Julius, the Street Boy; or, Out West

“Next Wednesday afternoon the boys will all speak pieces,” Mr. Slocum announced. “You may select any pieces you please. At the celebrated institution in Maine, from which I graduated, we used to speak pieces every week. You may be interested to know that your teacher gained a great reputation by his speaking. ‘Theophilus,’ said the principal to me one day, I never had a student under my instruction who could equal you in speaking. There is no one who can do such justice to Daniel Webster, and other great orators of antiquity. You are a natural orator, and eloquence comes natural to you.’ This was a high compliment, as you will agree; but it was deserved. The principal put it to vote whether a prize should be offered for speaking, but the students voted against it; ‘for,’ they said, ‘Slocum will be sure to get it, and it will do us no good.’ I hope, boys, you will do your best, so that I may be able to compliment you.”

“I wish Mr. Slocum would favor us with a specimen of his declamation,” said John Sandford, at recess.

“He must be a regular steam engine,” said Walter Pratt; “that is, according to his own account.”

“The principal of the celebrated institution in Maine thought a good deal of Theophilus,” said Julius.

“What a phenomenon he must have been!” said Tom Allen. “He appears to have stood first in everything.”

“But he seems to forget easy,” said Frank Bent. “Complex fractions are too much for him.”

“Well, how about asking him to speak?” resumed John Sandford. “Who goes in for it?”

“I,” said Julius.

“And I.”

“And I.”

“Who shall go up and ask him?”

“Go yourself, John.”

“All right, boys. I’ll do it, if you say so. But I am afraid I can’t keep a straight face.”

So John went back into school just before the bell rang, and approached the teacher’s desk.

“What’s wanted, Sandford?” said Mr. Slocum.

As may be inferred from his habit of boasting, Mr. Slocum was very accessible to flattery, and listened graciously to this request. John was perfectly sober, though he was laughing inside, as he afterward said; and the teacher never dreamed of a plot to expose and ridicule him.

“You are quite right, Sandford,” said he, graciously; “it would undoubtedly be very beneficial to you, and I will look over one of my old pieces, and see if I can remember it. I am glad to see that the boys are anxious to improve in the important branch of declamation.”

John carried to the boys the news of his success, which was received with a great deal of interest. Though most of the boys thought it irksome to commit a piece to memory, and had no ambition to become orators, all went to work willingly, feeling that they should be repaid by hearing the “master” speak.

“Speaking” was new business to Julius. During his very brief school attendance in New York he had not been sufficiently advanced to declaim, and he felt a little apprehensive about his success. He chose an extract from one of Webster’s speeches, and carefully committed it, reciting it at home to Mr. Taylor, from whom he received several suggestions, which he found of value. The result was that he acquitted himself quite creditably.

One after another the boys spoke. One boy, of thirteen, rather inappropriately had selected the well-known little poem, commencing

“I wish he’d speak that piece now,” whispered Julius to his next neighbor.

“Isn’t he a conceited jackass?” was the reply.

“He must have been a beautiful baby,” said Julius, comically.

“A regular phenomenon in petticoats.”

“What are you laughing at?” demanded Mr. Slocum, sternly.

“Julius said he wished you would speak that piece you spoke when you were two years old.”

At last the scholars had all spoken, and in expectant silence Mr. Slocum’s “piece” was awaited by the boys.

“Boys,” he said, arising with dignity, and advancing to the platform, “I should like to speak a piece from Webster; but I have forgotten those I once knew, and I will favor you with one of a lighter character, called ‘The Seminole’s Reply.’”

Mr. Slocum took his place on the rostrum, as he liked to call it, made a low bow to the boys, struck an attitude, and began to declaim at the top of his voice. The first two stanzas are quoted here, in order to show more clearly the character of Mr. Slocum’s declamation:

The boys cheered vociferously, which encouraged Mr. Slocum to further exertions. Nothing could exceed the impressive dignity with which he delivered the concluding half of the fourth stanza:

The gravity of the boys, however, was endangered by a too appropriate gesture. When Mr. Slocum wished to designate the scalp of vengeance as still red, he pointed to his own hair, which, as has been said, was of a decided red tint.

The two concluding lines of the poem, as many of my readers, to whom it is familiar, will doubtless remember, are these:

When the orator had concluded his effort, and with a low bow resumed his seat, the boys applauded uproariously. Mr. Slocum’s vanity was flattered, and he arose to acknowledge the compliment.

“Boys,” he said, “I am glad to find that you appreciate my efforts to instruct you. Don’t be discouraged because you cannot yet speak as well as I do. Keep on in your efforts. Let your motto ever be Excelsior! and the time will perhaps come when you will receive the applause of listening multitudes. The school is now dismissed.”

“Wasn’t it rich, Julius?” asked John Sandford, when they were walking home. “I never wanted to laugh so much in all my life. But the best of it was about the red scalp.”

“You’re envious, John. That’s the reason you ridicule Mr. Slocum’s speaking. I’m afraid you’ll never be as great an orator as he is.”

Had Mr. Slocum become in after years a distinguished man, and in due time a biography had been called for, some one of the scholars who had the great privilege of receiving his instructions would have been admirably qualified, so far as information went, to perform the task of writing it; for, as we have seen, the teacher took frequent occasion to illustrate points that came up in the day’s lessons by narratives drawn from his own personal experience. One day, for instance, when in the class in geography a certain locality was spoken of as abounding in bears, Mr. Slocum indulged in a reminiscence.

Laying down the book on his desk, he said: “I myself once had an adventure with a bear, which I will narrate for your entertainment.”

Mr. Slocum’s stories were always listened to with close attention, in the confident expectation that they would be found to redound greatly to his credit. So the boys looked up, and exhibited a gratifying interest on the part of the class.

“‘Don’t be frightened, boys,’ I said, ‘I will save you.’

“I had heard that nearly all beasts are afraid of the human eye. So I advanced slowly toward the savage beast, fixing my eye sternly upon him all the while.”

Here Mr. Slocum glared upon the boys, by way of illustrating the manner in which he regarded the bear.

“Have you got it with you, sir?” asked one of the class.

“I am sorry to say that I have not,” answered the teacher. “I was afraid I might lose it, and so I left it on deposit in a bank, before I left Maine for the West.”

“Do you believe that bear story, John?” asked Julius, of John Sandford, when they were walking home from school together.

“No, I don’t.”

“Nor do I.”

“The fact is, Mr. Slocum is the biggest blower I ever met with. I don’t believe half the stories that he tells about himself. If they were true, he would be, I think, one of the most remarkable men that ever lived. I don’t believe he’s as brave as he pretends.”

“Suppose we find out.”

“How can we?”

“Has he ever seen your bear?”

“I don’t think he has. We never let it out into the road.”

“That’s a splendid idea, Julius. I’m in for it, but I don’t see exactly how we can manage it.”

“I’ll tell you. He goes by your house sometimes in the evening, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He told me once he walked in order to commune with Nature.”

“Well, I propose that he shall commune with the bear once, by way of variety.”

“Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

“Have the bear close by, and just after he has passed let him out—the bear, I mean. Then run by Mr. Slocum, appearing to be in a great fright, and tell him there’s a bear after him.”

“Good!” said John, shaking with laughter. “But you must help me.”

“So I will.”

“It will be easier for one reason,” said John. “I have taught the bear to run after me, and as soon as he sees me ahead he will begin to run too.”

“Let it be to-morrow evening. What time does Mr. Slocum go by?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be around at your house then at half-past six.”

“Would you tell the rest of the boys?”

“Not till afterward. If they come around, and there is a crowd, we may not be able to carry out our plan.”

“Let him be mad. We’ll look him in the eye, and he’ll turn tail and flee.”

* * * * * * * * *

The next evening two boys might have been seen crouching behind the wall bordering a large field belonging to Mr. Sandford. The bear was peacefully reclining beside them. From time to time the boys took observations, with a view to discover whether the enemy was in sight.

“I am afraid he isn’t coming,” said Julius. “That would be a joke on us.”

“He can’t be so mean, when we have made such preparations to receive him.”

“I think he would if he only knew what they are.”

“Hush! there he is.”

In the distance the stately figure of the teacher was seen, walking with dignified composure. Mr. Theophilus Slocum always walked as if he felt that the eyes of the world were upon him. He realized that he was a personage of no little importance, and that it behooved him to shape his walk and conversation accordingly.

The hearts of the boys beat high with anticipation. At length they heard the teacher go by.

“Now for it!” said Julius.

“You’ll see.”

Through an opening they emerged into the road, followed by the bear. Mr. Slocum was now about fifty feet in advance.

“Now scream!” said Julius.

The boys uttered a shriek, and began to run at the top of their speed. The bear, as he had been trained, tried to keep up with them. Mr. Slocum turned around, and saw the fleeing boys, and behind them the huge, unwieldy bear getting rapidly over the ground. He knew it was a bear, for he had once seen one at a menagerie.

“Oh, Mr. Slocum, save us!” implored Julius, appearing greatly frightened.

“There’s a bear after us,” chimed in John. “Don’t let him kill us.”

Now the teacher had never heard of Mr. Sandford’s bear. He was not aware that one was kept in the village. He supposed that this one had strayed from the forest, and was dangerous. Alas! that I should record it—instead of bravely turning, and facing the animal, Theophilus turned pale with terror, and exerting his long limbs to the utmost, fled incontinently, shooting ahead of the boys, whom he didn’t pause to rescue, coattails flying, and, having lost his hat in his flight, with his red hair waving in the wind.

“Is it Sandford’s bear?” asked one of his auditors.

“Does Mr. Sandford keep a bear?” asked Theophilus.

“Yes; he has a large one. But it is quite tame. It wouldn’t hurt a child.”

“Why,” said the teacher, bewildered, “Mr. Sandford’s son, John, was running away from him. Julius Taylor was with him. They told me that a bear was after them, and asked me to save them.”

Mr. Slocum was hardly prepared for the laugh which followed. The joke was understood at once.

“I think, Mr. Slocum,” said the storekeeper, “that the boys were playing a trick upon you. They probably let out the bear just after you passed by. You didn’t stop to save them, did you?”

Mr. Slocum was terribly annoyed by what had happened. It seemed impossible to explain his flight in any way that would reflect credit upon himself. He could not pretend that it was all a joke, for he had shown himself too much in earnest in the village store, where he had taken refuge, for this to be believed. Though not remarkable for sense, Mr. Slocum knew that if he should undertake to punish Julius and John for their agency in the affair, he would only give it greater publicity. He felt a strong desire to do this, however, and would have derived great comfort from flogging them both. Finally he decided not to refer to the matter in school, and in this decision he was unusually discreet.

The school opened. Julius was doubtful whether any reference would be made to the bear. He rather expected a speech, but Mr. Slocum disappointed him. He heard the classes as usual, but refrained from making any remarks of a biographical character. His self-complacency had been severely disturbed, and he looked severe and gloomy.

He watched Julius and John, hoping to detect something in their conduct which would justify him in punishing them; but they, too, were unusually quiet, as rogues are apt to be just after a successful trick.

At length, however, something happened which led to an explosion.

Desiring his effort to be appreciated, he passed the slate to Julius, who sat in front of him. Our hero was easy to make laugh, and he no sooner cast his eyes over the picture than he burst into audible laughter. This was the occasion that Mr. Slocum had been waiting for. Laughter was against the rules of the school—it was disorderly—and would give him an excuse for the punishment he was so strongly desirous of inflicting. He strode to the desk of Julius while the latter was still looking at the slate. Mr. Slocum, too, saw it, and his fury was increased, for he recognized the subject only too well.

Seizing Julius by the collar, he jerked him out upon the floor, saying, in a voice of concentrated passion: “So, sir, you are drawing pictures instead of studying. I’ll give you a lesson.”

“I didn’t draw it,” said Julius.

“I’ll flog you for telling a lie,” exclaimed the excited teacher.

Julius was about to repeat his disclaimer, but it was made unnecessary. Tom Allen arose quietly in his seat, and said: “Julius is perfectly right, Mr. Slocum; he didn’t draw the picture.”

“I did,” said Tom, coolly. “If you want to punish anybody for doing it, you’ll have to punish me.”

This was very disagreeable intelligence for Mr. Slocum. Tom Allen was a stout, broad-shouldered, immensely powerful young fellow, standing five feet ten inches in his stockings. There are few teachers who would not have fought shy of punishing, or attempting to punish, such a formidable scholar. Mr. Slocum was disconcerted at the interruption, and did not care about undertaking such a doubtful job. Neither did he want to release Julius from his clutches. He knew that he could punish him, and he meant to do it. A lucky thought came to him.

“I do not punish him for drawing the picture,” he said, “but for disturbing the order of the school by laughing at it.”

“I couldn’t help laughing at it,” exclaimed our hero.

“Nor could any of the other scholars,” said Tom Allen; and taking the slate from the desk before him, he held it up, and exhibited it to the other scholars. It was recognized at once, and there was a general shout of laughter.

Mr. Slocum looked about him with an angry scowl, and his temper was fairly aroused, so that he became, to a certain extent, regardless of consequences.

“What are you punishing him for?” asked Tom Allen, quietly.

“For laughing out in school.”

“The rest of the scholars have done the same. Are you going to punish them, too?”

“I shall punish some of them,” said the teacher, with a smile of complacent malice. “John Sandford laughed loudest. His turn will come next.”

By this time it was very clear to all present what the two boys were to be punished for. The laughing was only a pretext. They were to be flogged for their participation in the practical joke of the day before.

“Mr. Slocum,” said Tom Allen, “I am the greatest offender. The boys only laughed, but I drew the picture.”

“You did not laugh,” said Mr. Slocum, uneasily.

“Still, if anybody is to be punished, I am the one. Here is my hand. You may ferule me, if you like.”

Tom Allen’s hand was hardened by labor, and he would not have minded the feruling in the least. But Mr. Slocum had no desire to ferule Tom. His animosity was not excited against him, but against Julius and John. He wanted to punish them, and so wipe out the grudge he had against them.

“Why not?” asked Tom. “I shall not resist; that is, if you only ferule me.”

“There is no need of giving my reasons,” said Mr. Slocum, stubbornly. “I have on more than one occasion noticed the insubordinate spirit of Julius Taylor and John Sandford; and it is due to myself that I should punish them, and I intend to do it now.”

He was preparing to punish Julius, and evidently would not have spared the rod to spoil the child, when Tom Allen interfered again.

“Mr. Slocum,” said he, stepping out from behind the desk, “I’ve got a word to say in this matter. You shall not punish Julius!”

“What!” roared Theophilus, almost foaming at the mouth. “Do you know whom you are talking to?”

“I know that I am talking to a man in a passion, who wants to do an injustice,” said Tom. “I am willing to do what’s right, and I have offered to let you ferule me; but I won’t stand by and see an innocent boy suffer for what he couldn’t help.”

“You are a rebel! I will expel you from school!” exclaimed Mr. Slocum.

“I won’t go,” said Tom, “as long as there are boys here who need my protection. I have got Julius into a scrape, and I won’t let him be punished for my fault. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

Then Tom Allen thought it was time to act. He tore the rod from Mr. Slocum’s grasp, and flung it to the other side of the room. The astonished teacher loosened his grasp, and Tom, forcibly drawing him away, told him to take his seat. Then Mr. Slocum lost all prudence. His face fiery with rage, he pitched into Tom Allen, and there was a rough-and-tumble fight, in which Tom had the best of it. At this most unlucky time one of the trustees, the Rev. Mr. Brandon, entered the schoolroom on a visit of inspection, and stood appalled at the spectacle before him.

“Good heavens! Mr. Slocum, what does this mean?” he ejaculated.

Mr. Slocum started as if he had been shot, and turned his perturbed countenance toward the trustee.

“It means that there is a rebellion in school,” he said.

An immediate inquiry was instituted, and Mr. Brandon was at last made acquainted with the circumstances.

“I think, Mr. Slocum,” he said, “you had better dismiss the school, and I will call a meeting of the trustees for this evening at my house. I will ask you to be present; also four of your scholars, including Thomas Allen, Julius Taylor, and any two others whom you may select.”

After Mr. Fairbanks assumed charge of the school there was no further trouble. He was a teacher of large experience, good judgment, and a happy faculty of imparting what he knew. He was not a man of extensive acquirements, but he was thoroughly versed in all the branches he was required to teach. Though he never boasted of his remarkable achievements, like his predecessor, his pupils had far greater confidence in his knowledge.

Julius learned rapidly under his care. After the winter term was over Mr. Fairbanks was induced to open a private school by those who thought the more of him from comparing him with his predecessor; and to this school Julius also was sent. But, though his progress was steady, no events of interest call for mention here. He became popular with his schoolfellows, distinguishing himself in the playground as well as the classroom. Nearly all the street phrases which he carried to the West with him dropped away, and only now and then did he betray the manner of his former life.

It was on a day in the following summer that a tall Indian, wrapped in a dirty blanket, presented himself at the back door of Mr. Taylor’s house. His features were bloated, and clearly indicated his habits. His expression otherwise was far from prepossessing, and the servant, who answered his call, looked at him rather uneasily, knowing that her mistress, herself and little Carrie were alone in the house. Mr. Taylor had gone to a neighboring town and taken Julius with him, while Abner was in the fields.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Money,” said the Indian, laconically.

“I have no money,” she answered. “I will give you something to eat.”

“Want money,” repeated the Indian.

“I’ll go and ask my mistress,” said Jane.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, of her dusky visitor.

“No; want money,” was the reply.

“I am not in the habit of giving money at the door. My husband does not approve of it,” she answered.

“Go ask him,” said the Indian.

“He is not at home,” she answered, incautiously; “but I am sure he would not be willing to have me give you any money.”

As soon as she had admitted the absence of her husband she realized her imprudence. There was a scarcely perceptible gleam of exultation in the eye of the Indian as he heard what was so favorable to his purpose. A man would be in his way, but a woman he could frighten.

“Must have money; must have two dollar,” he reiterated.

“What do you want money for?” asked Mrs. Taylor.

“Buy rum—good!”

“Then I am sure I shall give you none. Rum is bad,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“It makes Indian feel good.”

“Don’t want it,” said the Indian, obstinately. “Want money.”

“You’d better give it to him, ma’am, and let him go,” said Jane, in a low voice.

“No,” said Mrs. Taylor; “Mr. Taylor is very much opposed to it. The last time I gave money he blamed me very much. If he is not satisfied with coffee and meat I shall give him nothing.”

“Ugh! Ugh!” grunted the Indian, evidently angry.

“I’m afraid of him, mamma. He’s so ugly,” said Carrie, timidly, clinging to her mother’s hand.

“He won’t hurt you, my darling,” said Mrs. Taylor.

But the Indian had caught the little girl’s words, and probably understood them. He scowled at her, and this terrified the child still more.

“Will you have some coffee?” Mrs. Taylor asked once more.

“No; rum.”

“I have no rum to give you.”

“Money.”

“Neither shall I give you money.”

“I am glad he is gone,” said Mrs. Taylor. “I don’t like his looks.”

“Is he a bad man?” asked Carrie.

“I don’t know, my dear, but he likes to drink rum.”

“Then he must be bad.”

“He’s the worst lookin’ Indian I ever see,” said Jane. “I don’t want to set my eyes upon him again. He ought to be ashamed, goin’ round askin’ for money, a great, strong man like him. Why don’t he work?”

“Indians are not very fond of working, I believe, Jane.”

“If he wants money, he might make baskets.”

“Why didn’t you tell him so?”

“I was afraid to. He looked so wicked.”

So the subject was dismissed. They supposed that the Indian was gone, and that they would not hear from him again. But they had forgotten that the red man is quick to take offense, and is revengeful by nature. They did not suspect that he was even then planning a revenge which would strike anguish into the heart of all in the household.

“Work is for squaws!” he said, in a spiteful and contemptuous manner. “It is not for warriors.”

But John, as he was sometimes called, did not look like the noble warriors whom Cooper describes. He was a shaggy vagabond, content to live on the alms he could obtain from the whites in the towns which he visited. As for lodgings, he was forced to lie down in his blanket wherever he could find the shelter of a tree or a forest.

The sight of the child had suggested to John a notable revenge. He could steal the little child, who had called him an ugly man—an expression which he understood. Thus he could wring the mother’s heart, and obtain revenge. There would be little danger of interference, for he knew that Mr. Taylor was away.

Mrs. Taylor and Carrie went back to the sitting-room where the mother resumed her sewing, and Carrie began to play with her blocks on the floor. Neither of them suspected that, just outside, the Indian was crouching, and that from time to time he glanced into the room to watch his chances of carrying out his plan.

“Lie down on the sofa, my darling,” said her mother.

“So I will, mother,” said Carrie. “I am very hot and sleepy.”

She lay down, and her mother tenderly placed a cushion under the little, weary head.

Soon Carrie was wrapped in the deep, unconscious sleep of childhood. The Indian, with a look of satisfaction, beheld her repose, as he stole a glance through the window.

Soon Mrs. Taylor thought of a direction she wished to give Jane. Glancing at little Carrie, she left the room, knowing that the child would not miss her.

No sooner had she left the room than the Indian, who had been waiting for this, sprang in through the open window, clasped the unconscious child in his arms, whose slumber was too profound to be disturbed even by this action, and in a moment was out on the lawn, speeding rapidly away with the little girl in his arms.

“Carrie! Carrie!” she called out, in the greatest uncertainty and alarm.

But there was no answer.

She summoned Jane, and together they hunted high and low for the little girl, but in vain.

Then first a suspicion of the truth came to her.

The Indian was fleet-footed, like most of his race. After obtaining possession of the child, he struck across the fields, for on the public road he would have been liable to be seen and stopped. Little Carrie was in the deep sleep of childhood, and did not awake for some time. This of course was favorable to his design, for he had over a mile to go before he reached the woods, in which the instinct of his race led him to take refuge. It was not till a stray twig touched her cheek that the little girl awoke.

Opening her eyes, her glance rested on the dark face of the Indian, and, as might have been expected, she uttered a shriek of terror. At the same time she tried to get away.

“Put me down,” she cried in her fright.

“Not yet,” said the Indian.

“Where are you taking me, you ugly Indian? I want to go to my mamma.”

“No go,” said the Indian.

“I want to go home,” said Carrie; and she renewed her efforts to get away.

“I don’t want to stay with you. Take me home.”

“No take home,” said the Indian; but he put her down, tired perhaps with carrying her.

Carrie looked about her bewildered. All about her were thick woods, and she could not see her way out. She did not know in what direction lay the home to which she was so anxious to return, but she thought it might be in the direction from which they had come. She started to run, but in an instant the Indian was at her side. He seized her hand in his firm grasp, and frowned upon her.

“Where go?” he asked.

“Home to my mamma.”

“No go,” said he, shaking his head.

“Why did you take me away from my mamma?” asked the poor child.

“Bad woman! No give poor Indian money,” responded the savage.

“Take me home, and she will give you money,” urged the child.

“Not now. Did not give before. Too late,” responded John.

“Are you going to keep me here? Will you never take me home?” asked Carrie, overwhelmed with alarm.

“Little girl stay with Indian; be Indian’s pickaninny.”

“No. She go out. Leave child asleep. Indian jump through window. Take little girl.”

When Carrie understood how it was that she had been kidnapped, she felt very much frightened; but even in her terror she felt some curiosity about the Indian, and his mode of life.

“Where is your house?” she asked. “Is it here in the woods?”

“All places, under trees.”

“What! do you sleep under trees, without any roof?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you build a house?”

“Indian live in wigwam.”

“Then why don’t you live in a wigwam?”

“My wigwam far away—over there,” and he pointed to the north.

“Where will you sleep to-night?”

“Under tree.”

“Then you must take me home, I can’t sleep under a tree. I would catch my death of cold. So mamma says.”

“Must stay. Get used to it. Indian make bed of leaves for pickaninny.”

“Come,” said John; and he dragged the child forward.

“Where are you taking me? Oh, carry me home!” pleaded Carrie.

“Stop!” said the Indian, sternly. “No cry, or I kill you.”

Carrie stopped, in greater fear than ever. The stern face of her companion made it not improbable that he might carry out the fearful threat he had uttered. So she checked her audible manifestations of grief, but the tears still coursed silently down her cheeks.

“What will mamma say, and papa—and Julius?” This was the thought that continually occupied her mind. Would she never see these dear ones again? Must she spend all her life with the wicked Indian? At any rate, when she got to be a woman—a great, strong woman, and knew her way about, she would run away, and go home. But there would be a good many years first. She wondered whether her skin would turn red, and she would look like the Indians. Then her father and mother would not know her, and would send her back again to live with the Indians. Altogether, however groundless some of her fears might be, little Carrie was very miserable and unhappy.

At length they stopped. It was at a place where the Indian had spent the previous night. A few leaves had been piled up, and the pile was arched over by some branches which he had broken off from the surrounding trees. It was a rude shelter, but was a little better than lying on the bare ground.

He turned to the little girl, and said, “This Indian’s house.”

“Where?” asked the child, bewildered.

“There,” he said, pointing to the pile of leaves. “Suppose pickaninny tired; lie down.”

Carrie sat down on the leaves, for she did feel tired, and it was a relief to sit. Had Julius been with her, or her father, she would have enjoyed the novel sensation of being in the heart of the woods, knowing that she would be carried home again. But with the Indian it was different. Her situation seemed to her very dreadful, and she would have cried, but that she had already cried till she could cry no more.

But a child cannot always keep silence. After an hour she mustered courage to accost her fearful companion.

“Are you married?” she asked.

The Indian looked at her, and grunted, but did not reply.

“Have you got a wife?”

“Had squaw once—she dead,” answered John.

“Have you got any little girls like me?”

“No.”

“I wish you had,” sighed Carrie.

“What for you wish?”

“Because, then you would let me go to my papa. If you had a little girl, you would not like to have any one carry her off, would you?” and the little girl fixed her eyes on his face.

He grunted once more, but did not reply.

“Think how sorry your little girl would be,” said Carrie.

But the Indian was not strong in the way of sentiment. His feelings were not easily touched. Besides, he felt sleepy. So he answered thus: “Little girl no talk. Indian tired. He go sleep.”

So saying, he stretched himself out at length on the leaves. But first he thought it necessary to give the child a caution.

“I am not sleepy any more,” said Carrie.

“No go way. Suppose go, then Indian kill her,” he concluded, with a fierce expression.

“You wouldn’t be so wicked as to kill me, would you?” said Carrie, turning pale.

“Me kill you, if go away.”

Carrie implicitly believed him; and, as she did not know her way about, she would not have dared to disobey his commands. Then all at once there came another fear. The evening before Julius had read her a story of a traveler meeting a lion in the forest, and narrowly escaping with his life. It is true the forest was in Africa, but Carrie did not remember that. She did not know but that lions were in the habit of prowling about in the very forest where she was. Suppose one should come along while the Indian was asleep. She shuddered at the thought, and the fear made her speak.

“Are there any lions in this wood?” she asked.

“Why ask?” said the Indian.

“If one came while you were asleep, he might eat me up.”

The Indian was quick-witted enough to avail himself of this fear to prevent the child’s leaving him.

“Suppose one come; you wake me. Me kill him.”

“Yes. Suppose you go away. Maybe meet him; he kill you.”

“I won’t go away,” said Carrie, quickly. “Are you sure you could kill one, if he came?”

“Yes; me kill many,” answered the Indian, with a disregard of truth more often to be found among civilized than barbarous nations.

Poor Carrie!—her sensations were by no means to be envied, as she sat by the side of the sleeping Indian, agitated by fears which, to her, were very real. On the one side was the Indian, on the other the lion who might spring upon her at any minute. From time to time she cast a terrified glance about her in search of the possible lion. She did not see him; but what was her delight when, as a result of one of these glances, she caught sight of a boy’s face—the face of Julius—peeping from behind a tree!

Mr. Taylor and Julius had reached home about twenty minutes after Mrs. Taylor’s discovery of the disappearance of her little girl. The former was not a little startled, when his wife, pale and with disheveled hair, ran out to meet them.

“What is the matter, Emma?” he asked hastily.

“Oh, Ephraim, our poor child!”—and the poor mother burst into tears.

“What has happened to her? Is she sick?” he asked, anxiously.

“She’s gone.”

“Gone! What do you mean?” he asked, utterly at a loss to understand his wife’s meaning.

“An Indian has carried her off. I shall never see her again;” and Mrs. Taylor burst into a fresh flood of tears.

“Tell me how it all happened, as quickly as possible,” said the father. “I don’t understand.”

After a time he succeeded in obtaining from his wife an account of the Indian’s application, and the revenge which followed her refusal to supply him with money.

“You did right, Emma. Whatever the consequences, you did right. But that is not the question now. We must immediately go in search of our lost child. Julius, call Abner.”

Abner was at the barn, having just returned from the fields. He came back with Julius.

“Abner,” said Mr. Taylor, after briefly explaining the case, “we will divide. You go in one direction, and I in another. Have you got a gun?”

“Yes, Mr. Taylor.”

“Take it; you may need it. I have another.”

“Have you got one for me?” asked Julius.

“Do you know how to fire a gun?”

“Yes, sir; Abner showed me last week.”

“I am afraid even with one you would be no match for an Indian. I cannot give you a gun, but I have a pistol in the house. You shall have that.”

“I’ll take it,” said Julius. “Perhaps I shall be the one to find Carrie.”

“Take it, and God bless you!” said the father, as he brought out a small pistol, and placed it in the hands of Julius. “Be prudent, and run no unnecessary risk.”

There had been some delay in getting ready, and altogether the Indian had a start of nearly an hour. On the other hand, he was incumbered with the weight of the child, which had a tendency to diminish his speed. Again, Julius ran a part of the way. He knew little of the Indians from personal observation, but he had read stories of Indian adventure, and he concluded that the captor of little Carrie would take to the woods. He therefore struck across the fields for the very woods in which the little girl was concealed.

“Come with me, Carrie,” he whispered, “and make as little noise as possible.”

“Yes, Julius,” said the little girl, whispering in reply. “Where is papa?”

“He came after you, too; but he did not take the right road.”

“How did you know where I was?”

“I guessed at it, and I guessed right. Don’t make any noise.”

“Yes, Julius.”

So they walked hand in hand. Julius hurried his little companion, for he feared that the Indian would awake and pursue them. If he did so, he was by no means sure that he could defend her. His pistol was loaded, but it had but one barrel, and when it was discharged, he would be completely defenseless.

“Has the Indian got a gun?” he asked, in a whisper.

“I didn’t see any,” said Carrie.

Then he felt more easy in mind. If hard pressed, he would at least be able to fire one shot.

“Do you know which way you came, Carrie?” he asked, in some perplexity.

“No, Julius. I didn’t wake up till I was in the woods.”

“I don’t know my way. I wish I could fall in with your father or Abner.”

“What would you do if you met a lion?” asked Carrie, anxiously.

“There are no lions here.”

“The Indian said so. He said they would eat me if I ran away.”

“That was only to frighten you, and prevent your escaping.”

“Then are there no lions?”

“No, Carrie. The Indian is the worst lion there is in the woods.”

“Let us go home quick, Julius,” said Carrie, clasping his hand tighter in her fear.

“Yes, Carrie; we will keep on as fast as we can. We will go straight. If we keep on far enough, I am sure we must get out of the woods. But I am afraid you will get tired.”

“No, Julius. I want to go home.”

He had reason for his fear. The slumbers of the savage were light, and, though they had not been interrupted by the flight of Carrie, he roused himself about ten minutes later. He turned slowly around, expecting to see her sitting on the pile of leaves. Discovering that she was gone, he sprang to his feet with a cry of rage and disappointment. He was surprised, for he had supposed that she would be afraid to leave him.

He instantly formed the determination to get her back. Without her his revenge would be incomplete. Besides, it would be mortifying to his pride as a warrior that a little child should escape from him, thus getting the better of him.

He was broad awake now, and his senses were on the alert. With Indian quickness he tracked the footsteps of the little girl to the tree. Thus far it seemed that she had run away without assistance. But at this point he found another trail. He stooped over, and carefully scrutinized the track made by our young hero, and it helped him to a conclusion.

“Boy,” he muttered. “Small foot. Come when Indian sleep. No matter. Me catch him.”