"Curse the red moccasins!" cried the boy, as now in his bare feet he stood, the hot tears jumping suddenly out of his eyes. "You mocked me, fooled me, lost me! Curse you! and may I never——"

What more he might have said was cut short by a noise, which, while he was yet speaking, had caught his ear. A noise as of answering voices, mingled with peals of wild and mocking laughter, heard from several directions at once, and ringing out clear and shrill upon the still evening air. These sounds abruptly ceased—the more abruptly from leaving no echoes behind them, where echoes were wont to be left. But straight were they succeeded by another sound, caused, apparently, by a pair of light feet, which, with a hop, step and jump, by way of a start, were now coming in through the leaves and grass with a slow and measured tread; and so near at hand that he who walked would have been in plain view just there. At first Sprigg looked too high to see what was to be seen, but soon lowering his gaze he saw——

But close the book for a minute and guess. Can not? Try it again! Not yet? No—nor could you, were you to try from New Year's morn to New Year's eve. Wonderful, as you may think it, Sprigg saw there on the ground, not a dozen paces from him, his cast-off moccasins, coming slowly toward him—first the right foot, then the left—without so much as a pair of knee buckles to show for legs, till they had set their toes within easy speaking distance, squarely confronting him. The boy stood stock still, staring before him, with no more power to move from the spot than the bushes around him. So great was his astonishment, not to say terror, he felt at the sight of this fantastic apparition.



CHAPTER IX.

Finds the Red Moccasins Whole-souled Friends in Need.

"Are we not beautiful things for the feet, Sprigg? Oh, but we are! You can't deny it! On with us, then, and away to grandpap's house! Who said we couldn't take Sprigg to grandpap's house? Who said we couldn't take Sprigg to young Ben Logan's house? Who said we couldn't take Sprigg to pretty little Bertha's house? If Will-o'-the-Wisp said so, he lied! He lied, too, if he said our Sprigg was not a brave boy! He-he-he!"

The boy knew well enough, for he heard it distinctly enough this time, that the voice did not come from his own heart, nor yet from the moccasins, but from a point in the air, about as high up from the ground as his own mouth, as if he who spoke were standing in the moccasins, face to face with him, though not even so much as a shade of a shadow could he see.

"An elf! An elf is in the moccasins!" cried the boy, and tearing his feet from the ground, where he had stood as rooted, fled for his life, the moccasins following right at his heels and mockingly keeping step for step with him, till down in a swoon he sank at the foot of an old oak tree. How long he lay thus he never knew, but when he recovered his senses, there before him were the red moccasins, side by side, the toe of the left one turned slightly outward, as if he who stood in them were taking it quite at his ease. A self-assured air, well suiting the self-assured voice, which, in tones quite new and strange, pronounced these words, with an emphatic pause at the end of each brief sentence:

"You may run to the green earth's end, my boy! To the sea, where the bright sun soon shall set! To the sea, where the pale moon soon shall rise! But, step for step, come we at your heels, though borne you be on the wings of the wind!"

The poor boy cowered down at the foot of the old oak, and burying his face in his coonskin cap, remained for a long time mum and motionless. With the red moccasins, which, in a pet of disappointment and wounded self-love, he had flung from him, had departed the marvelous stoutness of heart and strength of limb he had felt while his feet were in them. And now, all weak and spiritless, was he left to shift for himself, with such resources only as a bare-footed boy, alone in the midst of a vast wilderness, might be supposed to have at his command. Sitting thus, he began gradually taking in some idea of the sad condition to which he had brought himself by his vanity and disobedience, though his remorse for the wrong of the thing, and for the sorrow it must occasion the dear ones at home, was by no means as lively and decided as his regret for the unpleasant consequences thereof to his own particular self. There he was—he knew not how far away from home, sweet home!—all alone in that wild and solitary spot, and the darksome, dismal, terrible night soon to come creeping, creeping over his houseless head. There he was, and no dear mam—so loving, so cheerful—to give him his bowl of bread and milk! No dear pap—so kind, so merry—to tell him wild stories of Indians and Will-o'-the-Wisp and Nick of the Woods! Yes, and no good, old Pow-wow, brave old Pow-wow, to come trotting up to him, in the dear old wag-tail way, to thrust his shaggy head into his little master's hand for a pat or a hug! It was too much for the poor, young runaway's heart, and out came a passionate burst of tender home-sick feeling, though he did it as well as he could, smothering it up in his coonskin cap. But soon again, bethinking him how he had been mocked and fooled by the imp in the moccasins, he summoned back the pride of his young heart and the strength of his young will, and checked his tears, lest his weakness of feeling, like his vanity, should be made the provocation of derision. In this condition he sat for many moments, quite motionless, saving when the sobs, which needs must follow his tears, came heaving up from his breast and shook his crouching little figure. Yet he did but sulk as one who, while glum with all the world besides, is far from being at peace with his own heart. His tear-wet face he still kept buried in his cap, not daring to remove it from his eyes, lest they should encounter those of the thing who stood in the moccasins, whom he felt to be watching him all this time from up there in the clear, unshadowed air. At the end of less than half an hour he was roused from his unquiet thoughts by the sound of a slow, heavy tramp, at no great distance off, followed immediately by a slight stir in the leaves and grass near-by, which caused him to start; and, before he was aware, he had dropped the cap from over his eyes. The moccasins had turned quite 'round, with their toes another way, as if the ear of him who stood in them had been caught by the same sound, and he would inform himself of the cause. Sprigg looked in the direction thus indicated, when an object met his gaze, which caused his eyes to grow big and round, then stand fixed in their sockets.

What the boy and the thing in the moccasins saw there was a bison bull—and a huge beast he was. That bull of the wilderness, and of as wild and savage an aspect, too, as you would care to behold, even within the secure enclosure of a menagerie. His hair was long and curled, and of dun or tawny color. A hump he had on his shoulders, which gave his neck a downward slope to the head, and his back a downward slope to the tail—his tail, but a short brush of a thing, scarcely reaching to his hocks. Horns, he had, too—black horns, long and strong, and tapering to a sharper point than is the case with horned cattle, generally speaking. But the feature to which the monster chiefly owed his singular wildness of appearance was his mane, which, in shaggy luxuriance, flowed from neck, shoulders and breast, covering the legs to the knees, and veiling the face almost to the very nose.

Now, had he seen all this in the yard at home, himself stationed on the porch, with pap on one side, Black Bess in hand, ready to shoot; Pow-wow on the other, ready to spring at the first intimation of hostile design on the part of his bullship, our hero would have clapped his hands and pronounced it a grander sight than any the old show bill could boast, always excepting, of course, the Indian boy and Shetland pony. But there, in that desolate spot, with not a living soul a-near, unless, indeed, the thing in moccasins might have a soul, a bison bull were hardly the object to awaken pleasant wonderment and lively admiration in the mind of a lost boy, who, against a pair of long, sharp horns, could oppose no weapon but a jack-knife, no shield but a coonskin cap.

When the boy first caught sight of him, the bull was already within easy viewing distance, and was soon so near that, in his turn, he could not fail to catch sight of the boy, where he still sat crouched at the foot of the tree. This was plainly to be seen, by the way the monster stopped short, turned square 'round, and lowered his huge, black front to stare at the little stranger. Bright eyes, wild eyes, Sprigg now saw a bison's eyes to be.

The fringe of mane, which veiled the face, obstructing his vision, caused the animal, when he stared at you, to roll his eyeballs downward till their colored circles were half hid by their lower lids, thus leaving the upper whites exposed to view in the form of a new moon, with the points downward. To be squinted at with the side whites of the eyes, to a naughty boy like Sprigg is anything else but pleasant; but to be stared at with the upper whites of the eyes, as the bison bull was now staring at Sprigg, were enough to make you feel as if you had a wide-awake nightmare in broad daylight.

Evidently his bullship was greatly surprised to find so small a boy, at so late an hour, in that out-of-the-way place, without even so much as a dog and gun to show for the business which had brought him thither. Then, as if feeling that he had a right to investigate the matter, the bison, with short, slow, soft steps, began shortening the distance between himself and the object of his curiosity. Closer and closer he came, still with his huge, black front lowered, and his crescent-like eyes gleaming wildly out from the depths of his overshadowing mane, with a look as if he were saying within himself: "And what wee thing is this, up here in my bluegrass pasture?"

Sprigg could not draw his eyes from those of the beast; nor had he the power to rise and flee from the spot, though it was well that he had not the power to run, as in that event the bull might have been tempted to give him chase, as things with horns are apt to do when we are trying our best to get out of their way. Overtaking him, the bull would have run his long, sharp horns directly under the young fugitive's arms, and, giving him a toss high up in the air, let him drop down a-straddle of his back, just behind the hump, for a pleasant evening ride. Understand me, now—I am not positive in saying that this is precisely what the bison would have done had our hero taken to his heels. Though the thing may have happened once or twice since time began, I have never heard of a runaway boy being chased by a bison bull; and, therefore, can only guess how such a beast would deport himself under the circumstances. But I am rather inclined to think he would hardly do anything more dreadful than play the savage antic just suggested; because, a moment's reflection would show him that to use his horns to a greater length, were to frighten the young runaway out of his wits, and thereby incapacitate him from being made to see and feel the error of his way. Though, I must confess that, for my own part, I should not be willing to trust the savage fellow a single horn's length until I had subjected him to a certain old-fashioned test—I would first take care to see how far I could fling the bull by the tail, and make the result the measure of my confidence in his good intentions.

Step by step, still came the monster slowly on, and now was come so near that the boy could feel his moist breath warming the air around him. Another step, and their noses had been all but within touching distance of each other. But just at that moment—just as the cry of pap! pap! rang affrightedly out on the still evening air—the red moccasins, which, up to this time, had remained perfectly quiet, seemed to be seized all on a sudden with an animated interest in what was passing. With a hop, step and jump, they were, in a twinkling, right at the bull's nose and pouring upon it a shower of kicks, so rapid and stunning that the beast, huge and powerful as he was, staggered backward several paces, with a look of utter bewilderment. Nor did the pertinacious little stunners let him off till they had forced him back to the very brink of the steep; when, with a roar of fright and pain which shook the lonely wilds, the monster wheeled about, and making a blind leap, vanished over the precipice. This done, the red moccasins quietly retraced their steps, and, with the same air of easy self-assurance, adjusted themselves before the boy, who, not so fearful now as sullen, buried his face once more in his coonskin cap; and never a word of thanks to them, nor to any one else, that Sprigg was in the land of the living.



CHAPTER X.

Still at the Foot of the Old Oak Tree.

The roar of the bison bull was hardly out of his ears, when the boy heard another slight rustling in the leaves and grass near-by, and peeping out from behind his cap, he saw that the moccasins had again shifted their position. Looking in the direction toward which their toes were turned, he saw an object more to be dreaded, by far, than a bison bull.

A wild-cat it was, already too near at hand, creeping up in that soft, sly way peculiar to animals of the cat family whenever they have a victim in view. A wild-cat—fat; sleek sides, all ribbed with stripes of black and white; white teeth, very long and sharp; black claws, longer and sharper still; ringed tail, very long and very lithe, waving softly all the time from side to side, with a sort of quivering eagerness in its motion, as if the owner were trying his best to hold it still, and for the life of him could not do so.

By this time, the handsome savage had slipped himself within easy springing distance of his intended quarry. Here he paused, and fixing his wild, sly eyes on those of the boy, began purring in a soft way, and licking his red chops with his long, red tongue in a soft way—that uncontrollable tail still waving from side to side in the same soft way—all in the softest, slyest way that you could well imagine, as if he were saying within himself: "But won't a wild-cat pap and a wild-cat mam and their wild-cat kittens feast and be merry to-night?"

All this took the boy but three winks of the eye to observe; though, in the time, he had not winked once, so fascinated was he by the gaze of those wild, sly eyes, which shone like balls of green fire, rather than eyes. Now was Wild Tom of the Woods making his squat for the long spring, and the poor little runaway screaming again to pap for help. But just then, in the very nick of time, with a swiftness that left a red streak in the air, the red moccasins darted directly at the wild-cat's face, and kicking the green fire out of his eyes, spoiled their charming expression in a twinkle. With a scream of amazement, fright and pain, which struck on the ear like the shriek of a terrified woman, the nimble creature spun lithely 'round, and, like the bull, reckless of all save the unseen foe behind him, made a blind leap sheer over the brink of the precipice, and in a moment sank out of sight.

This happily accomplished, the moccasins, precisely as they had done before, returned to their post; and the boy, precisely as he had done before, hid his face in his coonskin cap. Nor even yet one word of thanks for timely rescue from untimely end. Now, had you been in our hero's place, you would have up and made friends with the moccasins, there on the spot, for so kindly stepping in betwixt you and peril—shaken hands with them as whole-souled fellows, with whom it was to a bare-footed boy's behoof to stand on a good footing. But Sprigg was the worst spoiled boy in the world; which, unless I am mightily mistaken, you are not; and it still rang in his foggy young noddle that it was all the red moccasins' fault that he had been brought to straits so sad and desperate. Therefore, he owed them no thanks whatever for helping him out, let them kick as they might. Such being the case, Sprigg would not have made friends with the moccasins, had it been to save their soles.

So, there sat the boy, with his face in his coonskin cap; and there stood the thing, with its feet in the moccasins; and there flung the sun his last red beams, then went his way, unrecking who wept to see him go.

Now, shade by shade, with foot as stealthy and soft as the furred paw of the gray cat, came the gray twilight, creeping, creeping on. The hour, when the gray owl, with a whoop, from his hole in the tree; and the gray wolf, with a howl, from his cleft in the rock, come forth in quest of their prey. And woe to the fawn! And woe to the birdling! strayed from home for the first time, should the shadows of night, that tempt the famished foe abroad, find him still far from the old one's side; for chased shall he be, and caught up by the claws, or dragged down by the fangs of the dread destroyer!

And Sprigg—poor child! How weak and helpless to be in a spot so lonely and dreary and perilous, and so far away from the dear old hearts of home! Hearts, by this time, so overburdened with grief and distressing apprehensions—all for him! How weary, too, and faint he felt! And how he longed to lay him down to sleep and be at rest! But this, he dared not, lest he should awake but to find long, sharp horns at his breast, or long, sharp teeth at his throat. Or, if not this, he might, while yet asleep, be borne away to some spot, still more distant and lonely, by the strange being, who stood just there in the moccasins, the gaze of whose unseen eyes he now felt in his inmost heart.

At last, in spite of all his efforts to keep awake, the weary child was dropping off to sleep, when his ear, as yet but half closed, was caught by a dog-trot sort of a noise in the leaves quite near at hand. Rousing with a start and looking out, the boy saw there a wolf—gray, grim and gaunt, with eyes that glared upon him through the dusky shades, like balls of red fire, rather than eyes. Sprigg was on the point of screaming again to pap for help, when he bethought him of the moccasins, and glancing down and perceiving that they had turned their toes toward the monster, he choked himself into silence. Though he still feared them, he had, by this time, learned to trust the red moccasins, and now felt assured that they would defend him against the wolf as they had done against the bull and the cat. Nor was he mistaken. Just as Wild Tray of the Woods would have made his spring and sprang on the boy, the moccasins made their spring and sprang on the wolf, driving directly at his ugly eyes, with a kick into each, which brought the red fire flashing out into the darkness. Back, with a terrified howl, cowered the monster, and spinning swiftly 'round, vanished like the bison and the wild-cat, with a blind leap over the precipice. But this time, when the moccasins came back, a voice came with them; a new voice, whose tones, gentle and kind, reminded the poor boy of his mother's, and thus the new voice spoke:

"Now our Sprigg must feel assured he may trust us. Then sleep, poor boy! You are weary, faint and sick at heart, and have but too much need of rest! A friend is here, who will watch over you and keep you safe from harm. Then, sleep, poor child, sleep!" And with these words the forlorn little castaway felt a tiny hand laid upon his head, and with a touch so gentle that a gush of soft, warm, grateful tears came welling up from his overburdened heart; and straightway a sense of rest and slumber stole over his spirit, and he sank into a deep sleep. Just then the moon wheeled up from behind the forest-bound East, and shot her first silver arrows, long-and level, against the shaggy breast of the giant hill. Round-faced, she was, and as bright as moon could well be, not to make day of night; for, be it borne in mind, that it was still the first of June, though gone the joyous sun, who had been blazing the thing to the world the livelong day.

The boy had slept but an hour or so, when he was aroused by a voice, whose tones seemed those of his father's, which said:

"Up, Sprigg! Up! They come!" as if he who spoke were in haste. With a wild start the boy sprang to his feet, and the first thing he knew he was standing bolt upright, looking straight down the vista, which ran along the crest of the ridge, as if his head had been turned by him that had spoken on purpose that way, that he might see what there he saw. And had Sprigg seen the bison, the wild-cat, the wolf, all there in a row, the sight could hardly have daunted him more than did that of the object which now met his eyes. A sight, it was, which brought to his memory all that his mother had told him concerning that terrible thing of the wilderness—the Indian mystery—Jibbenainesy, called by the white men, Nick of the Woods.

Yes, fancy it out as you please—it was a bear, with black hair, so shaggy and long that his legs could scarcely be seen, and his tail not at all.

Sprigg's first thought, after the hundred thoughts which the object before him had awakened, was to reassure himself that the moccasins still stood guard. He looked! Dire to relate, the red moccasins had deserted their post—abandoned their trust! Nothing—no one left him to look to now for help! Down he crouched again at the foot of the old oak tree, hiding himself in its deepest shadow, in the forlorn hope that the monster might pass by without discovering his presence. On came the huge bulk of shaggy blackness—now in the shadow of a tree, now in the belt of moonlight, slowly, steadily, trudged he along—his head bent down with the air of one who, while he walked, is absorbed in profound thought. When his deliberate pace had brought the bear to the third or fourth belt of light, Sprigg spied an object, which, for the moment, in spite of the terror he felt, caused his young heart to burn with indignation, reminding him, as it did, how he had been made a fool of, by something, or somebody, he had not fairly decided yet what or who. But the moment after, remembering the voice, which, so like his mother's, had lulled him to sleep with words of rest and peace—this feeling gave place to one of joy and trusting reassurance.

Side by side with the bear, and keeping exact step with his sloomy pace, Sprigg saw his cast-off moccasins, coming quietly on, as if with the sole intent of guiding the monster directly up to the tree, in whose dark shadow he had trusted to find a hiding place. Thus leading, thus led, composedly on they came together, step for step—now the three right feet, now the three left feet—each as pat to the other's movement as were they walking arm in arm. The next broad patch of moonlight gained, brought them square abreast with the boy; and here, within easy speaking distance, they came to a dead halt—the red moccasins and the bear.



CHAPTER XI.

An Agreeable Disappointment.

"Sing a song of moccasins, Pockets full of rye. Four and twenty black bears. Sniff! I smell a lie!"

So said the bear, in a nursery, sing-song tone of voice; then fetching a quick sniff at the air, began peering about him—first this way, then that way, then another way—every way, indeed, but straight at Sprigg.

"First behead the headsman, Then we'll fry the friar; Next we'll hang the hangman. Snuff! I smell a liar!"

Again said the bear, still jingling out his words, and still stiffly sniffing the air. He now looked down at the earth, then up at the moon, then straight at Sprigg.

"Holloa!" he cried, abruptly modulating his voice into quite a different key, "who sits here, at this late hour, on Manitou hill, hiding himself from my moonshines?" And with these pleasant preliminaries to their better acquaintances, his bearship seated himself upon his stump of a tail, with his amiable muzzle directly confronting the boy, as though he were in for a good, long talk and meant to be at his ease while so engaged. He had the look of one who was conscious of being the possessor of immense wisdom, and was accustomed to seeing whatever he might choose to let drop from his sagacious jaw waited for, snatched at and borne away as precious bits to be treasured up for lifelong use.

The moccasins daintily adjusted themselves beside the bear, the toe of the left foot resting on the ground, with the heel turned upward, as if the wearer were standing with his legs crossed, and with the left arm thrown carelessly over the bear's shoulders. The attitude was, doubtless, an easy and graceful one: too fine, indeed, to be all lost in the air. But it pleased Sprigg exceedingly just as it was. It made him feel that the bear could not be such a terrible fellow after all, if the moccasins could make themselves so completely at home in his presence.

"Who, I say?" repeated the bear. "Who sits here at this late hour on Manitou hill, hiding himself from my moonshine? What's wrong about my moonshine?"

But Sprigg said never a word, moved never a limb, winked never an eye.

"I say, what's wrong about my moonshine? If you have a tongue, speak!"

Poor Sprigg had a tongue, but it stuck fast to the roof of his mouth, and when he world have told the bear as much, it stuck still faster.

"Speak, I tell you! None of your mums with me!" the bear's voice terribly gruff by this time. "If you don't——"

"Sir!" gasped out Sprigg at last.

"Sir!" mockingly echoed the bear. "Sir! and is 'Sir' all a boy has to say for himself, who dodged my moonshine? I knew that much before. Now, sir, to the purpose, and tell me something I don't know."

"Yes, sir," which was as near to the purpose as anything the boy could think of just then. His grim questioner looked at him with so hard a countenance that it kept his scared wits from performing the very office demanded of them.

"Now, there is some sense in that," remarked the bear, with a grim smile and with a nod of the head to the right, as if the comment was intended for his ear, who stood there; and Sprigg could see that the moccasins shook, as if the wearer were laughing heartily.

"Having discovered that he has a tongue," continued the bear, "we will now take a fresh start and find out, if we can, what stuff the cub is made of. Now, sir, what's your name?"

"Sprigg," replied the boy, glad to have an opportunity, at last, of saying something to the purpose.

"Is that an English name, or Indian name?" inquired the bear.

"It is my name, sir; and you can see that I am not an Indian, by my coonskin cap."

"Bless a body!" exclaimed the bear, "but that was well turned. Now, sir, as you are getting a little glib, will you go still further and tell us how old you are?"

"Twelve years old, sir, next June-day come a year," replied the boy, in the peculiar sing-song way in which old-fashioned children were wont to answer the question.

"Why, that's to-day, you young gump!" cried the bear, "and your answer still leaves me in the fog as to your age—whether it's eleven or twelve.'

"I was eleven years old the last time, and I was to be twelve years old the next time, whenever that might be."

"Better and better," quoth the bear, with an approving nod, "and now I shouldn't be surprised if he were prepared to tell us whose son he is. Can you tell us that?"

"Oh, yes, sir, very easily!"

"Then why don't you, and prove it?"

"My pap's name is Jervis Whitney, and my mam's name is Elster Whitney;" and the poor little runaway choked as he pronounced the dear names.

Whereupon, as if musing on what he had just heard, the bear made that peculiar sound, which, uttered through the nose, with the lips closed, amounts to a doubtful, undecided yes: "Oo-hooh"—then a pause—"he says his pap's name is Jervis Whitney."

"Yes, sir, and my grandpap's name is Jervis Whitney, too," added Sprigg, thinking that the fuller he gave his pedigree, the more satisfactory might prove his information, "and I have an uncle who goes by the name of Benjamin Whitney, who was shot through the knees at the battle of Brandywine, so that he now goes about on wooden legs."

"And the better husband for his pegs, too, I warrant you," quoth the bear, "for he will stick by his wife so long as she will stick to him."

"Yes, sir, and I have another uncle, who goes by the name of——"

"Ooh-hooh," said the bear, relapsing into his musing mood, "he has another uncle. But, Jervis Whitney—now, where did I ever hear that name? It sounds as familiar to my ear as the hum of a bee. Ooh-hooh—Jervis Whitney. Yes, yes! Now I have it! I know the man; know him like a book! It's the white hunter, whom Will-o'-the-Wisp and I fell in with one moonshiny night last week; and a very pleasant sort of a fellow we found him, too. Yes, and I gave him a pair of red moccasins for his little son. Yes, and he told me his son's name was Sprigg. All as clear as moonshine now. Sprigg!"

"Sir!" The urchin would have said "what" to pap and mam.

"A particular friend of yours sent you a pair of red moccasins one night last week—did your father deliver them to you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you worn them yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you worn them to-day?" To which, after a pause, Sprigg owned that he had.

"Did you have them on when you left home?"

"Well, no, sir; not exactly."

"But I want it exactly—yes or no."

"Well, I was barefooted when I left the house, and wasn't barefooted when I left the spring."

"What particular place did you have in your mind, as your journey's end, when you set out from home?"

"Grandpap's house, sir."

"And did you ask permission of your father or mother, sir?"

"Yes, sir."

"And did you obtain their permission?" The bear's eyes, by this time, as sharp as gimblets; as piercing as sprig-awls. Sprigg made a long pause before answering this question; and when, at last, he did do so, he pulled out the words, as a dentist pulls out teeth—with a twist and a wince—"No, sir, I didn't."

"Did any one see you as you were taking your departure?"

"Yes, sir; mam saw me as I was climbing the fence."

"And what did your mam say to you, as you were climbing the fence?"

"She asked me where I was going with the big cedar bucket."

"And what did you tell her? Now, have a care, Sprigg! Be certain you come square up!" and the bear raised his right fore-foot paw with a warning gesture, awful to see, at the same time showing a double row of teeth, which gleamed like crooked little dirks in the moonshine.

"Oh! Please, sir, don't look at me so with your teeth! I don't like to see you look that way!" and our hero mashed up his face for a cry.

"Oh, you don't like my looks, hey! Hold your brine! You don't like my looks! Aye, and bad boys never do! Never did! So, when bad boys find fault with my looks, I just say: 'If you don't like 'em, you can lump 'em.' That's what I say. 'It's your own fault, if my looks don't please your fancy.' I say that, too. 'You see right, and I'll look right,' that's something more I say. Now, sir, out with it—straight as an arrow, plump as a bullet—what did you tell your mother, as you were climbing the fence?" And the bear again raised his right fore paw, and showed the double row of crooked little dirks.

"Oh! if you please, sir, don't look that way," said our hero, still with his face mashed up for a cry. "Please don't look at me so with your long, sharp teeth! It scares me all but into fits! My name's Sprigg!"

"And who said it wasn't?" growled the bear; and then in a mocking tone added: "Oh, he is trying to dodge me, is he? His name's Sprigg, is it? With this for a fresh start, we'll pass on again to his age, and from that to his pedigree; when he will tell us how his Brandywine uncle took to preaching, because of his wooden legs. Speaking of preachers, up comes his catechism, which, when well said, good little boys get the pat on the head and go out to play. Thus, he was going to lead us by the nose from point to point, till the point in point was clean lost sight of. No, no, my sly cub; you don't bamboozle an old bear so easily as all that. Then out with it at once, and mind how you blink it again! What did you tell your mother?"

Sprigg would have blinked it still, but when he had looked this way and that way at the bear, and down at the moccasins and up at the man in the moon, he saw that to dodge the question longer were but to hide his head, so to speak, under a fence rail, like a goose, or a pig, and fool himself into thinking he was safe. So, with a great gulp, to keep his heart down, which would come heaving up to his throat, he at last cried out:

"Oh, I told her a lie! I told her a lie!" and bursting into tears, he hid his face in his coonskin cap for shame.

The bear paused for a moment; then, in a voice quite soft and gentle for him, said:

"But you mourn in your heart for having done this thing?"

"Yes, indeed; that I do!" and the little prodigal shook from top to toe with the violence of his sobs.

"And for why?" asked the bear, in the same gentle way, only more so, almost fatherly.

"Because," sobbed the boy, "had I not done so, I should not be here now, in this dark and lonesome place, with nobody for company, nobody to give me my supper, nobody to put me to bed, nobody to—to—"

"And nobody to sing you to sleep with a hymn, hey!" put in the bear with a mocking grin, his fatherly manner gone In a twinkling. "No, no, my laddie! You are showing me the matter wrong side out, giving it to me wrong end foremost. You must mourn in your heart for the little lie you have told, before you put up such a pitiful mouth for the ills you have thereby brought upon yourself. Viewed in the right light, these ills are precisely what you deserve; precisely what you need for your own good. But come, quiet down and cheer up, and take a fresh start; go on and make a clean breast of it by telling us the whole story. You climbed the fence——"

Thus put to it, Sprigg fell to and told the whole thing, from beginning to end—all just as it had happened. Indeed, he made so clean a breast of it as to confess that he had cursed the moccasins on flinging them away in his pet of wrath. When he had ended, greatly surprised was that little sinner to find how much better he felt that, for once in his life, he had told the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The grim confessor had kept his eyes the while fixed full and hard on those of the young delinquent, without saying a word. Now he turned his head to the right, with a look as were he inquiring of him who stood in the moccasins if what they had heard were true. This look must have been answered by an affirmative nod from the head in the air, which Sprigg could not see; for, with a soft "Ooh-hooh," long drawn out, the bear bent his eyes to the ground, as if he must needs meditate awhile on what he had heard before he could fairly make up his mind what to say or do next. Thus he remained for some moments, absorbed in thought; then, looking up at Sprigg, he gravely shook his head—took several little spells of shaking it before breaking the awful silence.

"It's a bad case, Sprigg; a mighty bad case, indeed. But before we proceed any further, you may as well tell me how you like the looks of the bull and the cat and the wolf—as well as do you mine?"

"Oh, no, indeed, sir! Not half so well!" And Sprigg was perfectly sincere in the compliment. The bear improved the looks so complimented by a beaming smile of gratified vanity; and the boy could perceive that the moccasins were again agitated, as if the imp, or elf, or whatever it was that stood in them, were laughing in his sleeves.

"It is true, Sprigg," resumed the bear, with a look of bland self-satisfaction, "quite true that I have a rough coat and a rough voice, and, it may be, a rough way with me sometimes, but they who know me best can and do testify that my heart is in the right place, for all that; and that it is a truer and kinder heart than many a one that beats under wool, or fur, or even buckskin. But I am deviating and bearing rather too near upon the unpardonable. A person may sooner hope to find forgiveness for speaking ill of his neighbor than well of himself. Vice versa, he who speaks to his own discredit, as you, Sprigg, have just been doing, gains more credit thereby than were he to speak in the highest praise of another. And why? Because those who listen to such a person are sure to begin thinking of their own merits, while he is confessing his demerits; and to think of them is to discover how immense they are. This is a fact, for which we need not go one step out of our way to find an example. We have it right here. The bad account you have given of yourself had set me to thinking the better of myself. Your confession of fault, putting me in a good humor with myself, puts me also in a good humor with you. My merits, then, and your demerits are on the best of terms. In short, Sprigg, to sum it all up in a nutshell, I am not only one of the best fellows in the world, but one of the best friends you ever had, or ever shall have; which assurance, though you may doubt it now, I will prove to your entire satisfaction, even while yet the month of June is young and rosy."

"Sprigg!" The boy said, "Sir," and the bear went on: "You have been a bad boy to-day; indeed, you have been a bad boy all the days of your life. You have never yet seen that day, Sprigg—neither winter nor summer—when, eating a Christmas pie, you could put in your thumb and pull out a plum and say: 'What a good boy am I!' Yet, to be just, you are a boy of excellent parts in many ways, which encourages us to hope that we may yet be able to bring out the good that is in you, and, at the same time, bring out the evil; at any rate, crumple it up where it is, which amounts to the same. How this desirable end is to be attained is not yet quite clear to my own mind. So you will have to go home with us to-night, where you shall make the acquaintance of our cubs, who will gladly share their bed with you. And pleasant bed-fellows shall you find them, too—so soft and warm! So affectionate, too! Only you mustn't let them hug you too hard. Meanwhile, I shall consider your case, which, being a peculiar one, I shall lay before my wife, that I may have the benefit of her good advice. This she will gladly give, believe me; for there is nothing in the world that pleases a wife more than for her husband to beg the benefit of her good advice. Though I fear it is the misfortune with some husbands—I won't say how many—to have wives so overstocked with the treasure in question that they can not wait to be called on, but must give it gratis, whether anybody wants it or not. Like giving a man a bottle of bear's grease for his hair, when his scalp is already sufficiently oily by nature; or by giving a boy a bearskin cap, when he has already a coonskin one of his own, which answers every purpose, especially if the tail is left on. These are the wives who save their husbands' grindstones from being eaten by the cows, and thereby keep their scissors sharp, to say nothing of their tongues."



CHAPTER XII.

Will-o'-the-Wisp.

"Sprigg!" said the bear, and rose from his tail.

"Sir!" said the boy, as he rose from his seat.

"Can you ride a bear?"

"I don't know, sir; I never tried it," said the boy, dubiously.

"Come, and try it now," said the bear encouragingly. But being by no means perfectly sure, even yet, of the burly monster, our hero was in no hurry to accept the invitation.

"Come and try it, I tell you!" repeated the bear in his old, gruff voice.

"You won't bite me with your long, sharp teeth, will you?" whined the boy.

"No," growled the bear.

"And you won't scratch me with your long, sharp claws?" again whined the boy.

"Scratch you with my long, sharp claws! No!" again growled the bear.

"And you won't, like the bull and the cat and the wolf, go a-jumping over there, at that steep place in the hill?" still urged the boy, though a little less whiningly.

"Do like the bull and the cat and the wolf? No!" rejoined the bear, a little less growlingly.

"And you won't kick up, and rear up and cut capers, like a horse?" The boy, by this time, not whining at all.

"Kick up, and rear up and cut capers, like a horse? No! Spur me, if I do!" And this time, so far from growling, the monster actually chuckled—so funny could he be when he tried.

"And now, having felt around on every side, you have, I hope, succeeded at last in finding out on which side of your mug your nose is, and are ready to come up and take me at my offer. And Sprigg, my boy, for once and for all—of this be assured—that so far as you trust me, so far are you safe. Perfect your trust—perfect your safety."

Sprigg was by no means of a confiding nature; people prone to lose sight of the truth never are. But on receiving this reassurance of good faith, he walked up boldly enough to the bear, who, as his young rider drew near, swayed his back to enable him, with the greatest ease, to mount.

"But I have nothing to hold myself on by," said our hero, now fairly astraddle of his strange steed, though pressing as lightly upon it as possible.

"Take a lock of my hair! If a lock of hair is good for keeping one's mind on a friend, why not as good for keeping his body there, too?" Here he chuckled a little again, then added:

"But the young human thing, brave as he is, may not have as much faith in a lock of hair as some people have, or pretend to have. So, up with you, Manitou-Echo, and give him a lock of your arms."

Whereat, fetching first a nimble flounce, the red moccasins, as if their wearer made a pivot of his head in the air, described a circular flourish aloft, and in a twinkle, there they were at the bear's flanks, each with a toe at one of our hero's naked heels. In another twinkle Sprigg felt himself clasped tightly around the waist, by what seemed to be a pair of small arms; small, but, bless me! how strong, as the boy was but too glad to discover the moment after.

"All right?" To which, receiving an affirmative kick from the moccasins, the bear, to Sprigg's dismay, made directly for the brink of that horrible steep, where the bull, the cat and the wolf had vanished. Here, on the dizzy verge, bear-like, he wheeled about, that his tail might take the lead in the descent, which he evidently meditated. The boy glanced fearfully over his shoulder. The top of the tallest trees which grew at the foot of the hill were hundreds of feet beneath him, and so directly beneath him, it seemed to him that were he to fall from the bear's back he would drop like a stone into their branches.

In one long, smooth, unbroken slide, down they swept, from summit to base of that tremendous steep. Well it was for Sprigg that the little arms which held him on were so firm and strong, else must he inevitably have slipped from the bear's back and found his way to the world below by his own natural gravity, instead of by somebody else's super-natural power.

The descent accomplished, the bear changed ends, that his nose might take the lead. With a slightly waving motion, as were he swimming in the air, now was he gliding swiftly onward at a speed which soon brought him and his riders to the edge of a wide swamp, where the forest foliage became so thick as wholly to exclude the moonlight. Here he paused, and in a loud voice called out:

"Will-o'-the-Wisp! Will-o'-the-Wisp!" A voice so tremendously loud that it must have been heard through all the wilds around; yet never an echo it left to tell it had sounded.

Had an echo awakened, it could hardly have fallen asleep again before the boy espied approaching them swiftly through the gloom a large ball of light, which shown with a phosphorescent gleam, so dead and dim, that the luminous circle it made in the pitch-black darkness of the swamp seemed scarcely to exceed its own circumference. Without any preliminary abatement of motion, the glimmering ball, as were it a lantern borne by an unseen hand, came suddenly to a pause in the air directly before them. Then followed an odd sort of a dialogue, made up of questions on one side, with motions for answers on the other, the wisp-light moving up and down for "yes," from side to side for "no," and for "I don't know," 'round and 'round.

Bear. "Will-o'-the-Wisp, have you lighted the robber's feet to the pit-fall?"

Wisp. Up and down.

B. "Did he swear?"

W. From side to side.

B. "Did he pray?"

W. Up and down.

B. "Will he be less of a thief for the pit-fall?"

W. 'Round and 'round.

B. "Has Friar's lantern lighted the hypocrite's feet to the quicksands?"

W. Up and down.

B. "Did he swear?"

W. Up and down.

B. "Did he pray?"

W. From side to side.

B. "Will he be the less of a scamp for the quicksands?"

W. 'Round and 'round.

B. "Has Jack-o'-Lantern lighted the bad boy's feet to the frog-pond?"

W. Up and down.

B. "Did he swear?"

W. From side to side.

B. "Did he pray?"

W. From side to side.

B. "Then he must have swum?"

W. Up and down.

B. "Will he be the less of a rogue for the frog-pond?"

W. 'Round and 'round.

The questions duly answered, and evidently to his entire satisfaction, the bear wound up the dialogue thus:

"Then, Will, lead on, over mire and clay, And when you come where the dead men lay, Hold your lantern close to the mound, That we may keep on Manitou ground."

With Will-o'-the-Wisp now at their head, again were they speeding swiftly onward. Of their guide, Sprigg could at first see nothing, saving his big, dim lantern; but, soon chancing to look a little lower, there, directly under the light, he saw, strange to tell, a pair of red moccasins, gliding on over the tops of the rank swamp weeds, and so lightly that the long, lithe sedge, swaying to the slightest breeze, bent not under their tread. The boy glanced quickly down at his heels to reassure himself that the wispy elf had not stepped into and walked off in his own moccasins. But there they still dangled, just the same, each with a toe at one of his heels. Then flashed it upon his mind that he had not really seen his own moccasins since he had flung them from him up there on the Manitou hill; and so, for aught he or anybody else could tell, red moccasins, if people could only see them, might prove to be as plentiful in the world as Yankee shoes.

How long, how far they traveled Sprigg, of course, had no means of judging; but the moon had well nigh climbed to the top of the sky, when, having left the morass far behind them, they came to the foot of another lofty mountain, where, under the shadow of a beetling cliff, yawned the rocky jaws of a huge cavern, into which Will-o'-the-Wisp led the way, his big, dim lamp beginning to brighten the moment it entered the subterranean gloom. Hardly had they crossed the threshold when Sprigg could perceive that they were descending as steeply as, but now, they had been rising. Deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain they sank; deeper and deeper into the heart of the earth; the ball of light no longer a phosphorescent gleam, but a flame of living fire. But it was not long before they had descended again to the level ground, which they traversed for some distance, then, for the first time since quitting the farther side of the swamp, came they to a pause.

Sprigg looked around him. Nothing could he see, saving the bear, the red moccasins behind him, the red moccasins before him; and just over the latter the ball of light, which was now burning with such brilliancy that the luminous hemisphere around it formed a wide and lofty dome in the solid darkness of the cavern. For some moments past he had heard a murmuring sound, as of abundant waters rippling over a rocky bed; and filling all the air was a delectable perfume, as if flowery fields and fruitful groves must be blooming and waving not far off. By this time nothing amazed him. Nothing frightened him. He moved and felt and thought as one in a dream; and so, indeed, had it all appeared to him from the moment he had lost sight of his father, there at the old hunting camp.



CHAPTER XIII.

Meg of the Hills.

"Meg of the Hills! Meg of the Hills!" So called the bear in a loud voice; very loud, indeed, yet in the tone of the voice was something which Sprigg had not before observed there, so deep and mellow and musical was it. In answer to the summons, forth into the luminous circle, from some mysterious depth of the cavern, soon came gliding a bearess, who seemed in every way a match for the bear, excepting that she was of a smoother, gentler type.

"Meg of the Hills, have all come home, From mountain climb and forest roam, From river mist and ocean foam, From moon-rise white and sun-set red, From elk-stag lair and bison bed, From panther ambush still and dread, All, all returned?"

To which the bearess answered:

"Yes all returned to Manitou den, Save those who walk by night with men. To bring the deeds in darkness done, To the dread light of the tell-tale sun."

Then suddenly assuming a tone of voice as different from the former as fiddle from violin, and with a particular eye to our hero, where he still kept his seat on his charger's back, or rather was kept there by the unlocked arms of Manitou-Echo, the bearess added:

"And you did find the little runaway, sure enough, Nick?"

"Aye, that did I, and a stiff-necked, strong-backed, hard-muzzled cub of a human thing do I find him, too! Tough! Tough!"

"Then all the accounts we have heard of him are but too true," sadly observed the bearess, whom the bear called "Meg."

"But too true!" echoed the bear, whom the bearess called "Nick."

Meg. "Is it really a fact, then, that his thoughts by day and his dreams by night are so taken up with red moccasins that he is in a fair way to make a monkey of himself?"

Nick. "Really a fact."

Meg. "A fact, too, that he had no thanks in his heart for the beautiful moccasins, which his kindest of fathers gave him one night last week?"

Nick. "A fact, too!"

Meg. "A fact, also, that his thoughts are so wrapped up in the moccasins that he has none left for his prayers?"

Nick. "A fact, also!"

Meg. "And, likewise, a fact that he sneaked off, like a spit-thief dog, when his best of mothers had told him and told him, times and times, that he ought not, and he should not?"

Nick. "Like—wise—a—fact!" slowly pulling the words, as if he could hardly find it in his heart to testify to behavior so shabby.

Meg. "But, Nick," and she looked earnestly at her lord, as if hoping that for this one time, at least, he would vary his affirmative echoes just a little, "that slip of the tongue on the fence, which Manitou-Echo reported to us—surely, now, you can't say 'yes' to that?"

But Nick said neither "no" nor "yes." He answered never a word! All mum, he hung his head, and but for the hair on his face he would have been seen to blush up to the very eyes.

Meg. "I spare you the verbal answer. I read it but too plainly in your looks. Hard is it for us poor Manitous to imagine how a boy—a Christian, human boy, who knows his catechism—could be so false to the mother that bore him! Using the very breath she gave him to tell her a lie! Then we can no longer doubt that, in addition to all, he did actually curse the red moccasins, when he spurned them from him up there on Manitou Hill. The beautiful moccasins he had so earnestly longed for, and which had been procured for him at such cost, and had borne him so bravely through wood and swamp, over hill and dale!"

Nick. "My dear, to give the round sum of the matter, it is all precisely as Manitou-Echo has reported. But, if you need additional evidence to set your doubts at rest, know, then, that the boy himself has made a clean breast of it to me, and the two stories tally from beginning to end—tally as nicely as our two tails."

Meg. "What! Not to leave out those secret designs on—what did Manitou-Echo call them—the boy and the girl?"

Nick. "Young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant."

Meg, "Not to leave out his secret designs on young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant? The boy to lose his life for envy; the girl her senses for love—all because of the beautiful moccasins!"

Nick. "Well, well, Meg, mum's the word just there. He's human, remember, and you know they say that 'Adam's fall made fools of all;' and so, with their tails up, here they come; and, with their tails down, there they go—in that respect resembling dogs, who, in their turn, acquired the habit from their human masters. But I am deviating, and I perceive that you are wishing to make some further inquiry. What is it, my dove?"

Meg. "I was longing to ask if—what's his name?"

Nick. "Sprigg."

Meg. "If Sprigg has not manifested the deepest sorrow and repentance for what he has done to-day. Does he not mourn to think of the pain and distress which, by his most undutiful conduct, he is causing his dear father and his dear, dear mother?"

Nick. (With a sad shake of the head.) "Not with heart-grief, I fear; not with heart-grief! He mourns over the ills which he has brought upon himself by his undutiful conduct, rather than over the wrong thereof, or because of the pain and distress which it must be causing his dear mother and his dear, dear father!" And again Nick shook his head, as were it a desperate case almost beyond hope.

Meg. (With almost as hopeless a shake of the head as Nick.) "Ah, me! who would have thought it? Who could have thought it? Why, Nick, he is as bad as Robinson Crusoe, is he not?"

Nick. "Oh, worse than Robinson Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe, it is true, ran away from home against the command of his father and the prayers of his mother. But he used no deception in the matter. Robinson did not go a-sneaking off, with a lie in his mouth and his shoes in the water bucket; a-sneaking off like a spit-thief dog, to use your own expressive words. And yet, even his case was considered serious enough for a putting through on a desert island. Yes! A good deal worse than Robinson Crusoe, else no need were there of putting him through so."

Meg. "But come, now, Nick; you can't stand there and tell me that Sprigg is as bad a boy as Jack Bean-Stalk?"

Nick. "Well, no; not so bad as that. Not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk. Jack Bean-Stalk was so near the very tipping-over edge of total depravity that I have often wondered since—in fact, wondered at the time—that it did not require a more tremendous putting-through than sliding up and down, between earth and moon, for developing such a hard case of a boy into an honest man. Perhaps, the man in the moon, while the rogue was up there, lent us a helping hand, not suffering him to come down to earth again, excepting on condition that he would thenceforth keep his shadow, as much as possible, in the sunshine; as little as possible in the moonshine; sow no more wild oats, plant no more wild beans."

Meanwhile, the subject of this moral confab remained comfortably seated upon his charger's back. The matter and the manner of the confab smacked so much of the kind he was used to, that he was beginning to feel himself quite at home, and fancied that he could have little to fear for life or limb, so long as he found himself in the company of people, with feeling so home-like in their hearts, and with words so home-like on their lips. Therefore, the more home-like grew the moralizers, the more Sprigg-like grew the subject. But, bearing in mind how sensitive he was to ridicule, you can well imagine how he winced to hear himself compared to a "spit-thief dog;" and how he squirmed to find his secret designs on young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant, which he had not openly owned to himself, thus come popping out into the tell-tale light of Will-o'-the-Wisp. The wispy lamp was now not only burning as a living flame, but twinkling like a living eye, which winked or blinked or stared at the boy, as were it perfectly cognizant of all that was passing among them. But if it was all a dream, as Sprigg by this time was half persuaded it must be, what mattered it, though Will-o'-the-Wisp did snuff his lamp into a tell-tale brightness, for Meg of the Hills to show a "spit-thief dog" in, or for Nick of the Woods to hold up a bug-bear lie in? It was only a dream, which, coming soon to an end, should be wondered over for a moment, then forgotten. Yes, and in the like sense, so is life.

"Then, dear Nick," answered Meg at length, after they had shaken their heads for some moments in silence, "as Sprigg's case is not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk's, it is not yet too late to bring the poor, stray cub back to his milk again. But he must first be made, not only to see, but to feel and acknowledge the error of his ways before we can hope to amend them. Now, how is this to be brought about? How is this case to be treated?"

"My dear Meg, that is the very question I have been asking myself all this time, and to find the answer I must be allowed a few hours' privacy for thinking the matter over. So you and the children go to bed and leave me to my reflections, and in the morning we will hold another consultation."

So saying, the bear, with the look of one preparing himself for deep thought, and all unconscious of what he was doing, seated himself upon his haunches. Whereat, Manitou-Echo suddenly quitted his seat, when, with a swift, sleek slide down his charger's back, plump to the ground came Sprigg, still in a sitting posture, his straddled legs as nicely adjusted to the bear's broad rump as spur to heel.

"Bless a body," cried the bear, glancing 'round at our hero, where he sat with his face all crumpled up for a cry; not that he was hurt in the least, but that Manitou-Echo and Will-o'-the-Wisp were laughing at him, as he could see (for he could not hear them) by the fantastic capers of their moccasins and by the lantern bobbing up and down. "Bless a body! But it had quite slipped my mind that the cub was on my back. There, now! Don't rub so hard, and save your brine for your sins."

"He-he-he!" laughed Manitou-Echo, now aloud.

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Will-o'-the-Wisp.

"Ho-ho-ho!" Elfin laughter resounding now from every side. The boy looked quickly about him. To his astonishment, he found the floor of the cave, as far as the light of the bobbing lantern allowed him to see, alive, so to speak, with red moccasins, all dancing about on tip-toe, or kicking gleefully into the air.

"Hush, children, hush!" cried Meg of the Hills, in a voice of gentle remonstrance. "Do you not see how it hurts the poor boy to be laughed at? Hush, I charge you!"

The elfin laughter ceased at once. But straight, the void thus left was filled by a long, calf-like howl from our hero, who, now that he had found there some one capable of understanding what a human boy could suffer, must need give vent to his wounded feelings—laugh who would. His lamentation had not reached the modulating point, when, from the hollow depths around, there came, first, a big buzz, then a hoarse hum, and then a mumbling, rumbling, grumbling sort of a noise, which striking his ear as no empty echo, caused him to cut short his longest howl in the middle, to listen and glance about him.

"It's only a trick," drily observed the bear. "Our old house is in the habit of playing our guests, when they sing or laugh too loud."

"Or, rather a fashion," gently observed the bearess, "our old house has of reminding us when it is time we were putting our weary guests to bed. Here, Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo, show our young guest to bed, and be so courteous as to allow him the choice side, and charge the cubs not to crowd him or hug him, as he is an only child, and not accustomed to our litterish way of sleeping."

So, with Manitou-Echo on one side and Will-o'-the-Wisp on the other, the young guest was shown, in quite a stately style, to bed. The bed he found to be as nice and snug as the cleanest of leaves and grass and the most velvety of moss could make it, and was already occupied by three or four young bears; while close beside it, ranged in a row, were three or four pairs of red moccasins. At first this circumstance struck the boy as somewhat curious, but on perceiving that Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo had kicked off their moccasins, and set them in the same row with the others, and now, in the likeness of two young bears, were lying side by side in bed, the mystery was made as clear to him as the light of Will's lamp, which still hung in the air where he had left it.

As Sprigg stood hesitating whether to turn in or not, Meg came up behind him, and with a gentle push of the nose against his back, said: "There's your bed, and there are your bedfellows. So in with you, my stout one, and make yourself comfortable." As he still hesitated, the bearess brought him a soft dab of her paw on his back with a somewhat stronger push, which left him no alternative but to turn in as he was bidden and make the best of it. Then, humming a low, lullaby sort of a tune, Meg went 'round the bed, softly pushing up and smoothing down the grass and moss, all in a motherly way, which was so like dear mam that it brought the tears to the lost boy's eyes—the softest, the sweetest tears he had ever shed. He would fain have kept them back, but in spite of all he could do they would come stealing out and trickling down. But Meg was glad to see them, hailing them as precious indications that, hard as he seemed, there was still enough of human affection in his nature to encourage the hope that he might be easily won over to the side of love and truth.

With the blossom-like odors and the water-like murmurs still in the air around him, the little castaway was dropping off to sleep, when that voice, so like his mother's, which he had heard on the hill at twilight, came again to his ear, repeating the same words: "You have but too much need of rest! Then, sleep, poor child, sleep!"



CHAPTER XIV.

The Manitou Voices.

It was the hour when good boys, with cheerful hearts and innocent thoughts, are wont to rise to the cheerful duties and innocent pleasures of the day, that Sprigg was awakened from a sweet dream of home by a voice close beside him, which came to him like his mother's gentle morning call. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing, save a dense, red mist, bright and luminous, yet as impenetrable to sight as the blackest darkness. But when, on reaching out his hand, he had felt the moss and grass of the bed he lay on, and the hairy coats of the bears he lay with, then knew he but too well that his sweet thoughts of home—his mother's gentle morning call, his father's jolly laugh, and Pow-wow's loud, heroic bark—were all an empty dream. And yet, hardly more assured was he that what his senses were insisting on telling him were not things just as empty and unsubstantial.

What the voice was saying when it woke him, the boy could not recall, but it left a feeling in his heart as if pitying tenderness had been the burden of the words it had spoken. Tones were still lingering in his ear, and with effect so soothing that he should probably have fallen asleep again; but in answer to it he heard another voice, so abrupt and stern that he started up wide awake, and, in an instant, was all attention. What passed between the invisible speakers, whom we shall distinguish as the "Stern Voice" and the "Soft Voice," ran, word for word, as follows:

Stern Voice. "He must run the Manitou race."

Soft Voice. "Is that terrible ordeal his only chance?"

Stern Voice. "It is. Though so young, his heart is already so proud and deceitful and hard that we must all but break it, to bring it to the good for which it is destined, and of which it is capable."

Soft Voice. "But he can hardly as yet have strayed so far from good as to need so severe an experience for bringing him back. There were tears on his face last night when he fell asleep—soft, sweet tears—and there are fresh ones upon it now. May not these plead for him?"

Stern Voice. "True, there is something of human affection in these tears. But apart from this, they are shed, not in contrition for the sinfulness of his course, but in grief for the pitiful plight to which it has brought him. Being the tears of self-pity, and not of repentance, they are not the kind to divert us from our fixed purpose—that purpose, our highest duty."

Soft Voice. "But, then, he is so young yet!"

Stern Voice. "But, then, he is so bad already!"

Soft Voice. "But, bethink you, how much it lacks of being wholly his own fault? Indeed, he is scarcely at all responsible for being what he is, and it seems hard that he should be made to suffer for the folly of others."

Stern Voice. "That is very true; and just there is represented to us a mystery, not ours to fathom! We are the Manitous of the Great Spirit, and what he bids be done, he bids uncounseled, and would have done unquestioned. They, who reared this boy to be the false young self we find him, should and shall be made to suffer, also; and even more than he, though the fond love and the indulgent kindness with which they have spoiled him, and thereby wronged him, be never so tender and unselfish. Having so erred, they must be made to feel the consequences of their error, to be made sensible of its sinfulness; and thus, through suffering, brought to a knowledge of the duty they owe their maker, their offspring and themselves. So, then, what we propose doing, or, rather, what we are charged to execute, shall redound to their good no less than his."

Soft Voice. "But may we not postpone the trial for a season, till he be stronger to endure it?"

Stern Voice. "Then shall he have but the more to endure and the less to be hoped for. Thus, 'by and by,' might be too late, when 'now' is none too soon; and the hope of to-day becomes, by postponement, the despair of to-morrow. Last night we marked him well, and perceived that our running commentary upon the evil of his way, with the gentle rebukes couched in them, had little or no other effect upon him than to make him feel at home and easy in his strange position. And yet he could set up the pitiful howl at being ridiculed, as were it the worst, grievous injury that a human boy could be made to suffer. Yes, his heart is so proud and deceitful and hard that we must all but break it, to bring it to its better nature."

Soft Voice. "Oh, Nick of the Woods; but you are stern! So stern!"

Stern Voice. "But, Meg of the Hills, you are merciful! So merciful! Your mercifulness and my sternness temper each other, and the result being justice, makes the mission we are pointed to fulfill a labor both of use and love. You plead for postponement. This indulgence, without some sign of repentance on his part, we can not show the culprit. Yet, to satisfy you, I will give him one more chance of exhibiting his repentance, should there be any in his heart. I will tempt him once more with the red moccasins. Should he manifest no disposition to renew his acquaintance with them, then but too gladly will I defer his day of reckoning, according to your desire. Or, even should he show the least sign of diminished affection for them, diminished and just in that proportion shall be the severity of his punishment. On the other hand, should it appear that, in spite of the wholesome lesson his yesterday's experience should have taught him, he would still take pride and pleasure in the red vanities, to the exclusion of better thoughts and things, then there is nothing left for it but to put him through at once; no alternative but the Manitou race."

Soft Voice. "Well, well! So be it! But I greatly fear the test shall prove too severe for the virtue of the poor, vain boy. He has a lively fancy, and the moccasins are very beautiful; their glitter and gleam would dazzle—have dazzled older eyes than his! Yes, so be it! And, after all, why deplore it? For——

"When the Manitou race is run, Which shall be ere set of sun, All is ended, all well done, And Wahcondah smiling!"

Then, after a momentary pause, the two voices joined and sang, or chanted in cadences weirdly, musically, the following song:

"Manitou Lords of birds and beast, Hark, to the voice that comes from the East! Great Wahcondah calling you forth, Some to South and some to North, Some to meet the rising sun, Some to the setting moon to run, Each to creature he hath in charge; Govern their way, their lives enlarge; Make them less than beastly rude, Teach them more than instinct rude, Lead them on to Manitou-Land, Where Wahcondah's powerful hand Waits to give them Manitou-being, Manitou-hearing, Manitou-seeing. Him to know, and knowing, adore, Manitou all forever more. Up and forth to meet the day, Over the hills and far away; Many a race must be begun, Some be finished ere set of sun, All in Manitou fashion run, All in Manitou mercy done, Great Wahcondah wills it!"



CHAPTER XV.

The Manitou Eye.

The song had hardly begun when Sprigg could hear a huge stir in the cave, as if the call had awakened a multitude of living things from the slumber of the night. The hubbub was neither boisterous nor loud, yet it seemed to come, not only from near at hand, but from far and wide. It was an infinite mingling of confused, indistinct sounds, like the inarticulate murmurs rising from innumerable voices—talking, singing and shouting, intermixed with laughter and with the cries of beasts and birds.

On hearing the commotion around him, the boy had risen to his feet, and now, with strained eyes, was vainly striving to pierce the red mist in which he was enveloped. Before the song was ended, the multitude, from whom the hubbub rose, were evidently in rapid motion, and all in the same direction, sweeping past him so that he felt as if he were standing upon a rock, in the midst of a wide and swiftly flowing river, on whose waters rested an impenetrable fog. Closely intermingled with the voice-like sounds were now to be distinguished a variety of other noises, resembling the sharp, light clattering of cloven hoofs, the muffled pattering of hairy paws, or the wind-like whirring of fluttering wings.

As the song closed, Sprigg felt something placed in his hand, which, becoming visible the moment it came in contact with him, proved to be a coronal of bright green plumes, such as we have seen described in the interview between Jervis Whitney and Nick of the Woods. It was then remarked that his headpiece possessed the magic property of rendering the person who wore it—fairy or human—invisible to mortal eyes. Nor was this all; It had also the power of making the sights and sounds of Fairyland as clearly perceptible to the senses of the mortal who should chance to get it as to the fairies themselves, whether the wee folks were willing or not, he should pry into their mysteries.

This fantastic ornament, the only object visible to him in the red mist—his own hand that held it up to his admiring gaze not excepted—Sprigg thought even more beautiful and desirable than ever were the red moccasins. He was wishing it was his, and debating within himself whether he should venture to put it upon his head, when a voice, which he recognized to be the same he had heard at home and in the woods and on the hill, and now knew to be that of Manitou-Echo, said:

"Am I not a beautiful thing for the head, Sprigg? Yes, beautiful! You can't deny it; nobody can! Put me on your head! What's to hinder? Put me on, and you shall see what we do with wild dreams and wild dreamers, here in Manitou-land."

In a twinkling the vain boy had doffed the coonskin cap and donned the feathers. The magic coronal was hardly adjusted to his head, when suddenly the luminous red mist condensed itself high aloft into a globe of living light, leaving all surrounding objects clearly revealed to sight, as were the crystalline sheen of a June day resting upon them. What Sprigg saw there was, indeed, a cave; but far more the appearance had it of a magnificent temple, so vast and lofty it was; so mazy with multitudinous columns and arches, and so resplendent with the light of that living lamp, which found reflection in a million star-like points, as if wall, floor, ceiling, column and arch were studded with gems of every rich and brilliant hue. The hubbub which he had heard around him, the individual sounds whereof were now more distinct to his ear, Sprigg found to proceed from an innumerable multitude of diminutive people, sweeping by him in a continuous stream, and in the same direction, as if a common impulse or purpose swayed them all.

The manikins, in complexion, cast of features and fashion of dress, resembled Indians, and, though so red and outlandish, were beautiful to behold. For a robe, each wore the skin of some wild animal, which, on the hair side, showed as fresh and sleek as if the quondam owner had just walked out of it; while, on the flesh side, it was as smooth as satin and red as blood. The robe was secured at the throat by a clasp, which seemed to be made of the claws or hoofs of the beast to whom the skin had once, and, perhaps, still belonged. Many wore red moccasins and coronals of green feathers, and here and there in the throng might be seen one who wore the wings of some bird, between which and the skin, forming the robe, there seemed to be some sort of affinity, very suggestive, yet difficult to explain. Though but the miniature of men, these elfin folks were of superhuman activity and strength; and in the aspect of each was something that strangely reminded one of the beast or bird to whom he owed his robe or wings. This latter peculiarity was especially noticeable in the gait, in the play of the limbs and in the shape and glance of the eyes; yet, in the resemblance, nothing was there of deformity or unsightliness, but rather a weird beauty—fantastic, or wild, or savage, or terrible—according to the beast or bird suggested thereby—stalking elk or rolling bison, gloomy bear or rounding panther, jog-trot wolf or gliding wild-cat, nodding jay or fluttering pigeon, swooping hawk or sweeping eagle.

Sprigg had hardly time to note all this, when the weird procession had swept past him, and the last lingerers were now vanishing to the distant shadows of the subterranean temple. Though myriads had departed, many still remained—several of every order—as if, while their fellows were abroad, each fulfilling his special mission, these had some corresponding office to perform here at home. Somewhat apart from the rest stood a group arrayed in the skins of bears, and among these two who, by their lofty port and commanding gestures, were evidently the king and queen of this strange realm. The aspect of the king was dark and stern; that of the queen fair and mild. The latter, as, indeed, all the other elfin women, wore upon her head, instead of the feathered coronal, a wreath of intense crimson flowers, marvelously beautiful; whence came stealing forth the delectable perfume, which the boy had perceived in the air from the moment Meg of the Hills had made her appearance the night before. As he stood there, surveying them, Sprigg felt in his heart that these were the two whose voices he had heard in such earnest conference relative to his particular case.

The young guest now looked about him for the young bears with whom he had slept, but not only his bedfellows, but the bed itself had vanished. Then he knew that they must be among those who wore the skins of bears, and that, instead of having been littered with cubs, he had shared the couch of princes.

In saying that the magic coronal enabled the mortal who wore it to see the sights and hear the sounds of Fairyland as distinctly as the fairies themselves, a slight mistake was made. Although he could not perceive them, Sprigg had his reasons for suspecting that other boys, beside himself, were there in that underground world; yes, and men, too. Girls and women—all waiting, like himself, to be "put through," though what that might mean the poor boy could, of course, have little or no conception. Invisible though these fellow mortals were, he could see their shadows cast with marvelous distinctness upon the floor of the temple; and, strange to say, spotted were all these shadows! Some in a sitting posture, some standing, some walking, some gliding swiftly to and fro. Many, after remaining motionless for a time, would, all at once, begin dodging, skipping, flitting about among the columns in the most fantastic manner imaginable; then would they come to a pause, and, after again remaining motionless for a brief space, suddenly vanish.

The large majority of these airy figures were not sufficiently marked for safe conjecture as to the manner of persons to whom they were referrable, but many were too apparent to be mistaken. Some stood, with magisterial dignity, staff in hand. Some, with military stalk, moved slowly to and fro—swords, epaulets, plumes—all distinctly traceable. Here sat one, with the likeness of a kingly crown upon his head; while not far off, incongruous, as it may seem, appeared the picturesque silhouette of an Indian warrior, moving onward with a majestic pace, scalp lock, plumed, bow in hand, quiver on shoulder.

But it was a spectacle stranger still to observe how the elves, or, more properly speaking, "Manitous," were busying themselves about these shadows—now approaching them, now receding from them; sometimes standing beside them, earnestly gesticulating, as if engaged in conversation with the unseen, unheard personages who cast them. While watching these mysterious movements Sprigg became cognizant of another curious circumstance—the very counterpart of the shadow mystery. He perceived that, while those invisible mortals were shadowed forth with such distinctness, the Manitous themselves, with the light thrown full and strong upon them, were as shadowless in that light as air itself. Noting this, he glanced upward to see what manner of light it must be that could shadow forth the unseen, and shadowless leave the seen. How the boy started! Then backward shrank, till abruptly checked by a column, against whose base, as were he an effigy carved upon it, he stood, gazing coweringly upward. That globe of living light was a living eye! An eye immensely large, of calm and terrible look, which Sprigg felt to be bent directly upon himself, piercing his very soul and laying it open, stripped of all disguise. Though so bright that it illumined the vast temple to its uttermost bounds, that wondrous eye did not blind, nor even dazzle, the sight; for it imparted to the mortal eye, that need must meet it, strength to bear its light and behold the things it would reveal. To have been dazzled into blindness had been far more tolerable than to endure that terrible scrutiny. So felt the guilty young human thing as, with increasing awe and dread, he perceived that, while the eye was never turned from him, it seemed to be watchfully observant of all that was passing beneath it, however distant the objects, diverse, multitudinous. No secret, then; no guilty deed or thought, could be hidden in that light. The boy started! That lie he had sent back to his mother as he was slinking away from home! Did the eye see that? Aye, and the hundred others he had told, and was showing upon his soul a smutch, a smear, a spot for every one! Back, again, he shrank and hid himself behind the column. The column was far loftier and more massive than those which uphold the dome of mighty St. Peter's, and was hewn out from the eternal granite; yet the light of that terrible eye came gleaming through it, as if it had been of the clearest crystal. He ran to another, then to a third, fourth, fifth—tenth. In vain! Interpose what he might, still was it all as airy transparency between himself and that piercing glance. There are X-rays for the soul, as well as for the body. He turned his back upon it; there it was still! Look where he would—in the depths above—and the eye was ever before him, its calm and terrible look unchanged. Yet it did not seem to follow him. It was simply there! Everywhere!

The self-convicted young offender was still dodging and flitting about among the columns, when the voice of the Manitou king—the first sound he had heard since the procession had vanished—came to his ears, with the somewhat startling words:

"Manitou-Echo and Will-o'-the-Wisp, come, conjure up, now, the red moccasins' dream! By this time our light has purged the young dreamer's eyes sufficiently clear of the red mist for him to see what stuff his dream is made of, and to what it is tending."

Whereupon a bareheaded elf, extremely fantastic in appearance, yet beautiful, too, and recognized at once by his voice, Manitou-Echo came flitting up to Sprigg, and, with a bland smile and light wave of the hand, thus addressed him:

"Sprigg, how are you this morning? Fresh and spry? Glad to hear it. Our brave Sprigg ran a fine race yesterday—splendid! Everybody said so! You shall run another to-day, if you much desire it. You have just been playing at hide and seek, I see. A nice little game all to yourself. That's merry; that's brave! Everybody plays at hide and seek who comes to our house, and we like to see it; it looks as if our guests were making themselves at home. One would think the old house had been designed expressly for that game, so many nooks and crannies and other out-of-the-way corners has it, where everybody thinks of hiding himself, and nobody thinks of seeking for himself. And, Sprigg, you would be astonished, were we to tell you, who have been here before you! Still, still more astonished, were I to tell you who are here at this very moment; all, like yourself, playing at hide and seek with—strange as you may think it—their own shadows! But no one ever hides from his shadow here, nor finds it. And why? Because the light in which his shadow is cast keeps continually before his eyes, so that, let him spin himself about as he will, still is his shadow ever behind him.

"Doubtless, we Manitous would play at the same game, and as merrily, too; but, unfortunately, as you see, we have no shadows to play with—never had. This deficiency, however, is to some extent atoned for by our being allowed to conjure with the dreams and fancies of you mortals, in which we find our chief entertainment, and the wilder your dreams, the more extravagant your fancies, the finer our entertainment.

"Now, to exemplify the point in question on a more diminished scale, allow me to present to your consideration a dream, in which I happen to have personal interest. When you have considered it attentively, will you please favor me with your opinion as to the stuff it is made of and what it is worth. Here it comes on six legs! Witness."

Sprigg looked. Incredible! The Indian boy and the Shetland pony displayed before his eyes, not as a motionless picture, but as living, moving things—careering 'round and 'round, within what seemed a magnificent amphitheater, crowded with human spectators—all conjured up out of Manitou mist. Yes, there they were—the pony with a small, red flag stuck in the browband of his bridle. The boy decked out in all his Indian bravery—tomahawk, feather hat, red moccasins—executing a bewildering variety of tip-toe, neck-or-nothing, superhuman antics, along the back and neck, over the head and tail of his fairy little charger. Anon, the wild young equestrian was the Indian boy no longer, but the very semblance of Sprigg himself, throwing his red predecessor completely in the shade, as one might well infer from the plaudits of the thousands and thousands of admiring, astonished spectators, all clapping their hands, waving their hats and shouting: "Hurrah! hurrah! Splendid! splendid!"

Sprigg rubbed his eyes and looked again. Just the same. He closed his eyes; it made no difference, he could see it as plainly through his eyelids. He opened them again. His semblance was fading into a shadow, so was that of the pony—fading like a cloud picture at sunset. Nothing distinctly visible, save the red moccasins, which, from the last fading outline of the pony's back, threw a prodigious summerset, and when they alighted upon the ground, there! in them again, Sprigg saw his semblance. Manitous, temple, amphitheater—all had vanished—a forest of lofty trees appearing instead, through whose glimmer of lights and shadows the boy now saw himself, or rather his wraith running with incredible swiftness, and glancing furtively over his shoulder at every bound, as if death were a present fear behind him; life a distant hope before.

But his pursuers, who and where are they? Ah! Yonder they come, and here they are, and there they go. Sweeping swiftly onward—a bear, a wolf, a panther and a bison bull—and his pursuers are gaining upon him at every bound, now treading upon his very shadow.

Meanwhile, the real Sprigg is conscious of a peculiar sensation, as if he were moving glidingly onward, borne along by invisible hands to keep pace with, and see the wild chase to the end. The end has come. He sees his wraith stop suddenly, poised on the very brink of a frightful precipice, those terrible shapes behind; a yawning, mist-hid gulf before. A moment, that semblance of himself stands reeling on the dizzy verge, then flings away, or is flung away into the misty void! His brain spins 'round and 'round; sight and sensation forsake him. The boy has swooned away! Will he be warned? Let us see!



CHAPTER XVI.

The Manitou Race.

Sprigg awoke. Bolt upright, all unharmed he found himself standing in front of the old hunting shanty; in the self-same sun-spot where he had stood when his father and Pow-wow, all unconscious of his presence, had passed him by. Yes, and the self-same hour, too, of the day, as he could judge by the length of his shadow in the sunshine, which he remembered as having been traced on the landscape at that conjuncture. Was that yesterday, or the moment gone but now? He could not tell, so like a dream appeared it all. He ran his eyes along the buffalo-trace, that led in the direction of home, half expecting to catch another glimpse of his father's retreating figure. Thus he stood, for many moments, in a state of dreamy bewilderment, gazing about him far and wide, until his wondering thoughts and wandering eyes reverted directly to his personal self. He looked down; his feet were bare. Where were the red moccasins? Red moccasins! They were but a part of the dream; or, rather, the very master-fancy of it—the incubus! Never had he seen such things in bodily form. Assuredly, he must be at home, aflat of his back on the floor, asleep and dreaming.

He was still looking about him, trying to make something of his strange experiences, when his eye was caught by a glitter and a gleam in the grass, which caused him to spring affrightedly backward, as from the glittering eye and gleaming crest of a rattlesnake. But no serpent was there. The more the pity! Only the red moccasins, adjusted side by side, with their old air of easy self-assurance, and now in open view before him. Yet, but the moment previous his look had chanced to be resting on that very spot, and naught but the tufted grass had he seen there! With their familiar sheen in his eyes, all came flashing back to his memory—the terrors of Manitou hill, the wonders of Manitou cave. Yet what assurance had he that these things also were not dreams? Let all the rest be as unreal as it might, the red moccasins were there in bodily form, and his own identical pair, too, as he could easily distinguish by a certain peculiar token, which was wanting in those he had seen on the feet of the elves. Upon all of theirs, between toe and instep, was the figure of an arrow traced in blood-red beads. Upon his own was the same figure, thrust through that of a human heart, but the whole device wrought in colorless beads. As he stood there gazing upon them, a twinkling light came glancing out of their beads, which met his look amazingly like a smile of familiar recognition. Then came it again, stealing upon his ear, that sound, or fancy, so like a voice; but whence, whether from the moccasins, or from some airy tongue, or from his own heart, perplexed him as much as ever to decide.

"Our brave Sprigg, in a pet of wrath, flung us from him up there on Manitou hill. He thought that we had deceived him. He had only deceived himself. So bemisted were his eyes from gazing, and gazing, and gazing at us, that he could see nothing as it really was. Therefore, without being aware of it, he passed on directly by his grandpap's house; directly by young Ben Logan's house; directly by pretty little Bertha Bryant's house—the very places whither he was so bent upon going when he set out from home. Now, at any of these houses we should have been perfectly willing to stop, at pretty little Bertha's in particular, only he did not seem inclined to turn our toes that way, but went on, and went on, and never stopped going, until the first thing he knew he found himself lost. Whose fault? Sprigg's; nobody's but Sprigg's. Yet he blamed us for it; blamed us for keeping along with his feet! What else could we do? We can't walk backward; we can't walk sideways—never could. We can only follow our toes, and their course is determined by the feet that are in us. Right their course, right ours. Then to fling us from him, like a pair of slip-shod shoes, when we had done our very best to speed him on his way! Thus spiting his toes by biting his nose, as the bull and the cat and the wolf soon showed him. Had he kept us under him, we could have kept him at easy distance from the monsters and made ourselves merry at their expense. But, as it was, we could only stand by and kick them out of the way, whenever they came uncomfortably near; and precious little thanks we got for it, too! But here we are, ready and willing as ever to serve our young master, his whole-souled friends to the last!

"Sprigg, this old hunting shanty, as you know, stands exactly midway between your pap's house and your grandpap's house. There's the road home; you know every crook and turn of it as well as we. You are free, perfectly free, to go that way if you prefer it; we shall say nothing, do nothing to hinder you; only, if you choose that road, you shall have to travel it without our good help, without our pleasant company, barefooted—ugly hills, cutting stones, scratching briars, piercing thorns! There's the road to grandpap's house—level and smooth, shady and pleasant! You may not know every crook and turn of it as well as you do of the other, that is true; but we do, so what's the difference? We can take you thither, be assured; and that, too, by set of sun, just at the time when Ben Logan, the bold young hunter, shall be coming home from the forest with the spoils of the chase; just as Bertha Bryant, the pretty little milkmaid, shall be coming home from the bluegrass glades with the cows. Then shall they see us and admire us—you and your beautiful shoes—admire us, fit to die—the boy of envy, the girl of love! Only, you must have a care, Sprigg, to keep your eyes clear of the red mist, else you will go agawking by them, as you did yesterday evening, when, off we are kicked again, like a pair of slip-shod shoes.

"Yes, Sprigg prefers that road, and so do we; suits him better, suits us better, for we never turn back, nor does a brave boy! And Sprigg is a brave boy! Who said our Sprigg was not a brave boy? On with us, then, and away!"

The boy was again bewitched. His old love had returned upon him with exaggerated force. He seated himself upon a stone, and placed the moccasins down on the grass before him, their eye-like beads all atwinkle, as with conscious light. Hark! What is that? Those mysterious sounds again, so like the murmuring, whispering voices, which had been haunting the air around him ever since his leaving home.

Sternly. "Home, false boy! Home to your father-er-er-er-er!'"

Softly. "Home, poor child; home to your mother-er-er-er!"

'Twas but the whispering wind, with leaves for lips. Only the murmuring brook, with echoes for words. Wind can whisper and wail; water can murmur and laugh.

The boy took one of the moccasins in his hands, a thumb and two fingers on each side; yet still he hesitated—that terrible Manitou eye!! Might it not be as present in the depths of the sky above as he had seen it in the depths of the earth beneath, and at that very moment looking as piercingly through his secret soul? He was on the point of dropping the moccasins, when a jay-bird in the nearest tree before him, and a red-bird in the nearest tree behind him began chattering in a noisy, commonplace, wide-awake way, which made him laugh and say to himself:

"Foolish boy! Thus to sit listening to water and wind, and the lengthening shadows telling how swiftly the day is waning! On with the moccasins! Up and away!" And on they were in a twinkling. But now they were on, why was the boy not up and away? There he still sat, his eyes fastened upon the red temptations, bigger with wonder than ever before! The colorless beads, describing the arrow and heart, had grown, in an instant, red as blood.

"Bleed, poor heart! bleed!" cried a soft voice close beside him. "Bleed! or be to your mother forever a sorrow!"