Chatterbox, 1906 Part 111

Wise heads have thought and planned, brave blood has been shed, n.o.ble lives laid down for the good of Africa, and, by slow degrees, the shadows are fleeing before the dawn.

MARY H. DEBENHAM.

THE FAIRIES' NIGHT.

The foxgloves are the sentinels That guard the fairies' sleep, When twilight comes, and to their beds The wee elves softly creep.

And each wild rose a cradle is To lull them to repose, While over them, so pink and white, The petals tightly close.

They all night long serenely sleep, Until the peep of day; And then the roses open wide To send the elves away.

THE COW-WAGGON.

During a recent visit at a Western ranch, we saw what was to us an entirely novel vehicle, a 'cow-waggon'--an immense canvas-covered van drawn by four horses. We also enjoyed the experience of a drive in one, lurching over the plain like a yacht in a rough sea.

The cow-waggon is fitted with all the necessary camping outfit used by the cow-boys on a 'round-up,' or cattle-herding expedition. Every bit of s.p.a.ce is used, and in its ample canvas cavern are packed the beds, provisions, cooking utensils, tent canvas, and the odds-and-ends of the 'outfit.'

The back of the cow-waggon comes down and turns out on supports, making a shelf-table; behind the movable back are a cupboard and the cook's store-lockers, always well stocked, for the 'punchers' (men who brand the cattle) are men of mighty appet.i.te. Meals served on the prairie by the cow-waggon cook are splendid. They consist of coffee and beans, bacon and beef, dried fruit and delicious rolls. The rolls and other 'sour-dough' dainties are baked in a Dutch oven. The term 'sour-dough'

is another Western word. It was first used to denote the light bread baked by the cow-waggon cook, though the bread is usually excellent. A later use of 'sour-dough' is as a t.i.tle for newly arrived miners in the Arctic goldfields of the Klond.y.k.e.

When the camping-ground is reached, a wide canvas is stretched over the cow-waggon; this spreads out on all sides, and is a shade 'in a weary land' for the tired puncher.

Cattle are on the move at sunrise, and it behoves the cow-boy to be also on the alert. The sun, coming up over the great stretches of plain, gives a similar impression to that of a sunrise at sea. If the round-up is in Alberta, the gra.s.s is fragrant with wild flowers, especially the dwarf-rose, and the morning air is melodious with bird-songs.

The 'puncher' comes out from his blankets and scans the hundreds of cattle dotted here and there in the shadow of the foot-hills. Presently an animal stretches out its hind legs and comes clumsily to its feet; others follow, and the herds are soon busily cropping the dew-laden gra.s.s. The puncher looks at his rope and his horse, sniffs the aroma of coffee, and promptly answers to the call of 'Grub.' There is a flourish of tin plates and cups, and of iron-handled knives and forks, and a rapid disappearance of the 'chuck.' Then to horse and the duties of the day.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A Cow Waggon Encamped and on the March.]

The 'outfit' is packed. The cook hitches up the horses and starts for the next camping-ground. The cow-boys pursue their business of 'cutting out;' cattle, with tails valiantly erect, snorting defiance, rush by the 'cow-waggon,' which, unmoved amid this mimic war, goes lurching over the plain.

Like many other inst.i.tutions of the West, the cow-waggon will, in a few years, be a thing of the past. Wire fences, and the enclosure of the pasturelands, are getting rid of the need for it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'I will come with you at once.'"]

THE BROKEN PROMISE.

'I don't want any tea,' said Roger, as he pulled off his muddy boots, with a very sulky expression.

'I suppose that is always the way with a fellow's mother. Fuss and bother--I'm tied to her ap.r.o.n-strings. Opening his paper he looked at him over the top of it, with a rather grave expression.

'Don't you think it is silly, Uncle?'

'What's it all about?' asked Uncle James.

'Why, I just happened to be a bit late home, after the match. Saunders wanted me to see his rabbits, and it made me a little late; at least, it was really a lot late. There were some other fellows there, and I came away before most of them.'

'Well?'

'Well, now there is no end of a bother, because I sort of promised I would be home early to tea. The girls had got some friends coming, and wanted me to show off the magic-lantern. When I came in, Mother was crying, and the servant out looking for me. It's too silly! I'm not a baby!'

And Roger plunged his spoon afresh into his egg, as if he expected to find in it a remedy for his grievance.

'Jones minor says his mother is just the same; but the two Rhodeses, who live with an aunt, can do just as they like.'

Uncle James laid down his paper, and looked steadily at the fire.

'My mother was just the same,' he said.

'What, Granny?' exclaimed Roger. 'But she is so jolly. When I go to stay, I do what I like.'

'Did you ever hear, Roger,' asked Uncle James, 'about my sister Phyllis?'

'Who died when she was a little girl? Oh, yes, I have heard a little, of course. Tell me some more, please, Uncle.'

Uncle James's kind face was a little clouded.

'Can he be vexed?' wondered thoughtless Roger. 'Or else--oh, yes--it's because she died that he doesn't like talking about her.' He said aloud, 'Never mind, Uncle, if it makes you feel bad.'

'She was very dear to me,' Uncle James said. 'Yet I scarcely ever speak of her; you will understand why, when I have finished what I am going to tell you. There were three of us,' he began, 'your mother, myself, and our little Phyllis. She was the youngest, and was nine at the time. We lived in a small house in this town, for our parents were not rich.'

Roger nodded. 'Mother showed me that house. It's smaller than this, a good deal.'

'Your mother, who was my mother's right hand, had been sent to a boarding-school at a distance, and I was left, in a way, in charge of my mother and young sister, my father being abroad with his regiment. You may be sure I felt proud of myself when I went round at night, bolting the doors and windows, and putting out the lights. And I generally ran home as quick as I could from the day-school I went to. Phyllis would be at the door, with her little pale face beaming, and br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with questions about my games and successes.

'Well, one Sat.u.r.day afternoon, I was to play for the school in a football match; I was a good runner, and strong for my size, though I was quite a little chap. I remember being very much annoyed with my mother for saying I had better not play, as I had had a cold. I had caught it from Phyllis, we thought; but, as I was a robust lad, it was soon thrown off. But my sister--she was always delicate--still had a cough, and seemed dull and had headache. Of course I laughed at my mother's fears, took my football jersey from before the fire--she had washed it, and was just as particular about airing as your mother is--fussy, you would say--and off I went, in high spirits.

'"I won't be late," I called from the door.

'"No, be quick home, there's my dear boy," my mother said; and Phyllis, who was lying on the sofa, looked up for a minute with, "Play up, Jim.

Mind you win the match."

'But mother followed me to the door.

'"Jim," she said, speaking low, "I don't feel easy about Phyllis. She is feverish to-day. I think you had better call and ask Dr. Harris to come."

'"Oh, Mother," I said, "she will be all right! My cold was just as bad while it lasted. You shouldn't fret about nothing." I had got into the way of giving her a good deal of advice.