The Cabin on the Prairie Part 14

"When will he be back?"

"I don't know," said Tom; "but he expects to attend a wedding this evening, and, as it's now 'most four, I expect him every minute."

"Then," said she, "I guess I'll take a chair and wait. My husband has a small bill agin him, and I thought maybe he'd just as lief pay it now as any time."

She was garrulous and inquisitive, plying Tom with all sorts of questions about the minister's family, much to the annoyance of the lad, who, remembering that there were certain errands yet to be done that afternoon,--for Tom was now often at the cabin a.s.sisting the minister,--he asked her if she would look after Bub while he went to the village, saying he thought it likely the family would return before he did. The old lady rather liked the arrangement, as it would give her a chance to inspect the housekeeping of the minister's wife; and, watching Tom till he was well into town, she commenced her examinations. First she opened the closet door to see how the dishes were arranged, for she had heard that once on a time the good man's lady had committed the great crime of writing a book; and she had often remarked that "anybody that could waste their time in sich a way must be a master slack housekeeper." To her disappointment, however, she found that quite as good order, and rather more taste, reigned there than in her own pantry, but was relieved again a moment at finding an unwashed plate.

"Just as I thought," she muttered, with a grunt of satisfaction.

Having finished her leisurely inspection of the cupboard, during which she smelled of the bread to see if it was sour, broke off a bit of the cake to see if it was extravagant, and sucked some plum sauce from the ends of her fingers, she started to peer under the bed to ascertain if there was any dust there, when, hearing a noise, supposing that the minister had come, she turned and closed the closet door, and reseated herself, wiping her mouth with her ap.r.o.n as she did so. This change of posture brought her into full view of the stairs leading to the loft above, which humble place, under the roof, the clergyman used for a study when he wished to be _very much_ retired. On the stairs, descending with solemn step and slow, was Bub, with the minister's old hat on, which he kept above his eyes by one chubby hand, and the minister's steel-bowed gla.s.ses resting on his nose, and the good man's dressing-gown trailing magnificently behind. Bub's manner showed that he felt his consequence much increased by his clerical outfit, and the benignant gravity of his face was edifying to behold.

"Goodness gracious!" exclaimed the old lady; "what on airth you up to, you imp o' Satan? Can't you berhave in the minister's house?" and, seizing the urchin as he landed, she only ceased shaking him as the spectacles dropped to the floor.

This reception was wholly unexpected to poor Bub, and, as she relieved him of his ministerial vestments, he sobbed indignantly,--

"Now Bub go wite away, and never come back no more!" and, opening the door, he marched resolutely out.

The elderly caller had now the congenial duty to do of restoring the minister's apparel to its proper place overhead; and, glancing out of the window, to be sure n.o.body was coming, she ascended to the missionary's _sanctum sanctorum_.

Now, Rev. Mr. Payson, in his varied pursuits of preacher, pastor, house-carpenter, stone-mason, farmer, and doctor,--for, having skill in medicine, the sick depended somewhat on his medical care,--he was quite apt to leave his uninviting study in disorder, especially when suddenly called from home. Moreover, like the other cabins in a new country, the house was overrun with field mice, making it, as Mr.

Payson sometimes said, "dangerous to sleep with one's mouth open, lest a mouse might mistake it for his hole, and pop in." Whether, however, such a suffocating casualty would occur or not, the wee animals chased each other along the logs, ransacked the closet, scampered across the beds, nibbling at everything that tempted their sharp little teeth; even the clergyman's books and papers were mutilated by them most irreverently.

The sight of the sheets and bits of writing paper, the news journals, and old reviews,--for the missionary, unable to take the current publications, read and re-read the old ones with a mournful satisfaction,--and the other signs of confusion which prevailed, and which so annoyed his wife, were as refres.h.i.+ng to Mrs. Smith's eyes as the first glimpse of land to Columbus.

"Zactly as I expected," she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, lifting her hands in horror.

"I alluz hearn tell that these ere lit'ry women are a s.h.i.+ftless set. I should think it would worry a man's life out of his body to be jined to sich a hussy. Why, there's my Betsy Ann; she ken go a visitin' more 'n half the time, and her husband never said boo agin her house-work; an' I've known lots o' women what could embroider, an' play the piana, an' make heaps o' calls, an' attind b.a.l.l.s an' sich till enymost mornin', an' they'd no more think o' wastin' their time in writin' a book than cuttin' their heads off! But duzzn't them books look pooty on them shelves? I should think it would make the minister's head split if he knows all that's in them volums; an' they do say he's ter'ble larned. Well, I mustn't stay here no longer, though it's jist as I expected." And, returning to the room below, she lifted her hands again in astonishment as she saw by the clock that it was five. "I guess John'll have to git his own fodder to-night, or go without. He's used to it, though. I brings my man up not to expect a woman to drudge, drudge, about house. But, mercy me!" she exclaimed, "where's that child gone to? I warrant he's in some mischief;" and, opening the door, she called,--

"Bub, Bub! come inter the huss!"

But Bub did not answer. So she went around the cabin, but could see nothing of him, and, thinking that he would not come because it was she that called him, she added,--

"Come right in now; Tom wants yer."

There was only a slight clearing around the cabin, and then came a thick growth of bushes, and beyond, the woods on either hand, save the path in the direction of the town. It was but a few rods to the nearest house in the village, and she hurried there to make inquiries, for she was becoming anxious for the child. But the children, playing near by, said that Bub had not pa.s.sed that way, so, running back, she inst.i.tuted a new search in the vicinity of the cabin, calling him as before, and receiving no answer; and, as there was a wide cart track leading into the woods from the cabin door, thinking it natural for the child to stray that way, she hastened in that direction.

We have said that Mr. Smith had his virtues as well as weaknesses; and, of course, his wife was not "_totally_ depraved," in the sense in which that much-controverted term is _not_ intended by those who hold that man is naturally sinful. And, as she had borne children, a motherly solicitude was now awakened in her heart for Bub, and she pressed anxiously down the path, while the deepening twilight steadily increased the gloom that lingered in the shadows of the lofty trees.

The cart track grew less distinct as she advanced; and, as she had not found Bub, she concluded to return and alarm the neighbors, but found her course impeded on every side by the thick underbrush, for she had lost the main path. With desperate efforts she pushed aside the strong-armed boughs, and struck once more the cart track, as she supposed; but, alas for her, she was mistaken. Her head had become bewildered, and she was penetrating into the depths of the forest. On, on she urged her steps, wondering that she did not come in sight of the minister's cabin, when, to her delight, she heard a sound like the crying of a child. Now a heavy load was lifted from her mind.

"I must be nearing the cabin," thought she; "and that's Bub;" and she called with unusual tenderness, "Bub, Bub! Where are you?"

She listened intently, expecting a response, and heard again the same sound, but, strangely, farther off. So she quickened her speed, calling the boy with renewed vigor. Wearied at last in her fruitless endeavors, she stopped to rest a moment, and collect her scattered faculties. She was an apt calculator in money matters, and that faculty, summoned into exercise now, convinced her that she had pa.s.sed over many times the distance needed, had she been going in the right direction; and the horrible conclusion that she was lost in the woods thrilled her with terror. She recollected also that there had been stories told of late of a panther's voice being heard in those woods, and that it sounded like the crying of a child. This increased her fear.

While she was considering what to do in her extremity, a short, quick bark, far in the forest behind her, succeeded by a prolonged howl, the bloodthirsty cry of the "timber wolf,"--which, when once heard, can never be forgotten,--broke on her ear. She had lived too long in the wilderness not to know what that meant, and she fled with wondrous swiftness down the path, on, on, she knew not whither. Her trembling limbs began to fail; but again the fiendish wolf-cry resounded, succeeded by that of another, and yet another,--showing that the call of the first had brought others to the chase,--made her forget her weakness, and, like a spirit, away she sped, once more, on the race for life. The race, however, was an unequal one, and its fearful termination was soon staring her in the face, as she heard the ferocious creatures drawing near; when, to her relief, she saw ahead a small, untenanted cabin. It was a shanty used by the woodsmen in the winter while felling trees. The door was off its hinges; and, pa.s.sing swiftly in, in the agony of despair, she glanced around for a hiding-place. But the room was equally open to the wolves as to herself. Instantly, in a manner that seemed almost superhuman, she pa.s.sed up the side of the cabin to a beam laid for an upper floor, and stood there, clinging, with her bony fingers to the wall, as motionless as a marble statue, while the wolves, disappointed of their prey, sat on the floor below, lapping their hungry jaws, and watching her till dawn, where she was found by a party who had been searching for her all night. She was speechless when rescued, and utterly unable for a time to give any account of herself. Her first inquiry, however, when she could remember what had happened, was for little Bub.

"I guess," said one of the men, soothingly, "he has turned up all right afore now."

But as she insisted on going to the minister's to ascertain if Bub was safe, they a.s.sisted her there, where were a.s.sembled a number of women, among whom was Mrs. Jones, anxious about the lost child, for no trace of him had been discovered.

When Bub was so unceremoniously disrobed of his priestly garments by Mrs. Smith's skinny hand, highly offended at so gross an invasion of his rights and dignities, to console himself he determined to run home and tell his mother of the outrage.

Now the "make of the land," back of the missionary's cabin, was much like that near his father's, and therefore he took his way in that direction, instead of the one Mrs. Smith had surmised. He had taken quite a walk when he saw the stream that divided the minister's lot.

Remembering that there was a river back of his mother's cabin, he concluded that his home was on the other side of the stream before him. The cornstalks, too, left standing in the cleared ground opposite, were in sight, and they resembled the corn that Tom had cut and stacked. So he trudged up and down the bank to find a way to cross, till he came to a tree which had been felled for that purpose, and const.i.tuted the only bridge, the topmost boughs of which rested on the other side, just as the stream was bridged below his father's cabin, but upon which he had often been charged not to venture. Bub had been so often charged on this point, and impressed with the danger, that he did not forget it now; and, while he amused himself with dropping sticks into the water, and watching to see them carried along by the current, he called,--

"Mother, come, get Bub, if you don't want him drownded up."

And, as his mother did not make her appearance, he shouted for Sarah, till, as it was getting dusk, he felt afraid to linger longer, and mounted the tree. It was a dizzy height above the water, and Bub's curly pate would whirl whenever he glanced below; so, as he could not walk steadily, he sat down, and tried to hitch along as he had seen Sarah do. This was not much better for him, and he began creeping on all fours; and, with many an admonitory slip, which served to make him the more careful, he had got nearly across, when he fell, holding his breath from fright. Fortunately, however, he had reached the lower limbs, and the friendly branches held him until he was able to regain the trunk of the tree; and ere long his little feet pressed _terra firma_.

The cultivated ground was not fenced next the river, the bank being sufficiently steep to keep out stray cattle, and Bub found some difficulty in scaling it; but as he was hungry for supper, and had something of a will of his own, despite his short legs and frequent tumbles, at last he succeeded. And, wandering around in the cornfield, vainly seeking his mother's cabin, baffled in his efforts, and finding that crying was of no avail, tired, frightened, and dispirited, he leaned his head against a clump of cornstalks, and, falling gently from the support to the soft soil, he dropped asleep as the darkness came on.

But where was Tom? When he returned from doing the errands, he was surprised at not finding either Mrs. Smith or Bub at the minister's, and was standing undecided what to do, when the clergyman drove up.

Tom immediately stated his perplexity.

"You don't suppose the woman went home, leaving Bub here alone, and the child has strayed away?" suggested Mrs. Payson, apprehensively.

"I scarcely think a woman of her age would be so imprudent," replied her husband. "She may, however, have gone to the village, and taken the child with her for safe keeping. It would be well, Tom, to go down and see."

Tom was hurrying along, when a lad called out,--

"Did the old woman find Bub?" and he related how she came there in search of him. This startled Tom, and, hastening back, he told Mr.

Payson what he had heard.

"Perhaps, then," said the minister, "the old lady got tired of waiting for me, and took Bub home with her. You may take the team and ride over there."

Finding that Mr. Smith had not seen his wife, Tom at once concluded that there must be something seriously wrong; and he said,--

"I was told at the village that your wife was there, trying to find Bub. It may be they are both lost in the woods. Now, if you will get the settlers about here together, I will rouse the villagers, and we will make a search."

We have already described the finding of the lost woman.

The ground on the side of the river next to the minister's cabin had been looked over repeatedly, and no one seemed to think it possible that the child had crossed the river, and the conclusion came to be general that he had either been carried off by a wild beast, or fallen into the water, and been drowned; and preparations were made for dragging the stream for the body, when one of the party saw a bit of cloth, which Tom recognized as torn from Bub's dress, flaunting from a twig on the tree-bridge.

"He must be on the other side!" cried Tom; and, with new hope, the party rushed to explore the field, shouting his name.

"Here I be!" answered a childish voice; and they found him seated on the ground, composedly picking the kernels from an ear of corn, the channels which the tears had ploughed on his unwashed cheeks being the only evidence of the sorrows through which he had pa.s.sed; and he said, with the air of one whose feelings had been wounded by undeserved neglect,--

"I hasn't had any dinner."

Some theologians tell us that the sinful should never be addressed through their fears; that love can only reform the erring. Perhaps Mrs. Smith was unlike the rest of the race; but the terrors of that night wrought a change in her; and Mr. Payson was surprised one day by Mr. Smith's calling at his cabin with a fine quarter of beef, saying, as he lugged it in,--

"I've been killing an ox, elder; and wife thought, if you wouldn't be offended, that I'd better bring you down a piece;" adding, as he rose to go, "Here's that due-bill that you gave me for the improvements on the ten acres. Wife says you've paid enough on it; so I've receipted it, and will call it square, if you will. And, by the way, when you are out of b.u.t.ter, just send over to our house; we can spare you a few pounds, now and then, just as well as not."

CHAPTER XII.

FIRE AND FLOOD.