 | CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
“Stranger,” said he, “there is a sort of history in those cards
which I am always happy to tell to any young man that's a beginner
in the world like yourself. I consider them as a sort of
Bible, for, when I look at them and remember all that I know
concerning them, I feel as if I was listening to some prime sermon,
or may be, hearing just such a chapter as the old man read
to us out of the good book to-night. It's quite a long history, and
I'll put on a fresh handful of lightwood before I begin.”
The interruption was brief, and soon overcome, and the narrative
of the husband ran as follows:
“It is now,” said he, “going on to twelve years since the circumstances
took place which belong to the story of those cards,
and I will have to carry you back to that time before you can
have a right knowledge of what I want to tell. I was then pretty
much such a looking person as you now see me, for I haven't
undergone much change. I was a little sprightlier, perhaps—
always famous for light-headedness and laughing—fond of fun
and frolic, but never doing any thing out of mischief and bad humour.
The old man, my father, too, was pretty much the same.
We lived here where you find us now, but not quite so snugly
off—not so well settled—rather poor, I may say, though still with
a plentiful supply to live on and keep warm and feel lively.
There was only us two, and we had but two workers, a man and
woman, and they had two children, who could do nothing for us
and precious little for themselves. But we were snug, and
worked steadily, and were comfortable. We didn't make much
money, but we always spent less than we made. We didn't have
very nice food, but we had no physic to take, and no doctor's bills
to pay. We had a great deal to make us happy, and still more
to be thankful for; and I trust in God we were thankful for all
of his blessings. I think we were, for he gave us other blessings;
and for these, stranger, we are trying to be thankful also.
“Well, as I was saying, about twelve years ago, one hot day
in August, I rode out a little piece towards the river bluff to see
if any goods had been left for us at the landing. We had heard
the steamboat gun the night before, or something like it, and that,
you know, is the signal to tell us when to look after our plunder.
When I got there I found a lot of things, some for us, and some
for other people. There was a bag of coffee, a keg of sugar,
three sacks of salt, and a box of odds and ends for us. But the
chaps on board the steamboat—which was gone—had thrown
down the stuff any where, and some of the salt was half melted
in a puddle of water. I turned in, and hauled it out of the water,
and piled it up in a dry place. What was wet belonged
chiefly to our neighbours, and the whole of it might have been
lost if I had not got there in season. This kept me a good hour,
and as I had no help, and some of the sacks were large and heavy,
I was pretty nigh tired out when the work was done. So I
took a rest of half an hour more in the shade. The heat was
powerful, and I had pretty nigh been caught by sleep—I don't
know but I did sleep, for in midsummer one's not always sure of
himself in a drowsy moment—when I was suddenly roused up
by a noise most like the halloo of a person in distress. I took the
saddle on the spur, and went off in the quarter that the sound
came from. It so happened that my route homeward lay the
same way, and on the river road, the only public road in the settlement;
and I had only gone two hundred yards or thereabout,
when, in turning an elbow of the path, I came plump upon a
stranger, who happened to be the person whom I heard calling.
He was most certainly in distress. His horse was flat upon his
side, groaning powerfully, and the man was on his knees, rubbing
the creature's legs with a pretty hard hand. A little way behind
him lay a dead rattlesnake, one of the largest I ever did see,
counting twenty-one rattles besides the button; and the sight of
the snake told me the whole story. I jumped down to see what
I could do in the way of help, but I soon discovered that the nag
had the spasms, and was swelled up to her loins. I however cut
into her leg with my knife, just where she was bitten, and when
I had dug out the poisoned flesh, as much as I thought was reasonable,
I got on my horse and rode back to the salt bags at full
it into the animal's wound, I really believe, a few minutes after
she had groaned her last and stiffened out, but I wasn't rubbing
very long. She was about the soonest killed of any creature
that I ever saw snakebit before.
“It was only after I was done with the mare, that I got a fair
look at her owner. He was a small and rather oldish man, with
a great stoop of the shoulders, with a thin face, glossy black
hair, and eyes black too, but shining as bright, I reckon, as those
of the rattlesnake he had killed. They had a most strange and
troublesome brightness, that made me look at them whether
I would or not. His face was very pale, and the wrinkles were
deep, like so many seams, and, as I have said, he was what I
would call a rather oldish man; but still he was very nicely
dressed, and wore a span-new velvet vest, a real English broad-cloth
coat, gold watch with gold seals; and every now and then
he pulled out a snuff-box made like a horn, with a curl at the
end of it, which was also set with a gold rim, and had a cap
of the same precious stuff upon it. He was taking snuff every
moment while I was doctoring his mare, and when the creature
went dead, he offered it to me; but I had always thought it work
enough to feed my mouth, and had no notion of making another
mouth of my nose, so I refused him civilly.
“He didn't seem to be much worried by the death of his
creature, and when I told him how sorry I was on his account,
he answered quickly,
“ `Oh! no matter; you have a good horse; you will let me
have him; you look like a good fellow.'
“I was a little surprised, you may reckon. I looked at the old
man, and then at my creature. He was a good creature; and
as prime an animal as ever stepped in traces; good at any thing,
plough, wagon, or saddle; as easy-going as a girl of sixteen, and
not half so skittish. I had no notion of giving him up to a stranger,
you may be sure, and didn't half like the cool, easy, impudent
manner with which the old man spoke to me. I had no
fears—I didn't think of his taking my nag from me by force—
but, of a sudden, I almost begun to think he might be a wizard,
as we read in Scripture, and hear of from the old people, or
I had to expect. But he soon made the matter clear to me. Perhaps
he saw that I was a little beflustered.
“ `Young man,' says he, `your horse is a fine one. Will you
sell him? I am willing to pay you a fair price—give you his
full value.'
“There was something to consider in that. When did you ever
find a Western man unwilling for a horse-barter? Besides, though
the creature was a really first-rate nag, he was one more than I
wanted. One for the plough, and one for the saddle—as the old
man didn't ride often—was enough for us; and we had three.
But Rainbow—that was his name—was so sleek an animal! He
could a'most do any thing that you'd tell him. I didn't want to
sell him, but I didn't want to keep a mouth too many. You know
a horse that you don't want begins by gnawing through your
pockets, and ends by eating off his own head. That's the say,
at least. But I raised Rainbow, fed him with my own hands,
curried him night and morning myself, and looked upon him as a
sort of younger brother. I hated powerful bad to part with him;
but then there was no reason to keep him when he was of no use.
'Twas a satisfaction, to be sure, to have such a creature; and
'twas a pleasure to cross him, and streak it away, at a brushing
canter, of a bright morning, for a good five miles at a stretch;
but poor people can't afford such pleasures and satisfactions; and
when I thought of the new wagon that we wanted, and such a
smart chance of other things about the farm, I looked at the old
man and thought better of his offer. I said to him, though a little
slowly,
“ `It's a famous fine horse this, stranger.'
“ `I know it,' said he; `I never saw one that better pleased my
eyes. I'll pay you a famous fine price for him.'
“ `What'll you give?' said I.
“ `Pshaw!' said he, `speak out like a man. I'm no baby,
and you are old enough to know better. What's your price?'
“ `He's low,' said I, `at one hundred and seventy dollars.'
“ `He is,' said he, `he's worth more—will you take that?'
“ `Yes.'
“ `You shall have it,' he answered, `and I'll throw the dead
horse into the bargain; she was a famous fine animal too, in
her day, and her skin's worth stuffing as a keepsake. You can
stuff it and put it up in your stables, as an example to your other
horses.'
| CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin | |