inclined to envy those in better circumstances.
This lonely life on the mountains was not good for a boy of his nature,
and I knew it would be difficult for him to change his habits of
thinking and wishing. But, after a long talk, he promised me he would
try, and that was as much as I expected.

Now, you may want to know whether he _did_ try; and I am sorry that I
cannot tell you. I left the place soon afterwards, and have never been
there since. Let us all hope, however, that he found the real
key-flower.



                                   V
                             The Young Serf


                                   I

It was towards the close of a September day. Old Gregor and his grandson
Sasha were returning home through the forest with their bundles of wood,
the old man stooping low under the weight of the heavier sticks he
carried, while the boy dragged his great bunch of twigs and splints by a
rope drawn over his shoulder. Where the trees grew thick, the air was
already quite gloomy, but in the open spaces they could see the sky and
tell how near it was to sunset.

Both were silent, for they were tired, and it is not easy to talk and
carry a heavy load at the same time. But presently something gray
appeared through the trees, at the foot of a low hill; it was the rock
where they always rested on the way home. Old Gregor laid down his
bundle there, and wiped his face on the sleeve of his brown jacket, but
Sasha sprang upon the rock and began to balance himself upon one foot,
as was his habit whenever he tried to think about anything.

“Grandfather,” he said, at last, “why should all the forest belong to
the Baron, and none of it to you?”

Gregor looked at him sharply for a moment before he answered.

“It was his father’s and his grandfather’s; it has been the property of
the family for many a hundred years, and we have never had any.”

“I know that,” said Sasha. “But why did it come so _first_?”

Gregor shook his head. “You might as well ask how the world was made.”
Then, seeing that the boy looked troubled, he added in a kinder tone,
“What put such a thought in your head?”

“Why, the forest itself!” Sasha cried. “The Baron lets us have the top
branches and little twigs, but he always takes the logs and sells them
for money. I know all the trees, and he doesn’t; I can find my way in
the woods anywhere, and there’s many a tree that would say to me, if it
could talk, ‘I’d rather belong to you, Sasha, because I know you.’”

“Aye, and the moon would say the same to you, boy, and the sun and
stars, maybe. You might as well want to own them,—and _you_ don’t even
belong to yourself.”

Gregor’s words seemed harsh and fierce, but his voice was very sad.
Sasha looked at him and knew not what to say, but he felt that his heart
was beating violently. All at once he heard a rustling among the dead
leaves, and a sound like steps approaching. The old man took hold of his
grandson’s arm and made a sign to him to be silent. The sound came
nearer, and nearer, and presently they could distinguish some dusky
object moving towards them through the trees.

“Is it a robber?” whispered Sasha.

“It is not a man unless he uses his knees for hind feet. I see his head;
it is a bear. Keep quiet, boy! make no noise; take this tough stick, but
hold it at your side, as I do with mine. Look him in the face, if he
comes close; and if I tell you to strike, hit him on the end of the
nose!”

It was, indeed a full-grown bear, marching slowly on his great flat
feet. He was not more than thirty yards distant, when he saw them, and
stopped. Both kept their eyes fixed upon his head, but did not move.
Then he came a few paces nearer, and Sasha tried hard not to show that
he was trembling inwardly, more from excitement than fear. The bear
gazed steadily at them for what seemed a long time: there was an
expression of anger, but also of stupid bewilderment, in his eyes.
Finally he gave a sniff and a grunt, tossed up his nose, and slowly
walked on, stopping once or twice to turn and look back, before he
disappeared from view. Sasha lifted his stick and shook it towards him;
he felt that he should never again be much afraid of bears.

“Now, boy,” said Gregor, “you have learned how to face danger. I have
been as near to a loaded cannon as to that bear, and the wind of the
ball threw me on my face; but I was up the next minute, and then the
gunner went down! Our colonel saw it, and I remember what he said—ay,
every word! He would have kept his promise, but we carried him from the
field the next day, and that was the end of the matter. It was in
France.”

“Grandfather,” Sasha suddenly asked, “are there forests in France?—and
do they belong to the barons?”

“Pick up your fagot, boy, and come along! It will be dark before we get
to the village and the potatoes are cooked by this time.”

The mention of the potatoes revived all Sasha’s forgotten hunger, and he
obeyed in silence. After walking for a mile as rapidly as their loads
would permit, they issued from the forest, and saw the wooden houses of
the village on a green knoll, in the last gleams of sunset. The church,
with its three little copper-covered domes, stood on the highest point;
next to it the priest’s house and garden; then began the broad street,
lined with square log-cabins and adjoining stables, sloping down to a
large pond, at the foot of which was a mill. Beyond the water there was
a great stretch of grazing meadow, then long, rolling fields of rye and
barley, extending to the woods which bounded the view in every
direction. The village was situated within a few miles of the great main
highway running from Warsaw to Moscow, and the waters of the pond fed
the stream which flowed into one of the branches of the river Dnieper.

The whole region including the village and nearly all the people in it,
belonged to the estate of Baron Popoff, the roofs of whose residence
were just visible to the southward, on a hill overlooking the road to
Moscow. The former castle had been entirely destroyed during the retreat
of Napoleon’s army, and the Baron’s grandfather suffered so many losses
at the time that he was only able to build a large and very plain modern
house; but the people always called it “the Castle,” or “the Palace,”
just as before. Although the Baron sold every year great quantities of
timber, grain, hemp, and wool from his estates, he always seemed to be
in want of money. The servants who went with him every winter to St.
Petersburg were very discreet, and said little about their master’s
habits of life; but the people understood, somehow, that he often lost
large sums by gambling. This gave them a good deal of uneasiness, for if
he should be obliged to part with the estate, they would all be
transferred with it to a new owner—and this might be one who had other
estates in other parts of Russia, to which he could send them if he were
so minded.

At the time of which I am writing, twenty-two millions of the Russian
people were _serfs_. Their labor, even their property, belonged to the
owner of the land upon which they lived. The latter had not the power to
sell them to another, as was formerly the case with slaves in the South,
but he could remove them from one estate to another if he had several.
Baron Popoff was a haughty and indifferent master, but not a cruel one;
the people of the village had belonged to his family for several
generations, and were accustomed to their condition. At least, they saw
no way of changing it, except by a change of masters, which was more
likely to be a misfortune than a benefit.

It was nearly dark when old Gregor and Sasha threw down their loads, and
entered the house. Their supper was already waiting, for Sasha’s sister,
little Minka, had been up to the church door to see whether they were
coming. In one corner of the room a tiny lamp was burning before a
picture of the Virgin Mary and Child Jesus, all covered with gilded
brass except the hands and faces, which were nearly black, partly from
the smoke, and partly because the common Russian people imagine that the
Hebrews were a very dark-skinned race. Sasha’s father, Ivan, had also
lighted a long pine-splint, and the room looked very cheerful. The
boiled potatoes were smoking in a great wooden bowl, beside which stood
a dish of salt, another of melted fat, and a loaf of black bread. They
had neither plates, knives nor forks; only some coarse wooden spoons,
and all ate out of the bowl, after the salt had been sprinkled and the
fat poured over the potatoes. For drink there was an earthen pitcher of
_quass_, a kind of thin and rather sour beer.

Old Gregor sat on one side of the table, and his son Ivan with Anna, his
wife, opposite. There were five children, the oldest being Alexander
(whom we know by his nickname “Sasha,” which is the Russian for “Aleck”
or “Sandy”), then Minka, Peter, Waska, and Sergius. Sasha was about
thirteen years old, rather small for his age, and hardly to be called a
handsome boy. Only there was something very pleasant in his large gray
eyes, and his long, thick, flaxen hair shone almost like silver when the
sun fell upon it. However, he never thought about his looks. When he
went to the village bath-house, on a Saturday evening, to take his
steam-bath with the rest, the men would sometimes say, after examining
his joints and muscles, “You are going to be strong, Sasha!”—and that
was as much as he cared to know about himself.

The boy was burning with desire to tell the adventure with the bear, but
he did not like to speak before his grandfather, and there was something
in the latter’s eye which made him feel that he was watching him. Gregor
first lighted his pipe, and then, in the coolest possible manner—as if
it were something that happened every day—related the story. “Pity I
hadn’t your gun with me, Ivan,” he said at the close; “what with the
meat, the fat and the skin, we should have had thirty roubles.”

The children were quite noisy with excitement. Little Peter said: “What
for did you let him go, Sasha? _I’d_ have killed him and carried him
home!” Then all laughed so heartily that Peter began to cry and was soon
packed into a box in the corner, where he slept with Waska and Sergius.

“Take the gun with you to-morrow, father,” said Ivan.

“It’s too much, with my load of wood,” Gregor answered; “the old
hunting-knife is all I want. Sasha will stand by me with a club; he’ll
not be afraid, the next time.”

Sasha was about to exclaim: “I wasn’t afraid the first time!” but before
he spoke, it flashed across his mind that he _did_ tremble a little—just
a very little.

By this time it was dark outside. Two pine-splints had burned out, one
after the other, and only the little lamp before the shrine enabled them
dimly to see each other. The older people went to bed in their narrow
rooms, which were hardly better than closets; and Sasha, spreading a
coarse sack of straw on the floor, lay down, covered himself with his
sheep-skin coat, and in five minutes was so sound asleep that he might
have been dragged about by the heels without being awakened.


                                   II

The next day, in the forest, old Gregor worked more rapidly than usual.
He spoke very little, in spite of Sasha’s eagerness to talk, and kept
the boy so busy that all the wood was gathered together and the bundles
made up two or three hours before the usual time.

They were in a partially cleared spot, near the top of some rising
ground. The old man looked at the sky, nodded his head, and said with a
satisfied air: “We have plenty of time left for ourselves, Sasha; come
with me, and I’ll show you something.”

He set out in a direction opposite from home, and the boy, who expected
nothing less than the finding of another bear, seized a tough, straight
club, and followed him. They went for nearly a mile over rolling ground,
through the forest, and then descended into a narrow glen, at the foot
of which ran a rapid stream. Very soon, rocks began to appear on either
side, and the glen became a chasm where there was barely room to walk.
It was a cold, gloomy, strange place; Sasha had never seen anything like
it. He felt a singular creeping of the flesh, but not for the world
would he have turned back.

The path ceased, and there was a waterfall in front, filling up the
whole chasm. Gregor pulled off his boots and stepped into the stream,
which reached nearly to his knees: he gave his hand to Sasha, who could
hardly have walked alone against the force of the current. They reached
the foot of the fall, the spray of which was whirled into their faces.
Then Gregor turned suddenly to the left, passed through the thin edge of
the falling water, and Sasha, pulled after him, found himself in a low,
arched vault of rock, into which the light shone down from another
opening. They crawled upwards on hands and feet, and came out into a
great, circular hole, like a kettle, through the middle of which ran the
stream. There was no other way of getting into it, for the rocks leaned
inward as they rose, making the bottom considerably broader than the
top.

On one side, under the middle of the rocky arch, stood a square black
stone, about five feet high, with a circle of seven smaller stones
resembling seats around it. Sasha was dumb with surprise at finding
himself in such a wonderful spot.

But old Gregor made the sign of the cross, and muttered something which
seemed to be a prayer. Then he went to the black stone, and put his hand
upon it.

“Sasha,” he said, “this is one of the places where the old Russian
people came, many thousand years ago, before ever the name of Christ was
heard of. They were dreadful heathen in those days, and this was what
they had in place of a church. A black stone had to be the altar,
because they had a black god, who was never satisfied unless they fed
him with human blood.”

“Where is he now?” Sasha asked.

“They say he turned into an evil spirit, and is hiding somewhere in the
wilderness; but I don’t know whether it’s true. His name was Perun. Most
men do not dare to say it, but I have the courage, because I’ve been a
soldier and have an honest conscience. Are you afraid to stand here?”

“Not if you are not, grandfather,” said Sasha.

“If your heart were bad and false, you might well be afraid. Come here
to me.”

Sasha obeyed. The old man opened the boy’s coarse shirt and laid his
hand upon his heart; then he made him do the same to himself, so that
the heart of each beat directly against the hand of the other.

“Now, boy,” he then said, “I am going to trust you, and if you say a
word you do not mean, or think otherwise than you speak, I shall feel it
in the motion of your heart. Do you know the difference between a serf
and a free man? Would you rather live like your father, without anything
he can call his own, or like the Baron, with houses and forests that
nobody could take away from you—unless it might be the Emperor?”

Sasha’s heart gave a great thump, before he opened his mouth. The old
man smiled, and he said to himself: “I was right.” Then he continued: “I
should be a free man now, if our colonel had lived. Your father had not
wit and courage enough to try, but _you_ can do it, Sasha, if you think
of nothing else and work for nothing else. I will help you all I can;
but you must begin at once. Will you?”

“Yes! yes!” cried Sasha, eagerly.

“Promise me that you will say nothing to any living soul; that you will
obey me and remember all I say to you while I live, and be none the less
faithful to the purpose when I am dead!”

Sasha promised everything, at once. After a moment’s silence, Gregor
took his hand from the boy’s breast, and said: “Yes, you truly mean it.
The old people used to say that if anybody broke a promise made before
this stone, the black heathen god would have power over him.”

“Perhaps the bear was the black god,” Sasha suggested.

“Perhaps he was. Look him in the face, as you did yesterday, remember
your promise, and he can’t harm you.”

As they walked slowly back through the forest, Gregor began to talk, and
the boy kept close beside him, listening eagerly to every word.

“The first thing,” he said, “is to get knowledge. You must learn,
somehow, to read and write, and count figures. I must tell you all I
know, about everything in the world, but that’s very little; and it’s so
mixed up in my head, that I don’t rightly know where to begin. It’s a
blessing that I’ve not forgotten much; what I picked up I held on to,
and now I see the reason why. There’s nothing you can’t use, if you wait
long enough.”

“Tell me about France!” Sasha cried.

“France and Germany, too! I was two or three years, off and on, in those
foreign parts, and I could talk smartly in the speech of both—_Allez!
Sortez! Donnez-moi du vin!_”

Gregor stopped and straightened his bent back, his eyes flashed, and he
laughed long and heartily.

“_Allez! Sortez! Donnez-moi du vin!_” repeated Sasha.

Gregor caught up the boy in his arms, and kissed him. “The very thing!”
he cried: “I’ll teach you both tongues,—and all about the strange habits
of the people, and their houses and churches, and which way the battle
went, and what queer harness they have on their horses, and a talking
bird I once saw, and a man that kept a bottle full of lightning in his
room——.”

So his tongue ran on. It was a great delight to him to recall his
memories of more than thirty years and he was constantly surprised to
find how many little things that seemed forgotten came back to his mind.
Sasha’s breath came quick, as he listened; his whole body felt warm and
nimble, and it suddenly seemed to him possible to learn anything and
everything. Before reaching home, he had fixed twenty or thirty French
words in his memory. There they were, hard and tight; he knew he should
never forget them.

From that day began a new life for both. Old Gregor’s method of
instruction would simply have confused a pupil less ignorant and less
eager to be taught; but Sasha was so sure that knowledge would in some
way help him to become a free man that he seized upon everything he
heard. In a few months he knew as much German and French as his
grandfather, and when they were alone they always spoke, as much as
possible, in one or the other language. But the boy’s greatest desire
was to learn how to read. During the following winter he made himself
useful to the priest in various ways, and finally succeeded in getting
from him the letters of the alphabet and learning how to put them
together. Of course, he could not keep secret all that he did; it was
enough that no one guessed his object in doing it.

One day, in the spring, just after the Baron had returned with his wife
from St. Petersburg, Sasha was sent on an errand to the castle. He was
bareheaded and barefooted; his shirt and wide trousers were very coarse,
but clean, and his hair floated over his shoulders like a mass of
shining silk. When he reached the castle, the Baron and Baroness, with a
strange lady, were sitting on the balcony. The latter said, in French,
“There’s a nice-looking boy!”

Sasha was so glad to find that he understood, and so delighted with the
remark, that he looked up suddenly and blushed.

“I really believe he understands what I said,” the lady exclaimed.

The Baron laughed. “Do you suppose my young serfs are educated like
princes?” he asked. “If he were so intelligent as that, how long could I
keep him?”

Sasha bent down his head, and kicked the loose pebbles with his feet, to
hide his excitement. The blood was humming in his ears; the Baron had
said the same thing as his grandfather—to get knowledge was the only way
to get freedom!


                                  III

The summer passed away, and the second autumn came. Gregor had told all
he knew; told it twice, three times; and Sasha, more eager than ever,
began to grow impatient for something more. He had secured a little
reading-book, such as is used for children, and studied it until he knew
the exact place of every letter in it, but there was none to give the
poor boy another volume, or to teach him anything further.

One afternoon, as he was returning alone from a neighboring village by a
country road which branched off from the main highway, he saw three men
sitting on the bank, under the edge of a thicket. They were strangers,
and they seemed to him to be foreigners. Two were of middle age, with
harsh, evil faces; the third was young, and had an anxious, frightened
look. They were talking earnestly, but before he could distinguish the
words, one of them saw him, made a sign to the others, and then he was
very sure that they suddenly changed their language; for it was German
he now heard.

He felt proud of his own knowledge, and his first thought was to say
“Good-day!” in German. Then he remembered his grandfather’s command,
“Never show your knowledge until there’s good reason for it!” and gave
his greeting in Russian. The young man nodded in return; the others took
no notice of him. But in passing he understood these sentences:

“He will bring a great deal of money.... There’s no danger—he will be
alone.... Grain and hemp both sold to-day.... It will be already dark.”

[Illustration:

  “Sasha never afterwards could explain the impulse which led him to
    dart under the trees as soon as he was out of sight, to get in the
    rear of the thicket, crawl silently nearer on his hands and knees,
    and then lie down flat within hearing of the men’s voices.”

  Drawing by F. S. Coburn
]

Just beyond the thicket the road made a sharp turn and entered the
woods. Sasha never afterwards could explain the impulse which led him to
dart under the trees as soon as he was out of sight, to get in the rear
of the thicket, crawl silently nearer on his hands and knees, and then
lie down flat within hearing of the men’s voices. For a moment, he was
overcome with a horrible fear. They were silent, and his heart beat so
loudly that he thought they could no more help noticing it than a
blacksmith’s hammer.

Presently one of them spoke,—this time in Russian. “There’s a hill from
which you can see both roads,” he said; “but he’ll hardly take the
highway.”

“Are you sure his groom was not in the town?” asked another.

“It’s all as I say—rely upon that!” was the answer. “For all his title
he’s no more than another man, and we are three!”

In talking further, they mentioned the name of the town; it was the
place only a few miles distant, where the grain, hemp, and other
products of the estate were sold to traders—and this was the day of the
sale! The plot of the robbers flashed into Sasha’s mind; and if he had
had any remaining doubts they were soon dissipated by his hearing the
Baron’s name. The latter was to be waylaid—plundered—killed, if he
resisted. Then the oldest of the three men said, as he got up from the
bank where they were sitting:

“We must be on our way. Better be too early than too late.”

“But it’s a terrible thing,” the youngest remarked.

“You can’t turn back now!” the other cried.

Sasha waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps. Then he
started up, and keeping away from the road they had taken, ran through
the woods and thicket in the direction of the town. His only thought was
to reach the hill the robbers had mentioned, from which both roads could
be seen. He knew it well; there was a bridle-path, shorter than the main
highway, and the Baron would probably take it, as he was on horseback.
The hill divided the two roads; it was covered with young birch trees,
which grew very thickly on the summit and almost choked up the path. But
there was a long spur of thicket, he remembered, running out on the
ridge, and whoever stood at the end of it could almost look into the
town.

Sasha was so excited that he took a track almost as short as a bird
flies. He tore through bushes and brambles without thinking of the
scratches they gave him; he jumped across gullies and ran at full speed
over open fields; he was faint, and bruised, and breathless, but he
never paused until the farthest point of the thicket on the hill was
reached. It was then about an hour before sunset, and only one or two
foot-travellers were to be seen upon the highway. The town was half a
mile off, but he could plainly see where the bridle-path issued from a
little lane between the houses. Carefully concealing himself under a
thick alder-bush, he kept his eyes fixed upon that point.

He was obliged to wait for what seemed a long, long while. The sun was
just setting when, finally, a horseman made his appearance, and Sasha
knew by the large white horse that it must be the Baron. The rider
looked at his watch, and then began to canter along the level towards
the hill. There was no time to lose; so, without pausing a moment to
think, Sasha sprang out of his hiding-place, and darted down the grassy
slope at full speed, crying “Lord Baron! Lord Baron!”

The rider, at first, did not seem to heed. He cantered on, and it
required all Sasha’s remaining strength to reach the path in advance of
him. Then he dropped upon his knees, lifted up his hands, and cried once
more, “Stop, Lord Baron!”

The Baron reined up his horse just in time to avoid trampling on the
boy. Sasha sprang to his feet, seized the bridle, and gasped, “The
robbers!”

“Who are you?—and what does this mean?” the Baron asked in a stern
voice.

But Sasha was too much in earnest to feel afraid of the great lord. “I
am Sasha, the son of Ivan, the son of Gregor,” he said; and then
related, as rapidly as he could, all that he had seen and heard.

The Baron looked at his pistols. “Ha!” he cried, “the caps are taken
off! You may have done me good service, boy. Wait here; it’s not enough
to escape the rascals; we must capture them!”

He turned his horse, and galloped back at full speed towards the town.
Sasha watched him, thinking only that he was saved at last. It was
growing dark, when the boy’s quick ear caught the sound of steps in the
opposite direction. He turned and saw the three men approaching rapidly.
With a deadly sense of terror he started and ran towards the town.

“Kill the little spy!” shouted, behind him, a voice which he well knew.

Sasha cried aloud for help as he ran; but no help came. He was already
weak and exhausted from the exertion he had made, and he heard the
robbers coming nearer and nearer. All at once it seemed to him that his
cries were answered; but at the same moment a heavy blow came down upon
his head and shoulder. He fell to the ground and knew no more.


                                   IV

When Sasha came to his senses, it seemed to him that he must have been
dead for a long time. First of all, he had to think who he was; and this
was not so easy as you may suppose, for he found himself lying in a bed,
in a room he had never seen before. It was broad daylight, and the sun
shone upon one of his hands, which was so white and thin that it did not
seem to belong to him. Then he lifted it, and was amazed to find how
little strength there was in his arm. But he brought it to his head at
last,—and there was another surprise. All his long, silken hair was
gone! He was so weak and bewildered that he groaned aloud, and the tears
ran down his cheeks.

There was a noise in the room, and presently old Gregor bent over the
bed.

“Grandad,” said the boy—and how feeble his voice sounded!—“am I your
Sasha still?”

The old man, crying for joy, dropped on his knees and said a prayer.
“Now you will get well!” he cried; “but you mustn’t talk; the doctor
said you were not to talk!”

“Where am I?” Sasha asked.

“At the palace! And the Baron’s own doctor comes every day to see you;
and they let me stay here to nurse you—it will be a week to-morrow!”

“What’s the matter?”—“what has happened?”

“Don’t talk, for the love of Heaven,” said Gregor; “you saved the Baron
from being robbed and killed; and the head robber struck your head and
broke your arm; and the Baron and the people came just at the right
time; and one of them was shot, and the other two are in jail. O my boy,
remember the altar of the black god, Perun; be obedient to me; shut your
eyes and keep quiet!”

[Illustration:

  “The old man, crying for joy, dropped on his knees and said a prayer.”

  Drawing by F. S. Coburn
]

But Sasha could not shut his eyes. Little by little his memory came
back, and a sense of what he had done filled his mind and made him
happy. He felt a dull ache in his left arm, and found that it was so
tightly bandaged he could not move it; so he lay quite still, while
Gregor sat and watched him with sparkling eyes. After a time the door
opened, and a strange gentleman came in; it was the physician. The old
man rose and conversed with him in whispers. Then Sasha found that a
spoon was held to his lips; he mechanically swallowed something that had
a strange, pleasant taste, and almost immediately fell asleep.

In a day or two he was strong enough to sit up in bed, and was allowed
to talk. Then the Baron and Baroness came, with the lady who was their
guest, to see him. They were all eager to learn the particulars of the
occurrence, especially how Sasha had discovered the plot of the robbers.
He began at the beginning, and had got as far as the latter’s change of
language on seeing him, when he stopped in great confusion and looked at
his grandfather.

Gregor neither spoke nor moved, but his eyes seemed to say plainly,
“Tell everything.”

Sasha then related the whole story to the end. The Baroness came to the
bedside, stooped down, kissed him, and said, “You have saved your lord!”

But the other lady, who had been watching him very curiously, suddenly
exclaimed: “Why, it’s the same nice-looking little serf I saw before;
and when I spoke of him in French he blushed. I’m sure he understood me!
Don’t you understand me now, my boy?”

She asked the question in French, and Sasha answered in the same
language, “Yes, madam.”

The lady clapped her hands in delight; but the Baron asked very sternly,
“Where did you learn so many languages?”

“From me!” Gregor answered. “The boy likes to know things, and I’ve
always thought—saving your opinion, my good lord—that when God gives any
one a strong wish for knowledge He means it to be answered. So I opened
to him all there is in this foolish old head of mine, while we were
together in the forest; and it was such a pleasure for him to take that
it came to be a pleasure for me to give. You understand, my lady?”

“Yes,” said the Baroness, “I understand that without Sasha’s knowledge
of German, my husband would probably have been murdered.”

“That’s not so certain,” the Baron replied. “But some celebrated man has
said ‘All’s well that ends well,’ The fellow did his duty like a
full-grown man, and I’ll take care of him.”

Therewith they went out of the room, and Sasha immediately asked, in
some anxiety, “Grandfather, you meant I should tell?”

“Yes,” Gregor answered; “for the youngest robber has already confessed
that they spoke in German, and thought themselves safe, while you were
passing. They are vagabonds from the borders of Poland, and knew a
little of three or four tongues. It is all right, my boy; the Baron is
satisfied, and means to help you. Your chance has come sooner than I
expected. I must have a little time to think about it; my head is like a
stiff joint, hard to bend when I want to use it. It’s good luck to me
that you can’t get out of bed for a week to come!”

He laughed as he left the bedside, and took his seat on the broad stone
bench beside the stove. Sasha kept silent, for he knew that the old
man’s brain was hard at work. He tried to do a little thinking himself,
but it made him feel weak and giddy; in fact, the blow upon his head
would have killed a more delicate boy.

His strength came back so rapidly, however, that in a week he was able
to walk out, with his arm in a sling. He was still pale, and looked so
strange in his short hair that on his first visit home his mother burst
into tears on seeing him. Then Minka, Peter, Sergius, and Waska lifted
up their voices and cried; and Ivan, who was at first angry with them,
finally cried also, without knowing why he did it. All this made Sasha
feel very uncomfortable, and he was on the point of saying “I won’t do
it again!” when old Gregor made silence in the house. He had looked
through the window and seen some of the neighbors coming; so the whole
family became cheerful again as rapidly as they could.

By this time, Gregor had made up his mind. Sasha knew that he could not
change it if he would, and he was therefore very glad to find how well
his grandfather’s notions agreed with his own. While he was waiting for
the Baron to speak again, he was not losing time; for the strange lady
who was visiting at the castle took quite a friendly interest in
teaching him French and German, and giving him Russian books which were
not too difficult to read. He was so eager to satisfy her, that he
really made astonishing progress.

When the robbers were tried before the judge, he was called upon to give
testimony against them. One of the three having been killed, the
youngest one was not afraid to confess, and his story and Sasha’s agreed
perfectly. The boy described the unwillingness of the former to
undertake the crime; even the Baron said a word in his favor; and the
judge, at last, sentenced him to be banished to Siberia for only ten
years, while the older robber was sent there for life.

That evening, the Baron asked Sasha, “Would you like to be one of my
house-servants, boy?”

Just as his grandfather had advised him, Sasha answered: “It is not for
me to choose my lord; but I think I can serve you much more to your
profit if you will let me try to become a merchant.”

“A merchant!” the Baron exclaimed.

“Not all at once,” said Sasha; “I could be of use now, as a boy to help
carry and sell things, because I can count and speak a little in other
tongues. I should make myself so useful to some merchant that he would
give me a chance to learn the whole business in time. Then I should earn
money, and could pay you for the privilege.”

The Baron had often envied noblemen of his acquaintance, some of whose
serfs were rich manufacturers or merchants, and paid them large annual
sums for the privilege of living for themselves. Here seemed to be a
chance for him to gain something in the same way. The boy spoke so
confidently, and looked in his face with such straightforward eyes, that
he felt obliged to consider the proposition seriously.

“How will you get to St. Petersburg?” he asked.

“When you go, my lord,” said Sasha, “I could sit on the box at the
coachman’s feet. I will help him with the horses, and it shall cost you
nothing. When I get there, I know I shall find a place.”

The Baron then said, “You may go.”


                                   V

Here, as a boy not yet fifteen, Sasha begins his career as a man. The
task he has undertaken demands the industry, the patience, and the
devotion of his life, but he has been prepared for it by a sound, if a
somewhat hard, experience. I hope the boys who read this feel satisfied
already that he is going to succeed; yet I know, also, that they like to
be certain, and to have some little information as to how it came about.
So I will let fifteen years pass, and we will now look upon Sasha, for
the last time, as a man of thirty.

He has a store and warehouse on the great main street of St. Petersburg,
which is called the _Nevsky Prospekt_,—that is the Perspective of the
Neva, because when you look down it you see the blue waters of the Neva
at the end. Over the door there is a large sign, with the name,
“Alexander Ivanovitch.” (_Ivanovitch_ means “the son of Ivan”; Russian
family names are formed in this manner, and therefore the son has a
different name from the father, unless their baptismal names are the
same.) He employs a number of clerks and salesmen, and has a servant who
would go through fire and water to help him. I must relate how he found
this man, and why the latter is so faithful.

On one of his journeys of business, five years before, Sasha visited the
town of Perm, on the western side of the Ural Mountains. It is on the
main highway to Siberia, and criminals are continually passing, either
on the way thither in chains, or returning in rags when their time of
banishment has expired. One evening Sasha found by the roadside, in the
outskirts of the town, a miserable-looking wretch who seemed to be at
the point of death. He felt the man’s pulse, lifted up his head, and
looked in his face, and was startled at recognizing the younger of the
three robbers. He had him taken to the inn, tended and restored, and,
after being convinced of his earnest desire to lead a better life, gave
him employment. The robber was not naturally a bad man, but very
ignorant and superstitious. It seemed to him both a miracle and a
warning that he should have been saved by Sasha, and he fully believed
that his soul would be lost if he should ever act dishonestly towards
him.

Keeping his heart steadily upon the great purpose of his life, Sasha
rose from one step to another until he became an independent and wealthy
merchant,—far wealthier, indeed, than the Baron supposed. He paid the
latter a handsome annual sum for his time, and sent only small presents
of money to his parents, for he knew how few and simple their needs
were. He felt a thousand times more keenly than old Gregor what it was
to be a serf. The old man was still living, but very feeble and
helpless, and Sasha often grew wild at the thought that he might die
before knowing freedom.

His plan of action had long been fixed, and now the hour had come when
he determined to try it. He had for years kept a strict watch over the
Baron’s life in St. Petersburg, knew the amount of his increasing debts
and the embarrassment they occasioned him, and could very nearly
calculate the moment when ruin would come. He was not disappointed
therefore, at receiving an urgent summons from his master.

“Sasha,” said the latter, laying his hand upon the serf’s shoulder with
a familiarity he had never displayed before, “you are an honest,
faithful fellow. I need a few thousand roubles for a month or two; can
you get the money for me?”

“I have heard, my lord,” Sasha answered, “that you are in difficulty. I
knew why you sent for me; and I come to offer you a way out of all your
troubles. Your debts amount to more than a hundred thousand roubles;
would you like to be relieved of them?”

“Would I not!—but how?” the Baron cried.

“I will pay them, my lord; but you will do one thing for me in return.”

“You?—You?”

“I,” Sasha quietly answered; “I will free you, and you will free me.”

“Ha!” the Baron cried, springing to his feet. His pride was touched. He
was fond of boasting that he also had a serf who was a rich merchant,
and the fact had many a time helped his credit when he wanted to borrow
money. Unconsciously, he shook his head.

“You have not the money,” he said.

Sasha, who understood what was passing through the Baron’s mind,
suffered so much from his cruel uncertainty that he turned deadly pale.

“I am well known,” he answered, “and can procure the money in an hour.
How much is my serfdom worth to you? My annual payment is hardly one
tenth of the usurious interest which your debt wrings from you. I offer
to release you from all trouble and thus add not less than eight
thousand roubles a year to your income. And my freedom, which you can
now sell back to me at such a price, may be mine without buying in a few
years more.”

The Emperor, Alexander II., had at that time just succeeded to the
throne, and his intention to emancipate the serfs was already suspected
by the people. Sasha knew that he was running a great risk in what he
said; but his clasped hands, his trembling voice, his eyes filled with
tears, affected the Baron more powerfully than his words.

There was a long silence. The master turned away to the window, and
weighed the offer rapidly in his mind; the serf waited, in breathless
anxiety, in the centre of the room.

Suddenly the Baron turned and struck his clenched fist on the table.
Then he stretched out his hand, and said: “Alexander Ivanovitch I am
glad to make your acquaintance as a friend. I am no longer your master.”

Sasha took the hand, kissed it, and his tears fell fast. “Dear lord
Baron!” he cried; “give also the freedom of my father and grandfather
and I will add a payment of five thousand roubles a year, for ten years
to come!”

“And your ancestors for five hundred years back,” the Baron answered
laughing. “I don’t know their names, but they can be all thrown into the
deed, in one lump.”

Before another day it was done. Sasha and the living members of his
family were free, and his ancestors would also have been free if they
had not been dead. With the parchment, signed and sealed, in his pocket,
he took a carriage and post-horses and travelled day and night until he
reached his native village. No one knew the stranger in his rich
merchant’s dress; his father and brothers were in the fields at work,
and his mother had stepped out to see a neighbor; old Gregor was alone
in the house. He was leaning back in a rude arm-chair with a sheep-skin
over his knees; his eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, and his
face so haggard and sunken that Sasha thought him dead.

He kneeled down beside the chair, and placed his hand on the old man’s
heart, to see if it still beat. Presently came a broken voice: “The
black god—the truth, my boy!” and Gregor feebly stretched a hand toward
Sasha’s breast. The latter tore open his dress, and spread the cold,
horny fingers over his own heart, the warmth of which seemed to kindle a
fresh life in the old man. He at last opened his eyes. “Little Sasha,”
he said, “little Sasha will keep his word.”

“I have kept it, grandfather!” Sasha cried.

[Illustration:

  “Old Gregor was alone in the house.”

  Drawing by F. S. Coburn
]

“It’s a man, a brave-looking man,” said Gregor; “but he has the boy’s
voice—and I know the boy’s hand is on my heart.”

Sasha could no longer restrain himself. “And the boy is a free man,
grandfather!” he exclaimed; “we are all free; here is the Baron’s deed,
which says so, with the seal of the Empire upon it. Look,
grandfather!—do you understand?—you are free!”

Gregor was lifted to his feet, as if by an unseen hand. At that moment
Sasha’s parents and brothers entered the house. The old man did not heed
their cries of astonishment; clasping the parchment to his breast, he
looked upward and exclaimed in a piercing voice: “Free at last,—all
free! I’ll carry the news to God!” Then, with a single gasp, he reeled,
and, before any one could reach him, fell at full length on the floor,
dead.



                                   VI
                        Studies of Animal Nature


I have always had a great respect for animals, and have endeavored to
treat them with the consideration which I think they deserve. They have
quick perceptions and know when to be confiding or reticent. I have
learned no better way to gain their confidence than to ask myself, “If I
were such or such an animal, how should I wish to be treated by man?”
and to act upon that suggestion. The finest and deepest parts of their
natures can be reached only by an intercourse which is purely kind and
sympathetic.

In the first place, animals have much more capacity to understand human
speech than is generally supposed. The Hindoos invariably talk to their
elephants, and it is amazing how much the latter comprehend. The Arabs
govern their camels with a few cries, and my associates in the African
desert were always amused whenever I addressed a remark to the big
dromedary who was my property for two months; yet, at the end of that
time, the beast evidently knew the meaning of a number of simple
sentences. Some years ago, seeing the hippopotamus in Barnum’s Museum
looking very stolid and dejected, I spoke to him in English, but he did
not even move his eyes. Then I went to the opposite corner of the cage,
and said in Arabic, “I know you; come here to me!” He instantly turned
his head towards me; I repeated the words, and thereupon he came to the
corner where I was standing, pressed his huge, ungainly head against the
bars of the cage, and looked in my face with a touching delight while I
stroked his muzzle. I have two or three times found a lion who
recognized the same language, and the expression of his eyes, for an
instant, seemed positively human.

I know of nothing more moving, indeed, semi-tragic, than the yearning
helplessness in the face of a dog who understands what is said to him
and cannot answer. We often hear it said that no animal can endure the
steady gaze of the human eye; but this is a superstition. An intelligent
dog or horse not only endures, but loves it. The eye of a beast is
restless from natural habit, but hardly more so than that of savage man.
Cats, birds, and many other animals seek, rather than avoid, a friendly
human eye. It is possible that tigers may have been turned away by an
unflinching gaze, but I suspect the secret lay in the surprise of the
beast at so unusual an experience, rather than in direct intimidation.
Thieves are said to have the belief that a dog, for the same reason,
will not attack a naked man, but I do not remember any account of a
burglary where they have tried the experiment. Cattle, however, are
easily surprised. Once, in 1849, on the Salinas Plains in California, I
escaped exactly the same onset of a vast herd of wild cattle as Mr.
Harte describes in his _Gabriel Conroy_, by sitting down upon the
ground. They were so unaccustomed to seeing a man except on horseback,
that the position was an absolute bewilderment to them. The foremost
halted within a hundred feet, formed a line as regular as a file of
soldiers, and stared stupidly, until a team, luckily approaching at the
right time, released me from my hazardous situation.

Few persons are aware of the great effect which quiet speech exercises
upon the most savage dog. A distinguished English poet told me that he
was once walking in the country with Canon Kingsley, when they passed a
lodge where an immense and fierce mastiff, confined by a long chain,
rushed out upon them. They were just beyond his reach, but the chain did
not seem secure; the poet would have hurried past, but Kingsley, laying
a hand upon his arm, said, “Wait a moment, and see me subdue him!”
Thereupon he walked up to the dog, who, erect upon his hind feet, with
open jaws and glaring eyes, was the embodiment of animal fury. Kingsley
lifted his hand, and quietly said, “You are wrong! You have made a
mistake; you must go back to your kennel!” The dog sank down upon his
fore feet, but still growled angrily; the Canon repeated his words in a
firm voice, advancing step by step, as the dog gave way. He continued
speaking grave reproof, as to a human being, until he had forced the
mastiff back into his kennel, where the latter silently, and perhaps
remorsefully, lay down.

I cannot now tell whether I remembered this story, or acted simply from
a sudden instinct, in a very similar case. I was in San Francisco, and
went to call upon a gentleman of my acquaintance who lived upon Rincon
Point. The house stood a little distance back from the street, in a
beautiful garden. I walked up between clumps of myrtle and fuchsia to
the door and rang the bell. Instead of answer, there was a savage bay; a
giant dog sprang around the corner of the house, and rushed at me with
every sign of furious attack. I faced him, stood still, and said, “I am
a friend of Mr. ——, and have come to visit him. You must not suppose
that I mean any harm. I shall wait to see if the bell is answered; you
may stay and watch me. I am not afraid of you.” The animal paused,
listened intently, but was evidently not entirely convinced; he still
growled, and showed his teeth in rather an alarming manner. Then I said,
“I shall ring once more; if there is no answer, I shall go away.” He
followed me up the steps to the door, glared fiercely while I rang, and
would undoubtedly have dashed at my throat had I made a suspicious
gesture. As no one came to the door I finally said, “I see there is
nobody at home, so I shall go, as I told you I would.” His growling
ceased; side by side we went down the walk and when I had closed the
gate he turned away with a single dignified wave of the tail, which I
understood as a combined apology and farewell.

Brehm, the German naturalist, gives a very curious account of a
chimpanzee at the Zoölogical Garden in Hamburg. He satisfied himself
that the animal understood as much human speech as an average child of
two and a half years old. For instance, when he asked, “Do you see the
ducks?” the chimpanzee would look about the garden, passing over the
geese and swans, until he found the birds indicated. At the command, “Go
and sit down!” uttered without any inflection of voice or glance towards
a chair, he would promptly obey; on being told, “You are naughty,” he
would hang his head, with an expression of distress; and he very soon
learned to express his affection by kisses and caresses, like the
children whom he saw.

I presume it is a very common observation of persons who own intelligent
dogs, that if they happen to describe to a visitor some fault for which
the animal has been scolded or punished, in the latter’s presence, he
will exhibit an uneasy consciousness of what is said, even sometimes
quietly slink away. But the extent to which a horse, also, may be taught
to understand speech, is not so generally known. The simple fact that he
likes to be talked to makes him attentive to the sounds, and I am
convinced that in a great many cases he has an impression of the
meaning. I have at present a horse that served his country during the
war, and came to me only after its close. His experience while on
scouting service made him very suspicious of any gray object, as I soon
discovered; he would shy at a fallen log in a thicket, a glimpse of
mossy rock, or a laborer’s coat left in a fence-corner. By stopping him
whenever this happened, and telling him, in an assuring tone, that there
was nothing to fear, he was very soon completely cured of the habit. But
he still lifts up his head, and would, if he could, cry “Ha! ha!” when
he hears the sound of the trumpet.

The affection and fidelity of the horse have always been admitted. My
first acquaintance with these qualities was singular enough to be
related. When a boy of fourteen, I was walking along a lonely country
road with a companion of the same age, and came upon an old gray horse,
standing in the middle of the track, over a man who was lying upon his
back. We hastened up to give assistance, but presently saw that the man,
instead of being injured, was simply dead drunk. He had tumbled off, on
his way home from the tavern, and a full bottle of whiskey, jolted out
of his pocket in falling, lay by his side. The forefeet of the horse
were firmly planted on each side of his neck, and the hind feet on each
side of his legs. This position seeming to us dangerous for the man, we
took the animal by the bridle and attempted to draw him away; but he
resisted with all his strength, snorting, laying back his ears, and
giving every other sign of anger. It was apparent that he had carefully
planted himself so as completely to protect his master against any
passing vehicle. We assisted the faithful creature in the only possible
way,—by pouring the whiskey into the dust,—and left him until help could
be summoned. His act indicated not only affection involving a sense of
duty, but also more than one process of reasoning.

Darwin, as I understand him, is still doubtful whether there is a moral
sense in animals. We can judge only from acts, of course, but our
interpretation of those acts depends upon our sympathetic power of
entering into the feelings of the animal. This is an element which
Science will not accept; hence I doubt whether her deductions may not
fall as far short of the truth as a vivid imagination may go beyond it.
To me, it is very clear that there is at least a rudimentary moral sense
in animals. I have had two marked evidences thereof, which are the more
satisfactory inasmuch as they include a change of conduct which can be
explained only by assuming an ever-present memory of the fault
committed. If this be not a lower form of conscience in its nature, its
practical result is certainly the very same. Were we to judge a strange
man by his actions, his speech being wholly unintelligible to us, we
should give him the credit of a positive conscience in like
circumstances. Why should we withhold it from an animal?

Let the reader decide for himself! I have a horse that is now not less
than _forty-one_ years old, and it is possible that he is a year or two
older; for thirty-eight years ago he was broken to use. He is at present
on the retired list, only occasionally being called upon to lend a
helping shoulder to his younger colleague; but his intellect is as fresh
and as full of expedients as ever. No horse ever knew better how to save
himself, to spare effort and prolong his powers; no one was ever so
cunning to slip his halter, open the feed-box, and supply the
phosphates, the necessity of which to him he knew as well as any
“scientist.” I have seen him, through a crack in a board shanty used
while the stable was building, lift and lay aside with his teeth six
boxes which were piled atop of one another, until he found the oats at
the bottom. Then, when my head appeared at the window, he instantly gave
up his leisurely, luxurious munching of the grain, opened his jaws to
their fullest extent, thrust his muzzle deep into the box, and gravely
walked back to his stall with at least a quart of oats in his mouth.
This horse had a playful habit of snapping at my arm when he was
harnessed for a drive. (I always talk to a horse before starting, as a
matter of common politeness.) Of course I never flinched, and his teeth
often grazed my sleeve as he struck them together. One day, more than a
dozen years ago, he was in rather reckless spirits and snapped a little
too vigorously, catching my arm actually in his jaws. I scarcely felt
the bite, but I was very much surprised. The horse, however, showed such
unmistakable signs of regret and distress that I simply said, “Never do
that again!” And he never did! From that moment, he gave up the habit of
years; he laid back his ears, or feigned anger in other ways, but he
never again made believe to bite. This, certainly, goes far beyond the
temporary sorrow for an unintentional injury which may be referred to an
animal’s affection. What else is conscience than knowledge of wrong made
permanent by a memory which forbids the repetition of the wrong?

The other instance was furnished by a creature which is popularly
supposed to be as stupid as it is splendid,—a peacock! This, being a
long-lived bird, and therefore dowered with a richer experience than
other domestic fowls, ought to be wiser in proportion; yet I have never
heard of the peacock being cited as an example of either intelligence or
moral sense. The bird is vain, it is true; but if vanity indicates lack
of intelligence, what will become of men and women? I have often watched
“John” (the name we gave him and which he always recognized) spreading
his tail before a few guinea-fowl, who were so provokingly indifferent
to the rayed splendor that he invariably ended by driving them angrily
away. On the other hand, can I ever forget the simple, untiring
attachment of the gorgeous creature? The table at which I wrote stood
near a bay-window, so that I had the true left-hand side-light, with a
window at my back. As soon as I took my place there, after breakfast,
the peacock flew upon the window-sill, and, whenever I failed to notice
him, the sharp taps of his bill upon the glass reminded me of his
presence. Then I turned, and, as in duty bound, said, “Good morning,
John!” after which he continued to sit there, silent and content, for
two or three hours longer. The peacock is ordinarily a shy fowl, but
John was bold enough to eat out of our hands.

As often as spring came, however, it was impossible to prevent his
depredations in the garden. He had a morbid taste for young cabbage and
lettuce plants, especially when they were just rooted after being set
out, and he would sometimes pick a whole bed to pieces while the
gardener’s back was turned. For awhile I amused myself by testing his
powers of dissimulation. I waited behind a clump of bushes until he was
fairly on his way to the garden, making long, swift strides, with
depressed neck and tail, and then I suddenly stepped forth. In the
twinkling of an eye John stood upright, walked leisurely in the opposite
direction, and seemed quite absorbed in the examination of some trifling
object. His air and manner, to the tips of his feathers, expressed the
completest ignorance of a garden. He would spread his tail, call to the
other fowls, peer under the hedge, and in similar ways attempt to
beguile me out of sight of his secret aim. If I humored him for a few
moments, he was always found a good many yards nearer the garden when I
turned again. I have never seen a more hypocritical assumption of
innocence and indifference in any human being.

There came a season when even the patience of old friendship was too
severely tried. The peacock was presented to a friend, who lived two or
three miles away and was the possessor of a couple of hens. I missed the
morning tap at my window, the evening perch on the walnut-tree, the
unearthly cries which used so to startle guests from the city, but
consoled myself with thinking that our loss was his gain, for we had
never replaced his lost spouse. He had been gone about a week, when one
evening the familiar cry was heard from a grove on the farm, nearly half
a mile from the house. Next day, John was seen in a weedy field, but
slipped out of sight on finding he was detected. We let him alone, and
in the course of a fortnight he had advanced as near as the
chestnut-tree which I proudly exhibit to strangers as one of the
antiquities of America, for it was growing when Charlemagne reigned in
Aix-la-Chapelle and Haroun al-Raschid in Bagdad. He now allowed himself
to be seen, but utterly refused to recognize any member of the family.
When we called him by name, he instantly walked away; when we threw him
food, he refused to touch it. Little by little, however, he forgave us
the offence; in another fortnight he roosted on the walnut-tree, and at
the end of the second month I heard his tap of complete reconciliation
on the window. But the exile and mortification had chastened his nature.
From that day the young plants were safe from his bill; he lived with us
three or four years longer, but was never once guilty of the same fault.
No one denies that an animal is easily made to understand that certain
things are forbidden. Discipline, alone, may accomplish thus much. But
when two creatures so far removed as a horse and a peacock assimilate
the knowledge to such an extent that the one gives up a habit and the
other resists a tempting taste, we must admit either the germ of a moral
sense or an intellect capable of positive deduction.

The same horse once revealed to me the latter quality in a surprising
way. On telling the story privately, I find that it is sometimes
incredulously received; yet I am sure that no one who cherished the
proper respect for animals will refuse it credence. In the company of a
friend, I was driving along a country road in a light, open buggy. I
paid no attention to the horse, for he could turn, back, or execute any
other manœuvre in harness, as well without as with a driver. Halting at
a house where my friend wished to call, I waited for him outside.
Presently the horse looked back at me, twisting his body between the
thills in a singular fashion. I perceived that he had some communication
to make and said, “What is the matter now, Ben?” Thereupon, by twisting
a little more, he managed to hold up his right hind foot, and I saw that
the shoe had been lost. “That’s right,” said I; “you shall have a new
shoe as soon as we get to the village.” He set down his foot, and for a
moment seemed satisfied. Then the same turning of the head and twisting
of the body were repeated. “What, Ben! is anything else the matter?” I
asked. He now lifted up the left hind foot, which was still shod. I was
quite at a loss to understand him, and remained silent. He looked back
at me, out of the corner of his eye, and evidently saw that I was
puzzled, whereupon he set down his foot and seemed to think. Almost
immediately he lifted it up again, and shook it vigorously. The loose
shoe rattled! There was a positive process of reasoning in this act, and
it is too simple and clear to be interpreted in any other way.

I have had plenty of opportunity, yet very little time, to study bird
nature; but ever since I saw a gentleman, in the park at Munich, entice
the birds to come and feed from his hand by standing perfectly still and
whistling a few soft, peculiar notes, I have been convinced of the
possibility of a much more familiar intercourse. Simply by feeding such
birds as remain through the winter, and keeping sportsmen off the place,
all varieties of birds soon became half tame. In the summer, when the
windows were opened, they entered the house every day, and I frequently
found that a bird which had once been caught and released readily
allowed itself to be caught a second time. Once a little red-breasted
creature, with a black head, lay exhausted in my hand, overcome with the
terror and mystery of a glass pane. At first I thought it dead; but
suddenly it hopped upon its feet, looked in my face with bright,
piercing eyes, and chirped a few notes, which distinctly said, “Did you
deliver me? Am I really free?” Then, still chirping, it slowly hopped up
my arm to the shoulder, sang a snatch of some joyous carol, and flew
away, brushing my cheek as it went. Another time, when I picked up some
callow cat-birds out of the deep grass and replaced them in the nest,
the parents actually dashed against my head in their distress and rage;
but after I had retired a few minutes to let them be reassured, they
allowed me to approach the nest without interrupting their talk with the
young ones. Even a hummingbird, drenched and chilled by a September rain
soon learned to be happy in a basket of warm cotton, and to sip sugared
water out of a teaspoon.

We had a parrot but once, and that only for a few weeks. The bird was a
mystery to me, and I found him almost too uncanny to be a pleasant
acquaintance. Our parrot came directly from a vessel, but from what port
I neglected to learn; he apparently understood the English language, but
would not speak it. He preferred toast and coffee to any other diet, and
was well-behaved, although tremendously exacting. When he became a
little accustomed to us, he would sing the gamut, both upward and
downward, in an absent-minded, dreamy way, as if recalling some memory
of an opera-singer. He would sit beside me on a perch, seemingly
contented, until he saw that I was absorbed in writing. Then he mounted
to the table, planted himself on the paper directly in the way of the
pen, or managed, by nips of the ears and hair, to get upon the top of my
head and make coherent thought impossible. Once, remembering Campbell’s
ballad, I ventured—though with some anxiety, for I half expected to see
him flap round the room with joyous screech, drop down and die—to speak
to him in Spanish. He was surprised, interested, and at first seemed
inclined to answer in the same tongue; but after reflecting half an hour
upon the question he shook his head and kept the secret to himself. No
phrase or word of any kind could be drawn from him; yet the same bird,
seeing my daughter a week after we had given him away to a friend,
suddenly called her by name! The parrot should have been the symbol of
the Venetian Council of Ten.

Three weeks after the great fire in Chicago, in 1871, I saw a parrot
which had saved itself from the general fate of all household treasures
there. It had belonged to my old friend, Mrs. Kirkland, and was doubly
cherished by her daughter. When it was evident that the house was
doomed, and the red wall of flame, urged by the hurricane, was sweeping
towards it with terrific speed, Miss Kirkland saw that she could rescue
nothing except what she instantly took in her hands. There were two
objects, equally dear,—the parrot and the old family Bible; but she was
unable to carry more than one of them. After a single moment of choice,
she seized the Bible and was hastening away, when the parrot cried out,
in a loud and solemn voice, “Good Lord, deliver us!” No human being, I
think, could have been deaf to such an appeal; the precious Bible was
sacrificed and the parrot saved. The bird really possessed a superior
intelligence. I heard him say “Yes” and “No” in answer to questions, the
latter being varied so as to admit, alternately, of both replies; and
the test of his knowledge was perfect. In the home where he had found a
refuge there were many evening visitors, one of whom, a gentleman, was
rather noted for his monopoly of the conversation. When the parrot first
heard him, it listened in silence for some time; then, to the amazement
and perhaps the confusion of all present, it said very emphatically,
“You talk altogether too much!” The gentleman, at first somewhat
embarrassed, presently resumed his interrupted discourse. Thereupon the
parrot laid his head on one side, gave an indescribably comical and
contemptuous “H’m-m!” and added, “There he goes again!”

If the little brain of a bird contains so much, manifested to us simply
because its tongue may be taught to utter articulate sounds, why have we
not a right to assume a much greater degree of intelligence in animals
to whom articulation is impossible? If dogs or horses were capable of
imitating our speech, as well as comprehending it, would they not have a
great deal more to say to us? Articulation is a mechanical, not an
intellectual peculiarity; but in the case of the parrot, and notably the
_mino_, it is generally so employed as to prove very much more than
routine and coincidence. I never saw a mino but once. I entered the
vacant reading-room of a hotel early in the morning, took up a paper,
and sat down, when suddenly a voice said, “Good morning!” I saw nothing
but what seemed to be a black bird in a cage, and could not have
believed that the perfectly human voice came from it, had it not once
more said, in the politest tone, “_Good_ morning!” I walked to the cage,
and looked at it. “Open the door and let me out, please!” said the bird.
“Why, what are you?” I involuntarily exclaimed. “I’m a mino!” answered
the amazing creature. It was the exact voice of a boy of twelve.

When we turn to the lower forms of life, a feeling of repulsion, if not
of positive disgust, checks our interest. Very few persons are capable
of fairly observing snakes, toads, lizards, and other reptiles which
suggest either slime or poison. The instinct must be natural, for it is
almost universal. I confess I should never select one of those creatures
as a subject of study; but in a single case, where the creature
presented itself unsolicited, and became familiar without encouragement,
it soon lost its repulsive character. It was a huge, venerable toad,
which for years haunted the terrace in front of my house. Strict orders
had been given, from the first, that he was not to be molested; and he
soon ceased to show alarm when any one appeared. During the warm weather
of summer, it was our habit to sit upon the terrace and enjoy the sunset
and early twilight. From hopping around us at such times, the toad
gradually came to take his station near us, as if he craved a higher
form of society and was satisfied to be simply tolerated. Finally he
seemed to watch for our appearance, and whenever we came out with chairs
and camp-stools for the evening he straightway hopped forth from some
covert under the box-bushes and took his station beside some one of us.
He was very fond of sitting on the edge of my wife’s dress, but his
greatest familiarity was to perch on one of my boots, where his profound
content at having his back occasionally stroked was shown in the slow,
luxurious winking and rolling of his bright eyes. His advances to us had
been made so gently and timidly that it would have been cruel to repel
them; but we ended by heartily liking him and welcoming his visits. For
several summers he was our evening companion; even the house-dog,
without command, respected his right of place. One May he failed to
appear, not from old age, for his term of life was far beyond ours, but
probably from having fallen victim to some foe against which we could
not guard him.

I found field-tortoises with dates nearly a hundred years old carved on
the under shell. Such an aged fellow never shows the same fear of man as
those of a later generation. Instead of shutting himself up with an
alarmed hiss, he thrusts out his head, peers boldly into your face, and
paws impatiently in the air, as much as to say, “Put me down, sir, at
once!” I once placed one of them on the terrace, and let him go. Nothing
could surpass the prompt business-like way in which he set to work. In a
few minutes he satisfied himself of the impossibility of squeezing
through the box-edgings, and recognized that there was no way of escape
except by the steps leading down to the lawn. This was an unknown
difficulty; but he was ready to meet it. After a careful inspection, he
mused for the space of a minute; then, crawling carefully to the edge,
he thrust himself over, quickly closing his shell at the same time, and
fell with a thump on the step below. When he reached the lawn, I noticed
that he struck an air-line for the spot where I found him.

I give these detached observations of various features of animal nature
for the sake of the interest they may possess for others. The man of
science may reject evidence into which the element of sympathy enters so
largely; but he may still admit the possibility of more complex
intelligence, greater emotional capacity, and the existence of a faculty
allied to the moral sense of man. If one should surmise a lower form of
spiritual being, yet equally indestructible, who need take alarm? “Yea,
they have all one breath; so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a
beast; for all is vanity,” said the Preacher, more than two thousand
years ago. But Goethe is more truly in accord with the spirit which came
with Christianity, when he put these words in the mouth of Faust:

             “The ranks of living creatures Thou dost lead
             Before me, teaching me to know _my brothers_
             In air, and water, and the silent wood.”



                                  VII
               A Robber Region of Southern California[1]


I was lying upon my back, with my handkerchief over my face, trying to
imagine that I was asleep, when the welcome voice of the arriero shouted
in my ear: “Ho! _Placero!_ up and saddle!—the morning is coming and we
must reach Tepic to-day.” We fed our horses and sat on the ground for an
hour before the first streak of dawn appeared. Three or four leagues of
travel through a rich meadow-land brought us to the foot of the first
ascent to the table-land. Our horses were fast failing, and we got off
to walk up the stony trail. “I think we had better keep very close
together,” said my friend; “these woods are full of robbers, and they
may attack us.” Our path was fenced in by thorny thickets and tall
clumps of cactus, and at every winding we were careful to have our arms
in readiness. We walked behind our horses all the afternoon, but as mine
held out best, I gradually got ahead of the arriero. I halted several
times for him to come up, but as he did not appear, I thought it
advisable to push on to a good place of rest. My caminador had touched
the bottom of his capability, and another day would have broken him down
completely. Nevertheless, he had served me faithfully and performed
miracles, considering his wasted condition. I drove him forward up
ravines, buried in foliage and fragrant with blossoms. Two leagues from
Tepic, I reached the Hacienda of La Meca, and quartered myself for the
night. One of the rancheros wished to purchase my horse, and after some
chaffering, I agreed to deliver him in Tepic for four dollars!

Footnote 1:

  An episode from Taylor’s _Eldorado_. A narrative of Travel on the
  Pacific Coast, 1849.

Tepic is built on the first plateau of the table-land.

I had been directed to call at the posada of Doña Petra, but no one
seemed to know the lady. Wandering about at random in the streets, I
asked a boy to conduct me to some mesón. I followed him into the
courtyard of a large building, where I was received by the _patron_, who
gave my done-over horse to the charge of the mozo, telling me I was just
in time for breakfast. The purchaser of my horse did not make his
appearance, notwithstanding I was ready to fulfil my part of the
bargain. I went the round of the different mesóns, to procure another
horse, and at last made choice of a little brown mustang that paced
admirably, giving my caminador and twenty dollars for him.

Leaving the mesón on a bright Sunday noon, I left the city by the
Guadalajara road. The plaza was full of people, all in spotless holiday
dress; a part of the exercises were performed in the portals of the
cathedral, thus turning the whole square into a place of worship. At the
tingle of the bell, ten thousand persons dropped on their knees,
repeating their aves with a light, murmuring sound, that chimed
pleasantly with the bubbling of the fountain. I stopped my horse and
took off my sombrero till the prayer was over.

My _priéto_—the Mexican term for a dark-brown horse—paced finely, and
carried me to the village of San Lionel, ten leagues from Tepic, two
hours before nightfall. I placed him securely in the corral, deposited
my saddle in an empty room, the key of which, weighing about four
pounds, was given into my possession for the time being, and entered the
kitchen. I found the entire household in a state of pleased
anticipation; a little girl, with wings of red and white gauze, and hair
very tightly twisted into ropy ringlets, sat on a chair near the door.
In the middle of the little plaza, three rancheros, with scarfs of
crimson and white silk suspended from their shoulders and immense tinsel
crowns upon their heads, sat motionless on their horses, whose manes and
tails were studded with rosettes of different colored paper and
streamers of ribbons. These were, as I soon saw, part of the
preparations for a sacred dramatic spectacle—a representation,
sanctioned by the religious teachers of the people.

Against the wing-wall of the Hacienda del Mayo, which occupied one end
of the plaza, was raised a platform, on which stood a table covered with
scarlet cloth. A rude bower of cane-leaves, on one end of the platform,
represented the manger of Bethlehem; while a cord, stretched from its
top across the plaza to a hole in the front of the church, bore a large
tinsel star, suspended by a hole in its centre. There was quite a crowd
in the plaza, and very soon a procession appeared, coming up from the
lower part of the village. The three kings took the lead; the Virgin
mounted on an ass that gloried in a gilded saddle and rose-besprinkled
mane and tail, followed them, led by the angel; and several women, with
curious masks of paper, brought up the rear. Two characters of the
harlequin sort—one a dog’s head on his shoulders and the other a
bald-headed friar, with a huge hat hanging on his back—played all sorts
of antics for the diversion of the crowd. After making the circuit of
the plaza, the Virgin was taken to the platform, and entered the manger.
King Herod took his seat at the scarlet table, with an attendant in blue
coat and red sash, whom I took to be his Prime Minister. The three kings
remained on their horses in front of the church; but between them and
the platform, under the string on which the star was to slide, walked
two men in long white robes and blue hoods, with parchment folios in
their hands. These were the Wise Men of the East, as one might readily
know from their solemn air, and the mysterious glances which they cast
towards all quarters of the heavens.

In a little while, a company of women on the platform, concealed behind
a curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune of “O pescator dell’onda.”
At the proper moment, the Magi turned towards the platform, followed by
the star, to which a string was conveniently attached, that it might be
slid along the line. The three kings followed the star till it reached
the manger, when they dismounted, and inquired for the sovereign whom it
had led them to visit. They were invited upon the platform and
introduced to Herod, as the only king; this did not seem to satisfy
them, and, after some conversation, they retired. By this time the star
had receded to the other end of the line, and commenced moving forward
again, they following. The angel called them into the manger, where,
upon their knees, they were shown a small wooden box, supposed to
contain the sacred infant; they then retired, and the star brought them
back no more. After this departure, King Herod declared himself greatly
confused by what he had witnessed, and was very much afraid this
newly-found king would weaken his power. Upon consultation with his
Prime Minister, the Massacre of the Innocents was decided upon, as the
only means of security.

The angel, on hearing this, gave warning to the Virgin, who quickly got
down from the platform, mounted her bespangled donkey and hurried off.
Herod’s Prime Minister directed all the children to be handed up for
execution. A boy, in a ragged sarape, was caught and thrust forward; the
Minister took him by the heels in spite of his kicking, and held his
head on the table. The little brother and sister of the boy, thinking he
was really to be decapitated, yelled at the top of their voices, in an
agony of terror, which threw the crowd into a roar of laughter. King
Herod brought down his sword with a whack on the table, and the Prime
Minister, dipping his brush into a pot of white paint which stood before
him, made a flaring cross on the boy’s face. Several other boys were
caught and served likewise; and, finally, the two harlequins, whose
kicks and struggles nearly shook down the platform. The procession then
went off up the hill, followed by the whole population of the village.
All the evening there were fandangos in the mesón, bonfires and rockets
on the plaza, ringing of bells, and high mass in the church, with the
accompaniment of two guitars, tinkling to lively polkas.

I left San Lionel early in the morning, rode thirty miles, to the
village of Santa Ysabel, before breakfasting, and still had twenty-one
miles to Ahuacatlan, my stopping-place for the night.

At the mesón of that place I found no one but the hostess and her two
little sons; but the latter attended to my wants with a childish
courtesy, and gravity withal, which were charming. The little fellows
gave me the key to a room, saw my _priéto_ properly cared for, and then
sat down to entertain me till the tortillas were made and the eggs
fried. They talked with much naïveté and a wisdom beyond their years.
After supper they escorted me to my room, and took leave of me with
“_pasa ustê muy buena noche_!”

My _priéto_ began to feel the effects of hard travel and I therefore
stopped for the night at the inn of Mochitilte, an immense building,
sitting alone like a fortress among the hills. The key of a large,
cheerless room, daubed with attempts at fresco ornament, was given to
me, and a supper served up in a cold and gloomy hall. The wind blew
chill from the heights on either side, and I found _priéto’s_ blanket a
welcome addition to my own, in the matter of bedding.

I slept soundly in my frescoed chamber, fed _priéto_, and was off by
sunrise. In the little town of Magdalena, where I breakfasted, I gave
_priéto_ a sheaf of _oja_ and two hours’ rest before starting for the
town of Tequila. _No quiere ustê tomar ausilio?—hay muchos ladrones en
el camino_ (“Don’t you want a guard?—the road is full of robbers”),
asked the vaquero of the house. “Every traveller,” he continued, “takes
a guard as far as Tequila, for which he pays each man a dollar.” I told
him I had no particular fear of the robbers, and would try it alone.
“You are very courageous,” he remarked, “but you will certainly be
attacked unless you take me as an _ausilio_.”

The road now entered a narrow pass, following the dry bed of a stream.
Its many abrupt twists and windings afforded unequalled chances for the
guerillas, especially as the pass was nearly three leagues in length,
without a single habitation on the road.

After riding two hours in the hot afternoon sun, which shone down into
the pass, a sudden turn disclosed to me a startling change of scenery.
At my very feet lay the city of Tequila, so near that it seemed a stone
might be thrown upon the square towers of its cathedral.

I rode down into the city where at the _Mesón de San José_—the only inn
in the place—I found a large company of soldiers quartered for the
night. The inner _patio_ or courtyard, with its stables, well, and
massive trough of hewn stone, was appropriated to their horses, and
groups of swarthy privates, in dusty blue uniforms, filled the
corridors. I obtained a dark room for myself, and a corner of one of the
stalls for _priéto_, where I was obliged to watch until he had finished
his corn, and keep off his military aggressors. The women were all
absent, and I procured a few tortillas and a cup of pepper-sauce, with
some difficulty. The place looked bleak and cheerless after dark, and
for this reason, rather than for its cut-throat reputation, I made but a
single stroll to the plaza, where a number of rancheros sat beside their
piles of fruit and grain, in the light of smoky torches, hoisted on
poles.

When I arose, the sun, just above the hills, was shining down the long
street that led to Guadalajara. I had a journey of eighteen leagues to
make, and it was time to be on the road; so, without feeding my horse, I
saddled and rode away. A little more than four leagues across the plain,
brought me to the town of Amatitlan; where, at a miserable mud building,
dignified by the name of a mesón, I ordered breakfast, and a _mano de
oja_ for my horse. There was none in the house, but one of the neighbors
began shelling a quantity of the ripe ears. When I came to pay, I gave
her a Mexican dollar, which she soon brought back, saying that it had
been pronounced counterfeit at a _tienda_, or shop, across the way. I
then gave her another, which she returned, with the same story, after
which I gave her a third, saying she must change it, for I would give
her no more. The affairs of a few hours later caused me to remember and
understand the meaning of this little circumstance. At the _tienda_, a
number of fellows in greasy sarapes were grouped, drinking mescal, which
they offered me. I refused to join them: “_Es la ultima vez_” (It is the
last time), said one of them, though what he meant, I did not then know.

It was about ten in the forenoon when I left Amatitlan. The road entered
on a lonely range of hills. The soil was covered with stunted shrubs and
a growth of long yellow grass. I could see the way for half a league
before and behind; there was no one in sight. I rode leisurely along,
looking down into a deep ravine on my right and thinking to myself,
“That is an excellent place for robbers to lie in wait; I think I had
better load my pistol”—which I had fired off just before reaching
Tequila. Scarcely had this thought passed through my mind, when a little
bush beside the road seemed to rise up; I turned suddenly, and, in a
breath, the two barrels of a musket were before me, so near and surely
aimed, that I could almost see the bullets at the bottom. The weapon was
held by a ferocious looking native, dressed in a pink calico shirt and
white pantaloons; on the other side of me stood a second, covering me
with another double-barrelled musket, and a little in the rear appeared
a third. I had walked like an unsuspecting mouse, into the very teeth of
the trap laid for me.

“Down with your pistols!” cried the first, in a hurried whisper. So
silently and suddenly had all this taken place, that I sat still a
moment, hardly realizing my situation. “Down with your pistols and
dismount!” was repeated, and this time the barrels came a little nearer
my breast. Thus solicited, I threw down my single pistol—the more
readily because it was harmless—and got off my horse. Having secured the
pistol, the robbers went to the rear, never for a moment losing their
aim. They then ordered me to lead my horse off the road, by a direction
which they pointed out. We went down the side of the ravine for about a
quarter of a mile to a patch of bushes and tall grass, out of view from
the road, where they halted, one of them returning, apparently to keep
watch. The others, deliberately levelling their pieces at me, commanded
me to lie down on my face—“_la boca à tierra_!” I cannot say that I felt
alarmed: it had always been a part of my belief that the shadow of Death
falls before him—that the man doomed to die by violence feels the chill
before the blow has been struck. As I never felt more positively alive
than at that moment, I judged my time had not yet come. I pulled off my
coat and vest, at their command, and threw them on the grass, saying:
“Take what you want, but don’t detain me long.” The fellow in a pink
calico shirt, who appeared to have some authority over the other two,
picked up my coat, and, one after the other, turned all the pockets
inside out. I felt a secret satisfaction at his blank look when he
opened my purse and poured the few dollars it contained into a pouch he
carried in his belt. “How is it,” said he, “that you have no more
money?” “I don’t own much,” I answered, “but there is quite enough for
you.” I had, in fact, barely sufficient in coin for a ride to Mexico,
the most of my funds having been invested in a draft on that city. I
believe I did not lose more than twenty-five dollars by this attack. “At
least,” I said to the robbers, “you’ll not take the papers”—among which
was my draft. “_No_,” he replied—“_no me valen nada_.” (They are worth
nothing to me.)

Having searched my coat, he took a hunting-knife which I carried,
examined the blade and point, placed his piece against a bush behind him
and came up to me, saying, as he held the knife above my head: “Now put
your hands behind you, and don’t move, or I shall strike.” The other
then laid down his musket and advanced to bind me. They were evidently
adepts in the art: all their movements were so carefully timed, that any
resistance would have been against dangerous odds. I did not consider my
loss sufficient to justify any desperate risk, and did as they
commanded. With the end of my horse’s lariat, they bound my wrists
firmly together and having me thus secure, sat down to finish their
inspection more leisurely. My feelings during this proceeding were oddly
heterogeneous—at one moment burning with rage and shame at having
neglected the proper means of defence, and the next, ready to burst into
a laugh at the decided novelty of my situation. My blanket having been
spread on the grass, everything was emptied into it. The robbers had an
eye for the curious and incomprehensible, as well as the useful. They
spared all my letters, books, and papers, but took my thermometer,
compass, and card-case, together with a number of drawing-pencils, some
soap (a thing the Mexicans never use), and what few little articles of
the toilette I carried with me. A bag hanging at my saddle-bow,
containing ammunition, went at once, as well as a number of oranges and
cigars in my pockets, the robbers leaving me _one_ of the latter, as a
sort of consolation for my loss.

Between Mazatlan and Tepic, I had carried a doubloon in the hollow of
each foot, covered by the stocking. It was well they had been spent for
_priéto_, for they would else have certainly been discovered. The
villains unbuckled my spurs, jerked off my boots and examined the
bottoms of my pantaloons, ungirthed the saddle and shook out the
blankets, scratched the heavy guard of the bit to see whether it was
silver, and then, apparently satisfied that they had made the most of
me, tied everything together in a corner of my best blanket. “Now,” said
the leader, when this was done, “shall we take your horse?” This
question was of course a mockery; but I thought I would try an
experiment, and so answered in a very decided tone: “No; you shall not.
I _must_ have him; I am going to Guadalajara, and I cannot get there
without him. Besides, he would not answer at all for your business.” He
made no reply, but took up his piece, which I noticed was a splendid
article and in perfect order, walked a short distance towards the road,
and made a signal to the third robber. Suddenly he came back, saying:
“Perhaps you may get hungry before night—here is something to eat;” and
with that he placed one of my oranges and half a dozen tortillas on the
grass beside me. “_Mil gracias_,” said I, “but how am I to eat without
hands?” The other then coming up, he said, as they all three turned to
leave me: “Now we are going; we have more to carry than we had before we
met you; adios!” This was insulting—but there are instances under which
an insult must be swallowed.

I waited till no more of them could be seen, and then turned to my
horse, who stood quietly at the other end of the lariat: “Now,
_priéto_,” I asked, “how are we to get out of this scrape?” He said
nothing, but I fancied I could detect an inclination to laugh in the
twitching of his nether lip. However, I went to work at extricating
myself—a difficult matter, as the rope was tied in several knots. After
tugging a long time, I made a twist which the India-rubber man might
have envied, and to the great danger of my spine, succeeded in forcing
my body through my arms. Then, loosening the knots with my teeth, in
half an hour I was free again. As I rode off, I saw the three robbers at
some distance, on the other side of the ravine.

It is astonishing how light one feels after being robbed. A sensation of
complete independence came over me; my horse, even, seemed to move more
briskly, after being relieved of my blankets. I tried to comfort myself
with the thought that this was a genuine adventure, worth one
experience—that, perhaps, it was better to lose a few dollars than have
even a robber’s blood on my head; but it would not do. The sense of the
outrage and indignity was strongest, and my single desire was the
unchristian one of revenge. In spite of the threats of the robbers, I
looked in their faces sufficiently to know them again, in whatever part
of the world I might meet them. I recognized the leader—a thick-set,
athletic man, with a short, black beard—as one of the persons I had seen
lounging about the _tienda_, in Amatitlan, which explained the artifice
that led me to display more money than was prudent. It was evidently a
preconceived plan to plunder me at all hazards, since, coming from the
Pacific, I might be supposed to carry a booty worth fighting for.

I rode on rapidly, over broad, barren hills, covered with patches of
chapparal, and gashed with deep arroyos. These are the usual
hiding-places of the robbers, and I kept a sharp lookout, inspecting
every rock and clump of cactus with a peculiar interest. About three
miles from the place of my encounter, I passed a spot where there had
been a desperate assault eighteen months previous. The robbers came upon
a camp of soldiers and traders in the night, and a fight ensued, in
which eleven of the latter were killed. They lie buried by the roadside,
with a few black crosses to mark the spot, while directly above them
stands a rough gibbet, on which three of the robbers, who were
afterwards taken, swing in chains. I confess to a decided feeling of
satisfaction, when I saw that three, at least, had obtained their
deserts. Their long black hair hung over their faces, their clothes were
dropping in tatters, and their skeleton-bones protruded through the dry
and shrunken flesh. The thin, pure air of the table-land had prevented
decomposition, and the vultures and buzzards had been kept off by the
nearness of the bodies to the road. It is said, however, that neither
wolves nor vultures will touch a dead Mexican, his flesh being always
too highly seasoned by the red-pepper he has eaten. A large sign was
fastened above this ghastly spectacle, with the words, in large letters:
ASI CASTIGA LA LEY LADRON Y EL ASESINO. (“Thus the law punishes the
robber and the assassin.”)

I hurried my _priéto_, now nearly exhausted, over the dusty plain. I had
ascended beyond the tropical heats, and, as night drew on, the
temperature was fresh almost to chilliness. The robbers had taken my
cravat and vest, and the cold wind of the mountains, blowing upon my
bare neck gave me a violent nervous pain and toothache, which was worse
than the loss of my money. _Priéto_ panted and halted with fatigue, for
he had already traveled fifty miles; but I was obliged to reach
Guadalajara, and by plying a stick in lieu of the abstracted spur, kept
him to his pace. An hour and a half brought me to the suburbs of
Guadalajara.

I was riding at random among the dark adobe houses, when an old padre,
in black cassock and immense shovel-hat, accosted me. “_Estrangero?_” he
inquired; “_Si, padre_,” said I. “But,” he continued, “do you know that
it is very dangerous to be here alone?”—then, dropping his voice to a
whisper, he added: “Guadalajara is full of robbers; you must be careful
how you wander about after night; do you know where to go?” I answered
in the negative. “Then,” said he, “go to the Mesón de la Mercéd; they
are honest people there, and you will be perfectly safe; come with me
and I’ll show you the way.” I followed him for some distance, till we
were near the place, when he put me in the care of “Ave Maria
Santissima,” and left. I found the house without difficulty, and rode
into the courtyard. The people, who seemed truly honest, sympathized
sincerely for my mishap, and thought it a great marvel that my life had
been spared. For myself, when I lay down on the tiled floor I
involuntarily said: “Aye, now I am in Guadalajara; the more fool I; when
I was at home I was in a better place; but travelers must be content.”


                                THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------



                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





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