Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin

’n’ Hop Yet, ’n’ Lubin, ’n’ the goat—not the wild goat up on the hill, but my goat, what got sick to his stummick when I painted him with black letters.’

      What a dreadful calamity, to be sure, if the wrong goat had been blessed by mistake! His whole duty performed, he picked the toadstools for his papa’s Sunday dinner, and, leaning his head against the lone stump, cried himself to sleep.

      But relief was near, though he little suspected it as he lay in the sound, dreamless sleep which comes only to the truly good. There was a crashing sound in the still darkness, and Bell plunged through the thick underbrush with a cry of delight.

      ‘He is here! Dear, dear Geoff, he is all here! I knew it, I knew it! Hurrah!—no, I mean—thank God!’ she said softly as she stooped down to kiss her mischievous little brother.

      ‘But what a looking creature!’ exclaimed Geoff, as he stooped over the recovered treasure. ‘See, Bell, his curls are glistening with pitch, his dress is torn into ribbons, and his hands—ugh, how dirty!’

      ‘Poor little darling, he is thoroughly used up,’ whispered Bell, wiping tears of joy from her brown eyes. ‘Now, I’ll run home like lightning to blow the horn; and you carry Dicky, for he is too sleepy and stiff to walk; and, Geoff’—(here she laid an embarrassed hand on his shoulder)—‘I’m afraid he’ll be awfully cross, but you’ll not mind it, will you? He’s so worn-out.’

      ‘Not I,’ laughed Geoff, as he dropped a brotherly kiss on Bell’s pale cheek. ‘But I’ve no idea of letting you go alone; you’re tired to death, and you’ll miss the path. I wish I could carry you both.’

      ‘Tired—afraid!’ cried Bell, with a ringing laugh, while Dicky woke with a stare, and nestled on Geoffrey’s shoulder as if nothing had happened. ‘Why, now that this weight is lifted off my heart, I could see a path in an untravelled forest! Good-bye, you dear, darling, cruel boy! I must run, for every moment is precious to mamma.’ And with one strangling hug, which made Dicky’s ribs crack, she dashed off.

      Oh how joyously, how sweetly and tunefully, the furious blast of the old cracked dinner-horn fell on the anxious ears in that cañon. It seemed clearer and more musical than a chime of silver bells.

      In a trice the wandering couples had gathered jubilantly round the camp-fire, all embracing Bell, who was the heroine of the hour—entirely by chance, and not though superior vision or courage, as she confessed.

      It was hardly fifteen minutes when Geoff strode into the ring with his sorry-looking burden, which he laid immediately in Aunt Truth’s lap.

      ‘Oh my darling!’ she cried, embracing him fondly. ‘To think you are really not dead, after all!’

      ‘No, he is about as alive as any chap I ever saw.’ And while the happy parents caressed their restored darling, Geoff gathered the girls and boys around the dinner-table, and repeated some of Dicky’s remarks on the homeward trip.

      It seems that he considered himself the injured party, and with great ingenuity laid all the blame of the mishap on his elders.

      ‘Nobuddy takes care of me, anyhow,’ he grumbled. ‘If my papa wasn’t a mean fing I’d orter to have a black nurse with a white cap and apurn, like Billy Thomas, ’n’ then I couldn’t git losted so offul easy. An’ you all never cared a cent about it either, or you’d a founded me quicker ’n this—’n’ I’ve been hungry fur nineteen hours, ’n’ I guess I’ve been gone till December, by the feelin’, but you was too lazy to found me ’f I freezed to def—’n’ there ain’t but one singul boy of me round the whole camp, ’n’ ’t would serveded you right if I had got losted for ever; then I bet you wouldn’t had much fun Fourth of July ’thout my two bits ’n’ my fire-crackers!’

      It was an hour or two before peace and quiet were restored to the camp. The long-delayed dinner had to be eaten; and to Hop Yet’s calm delight, it was a very bad one. Dicky’s small wounds were dressed with sweet oil, and after being fed and bathed he was tucked lovingly into bed, with a hundred kisses or more from the whole party.

      A little rest and attention had entirely restored his good-humour; and when Dr. Paul went into the tent to see that all was safe for the night, he found him sitting up in bed with a gleeful countenance, prattling like a little angel.

      ‘We had an offul funny time ’bout my gittin’ losted, didn’t we, mamma?’ chuckled he, with his gurgling little laugh. ‘Next time I’m goin’ to get losted in annover bran’-new place where no-bud-dy can find me! I fink it was the nicest time ’cept Fourth of July, don’t you, mamma?’ And he patted his mother’s cheek and imprinted an oily kiss thereon.

      ‘Truth,’ said the Doctor, with mild severity, ‘I know you don’t believe in applying the slipper, but I do think we should arrange some plan for giving that child an idea of the solemnity of life. So far as I can judge, he looks at it as one prolonged picnic.’

      ‘My sentiments exactly!’ cried Bell, energetically. ‘I can’t stand many more of these trying scenes; I am worn to a “shadder.”’

      Dicky tucked his head under his mother’s arm, with a sigh of relief that there was one person, at least, whose sentiments were always favourable and always to be relied upon.

      ‘I love you the best of anybuddy, mamma,’ whispered he, and fell asleep.

      Chapter IV.

       Rhyme and Reason

       Table of Contents

      A BUDGET OF LETTERS FROM THE CAMP MAIL-BAG

      ‘The letter of a friend is a likeness passing true.’

      Our friend Polly was seated in a secluded spot whence all but her had fled; her grave demeanour, her discarded sun-bonnet, her corrugated brow, all bespoke more than common fixedness of purpose, the cause of which will be discovered in what follows.

I. From the Countess Paulina Olivera to Her Friend and Confidante, The Lady Elsie Howard1

       Table of Contents

      Scene: A sequestered nook in the Valley of the Flowers.

      Camp Chaparral, July 6, 188–.

The countess is discovered at her ommerlu 2 writing-table. A light zephyr 3 plays with her golden locks 4 and caresses her Grecian 5 nose—a nose that carries on its surface a few trifling freckles, which serve but to call attention to its exquisite purity of outline and the height of its ambition. Her eyes reflect the changing shadows of moonlight, and her mouth is one fit for sweet sounds; 6 yet this only gives you a faint idea of the beauteous creature whose fortunes we shall follow in our next number. 7

      I have given that style a fair trial, my dear darling, but I cannot stand it another minute, not being familiar with the language of what our cook used to call the ‘fuddal aristocracy’ (feudal, you know).