CHAPTER XII—How It Was Done

Scout Master Hall here interposed:

“Uncle Elk, I don’t think any of the boys have a flint and steel, and I am sure I do not possess them; matches are so cheap and convenient that we have discarded the method of our grandparents.”

“I knew that when I spoke; the conditions are that no match nor flint, steel and tinder shall be called into use. The only artificial helps the scouts can have are their knives, hatchets and such aids as they may carry with them. Come, boys, use your wits and inaugurate the conflagration.”

The command or rather proposition stumped the lads, who looked at one another, smiled and shook their heads. Finally Patrol Leader Chase approached the Instructor, who was calmly waiting, saluted and said:

“I suppose all of us, sir, have read in story books that the Indians and other savages often start a fire by rubbing a couple of dry sticks together.”

“Have you ever seen it done?”

“No, sir.”

“And you never will. No person ever produced a flame by that means, for the reason that he cannot move the sticks fast enough and keep them going. I tried it once till my arms ached and found that I had only succeeded in slightly warming the surfaces of the pieces of pine. I might have kept it up until to-day with no other result.”

“What whoppers lots of the story books tell!” commented Colgate Craig.

“We expect them to do that; my only objection is that so many of the yarns are absurd. Will you allow me to diverge for a minute?” added Uncle Elk, with a bow to Scout Master Hall, who nodded.

“You are always interesting, Uncle Elk.”

“To illustrate: some of our most popular stories are of hidden treasure and the means used to unearth it, the most interesting yarn being that a key to its location is left which is in so complicated a cipher that its solution baffles every one for a long time. Now why in the name of common sense did Captain Kidd or whoever buried his ill-gotten riches leave any cipher at all? Who taught the ignorant pirate or brigand how to build up a wonderful cryptogram? Why does he leave a riddle for the mere sake of making strangers rack their brains over it? So it is that many of the most successful detective stories of to-day are simply feverish conglomerations of ingenious impossibilities.”

Uncle Elk paused and chuckled.

“Excuse those tremendous words,—I forgot myself. Let’s get back to the business before us. It is true that Indians obtain fire by means of friction, that is, when they know how to do it, but the majority are ignorant of the secret. Boys,” added the Instructor, brightening up, “have you ever reflected upon the almost limitless uses of friction? Life would be impossible without it. When the axle of a railway car uses up its oil the brakeman is notified of the fact by the blaze which speedily follows. The falling stars shooting through space are invisible till they reach our atmosphere, when the friction causes them to glow with heat.”

“Well, nothing is clearer than that fire can be produced by friction, but, as I said, no man can take two pieces of the dryest wood and evolve a flame without aid. Am I right in saying that none of you know how to generate fire without matches or the old-fashioned flint and steel?”

Unanimous inclination of heads and a general chorus, “You are.”

“I propose to teach you the trick. One boy will do, but it is better to have two. Will Corporal Robe and Michael oblige?”

The lads stepped forward and gravely saluted Uncle Elk.

“I observe that the corporal carries his hatchet in the sheath at his belt, but Michael has none.”

“I don’t naad the constant reminder of Gin’ral Washington as he does, to make me stick to the truth,” said Mike with a grin and a quickness which was answered by a laugh from all. He added:

“It’ll be my plaisure to see that the corporal obeys insthructions; I’m not afeard of him if he does carry that axe wid him.”

“The first thing to do,” continued Uncle Elk, “is to cut two pieces of dry cedar, one a foot and a half long and say an inch through, though it does not matter if it is slightly less.”

Mike had forgotten everything told the boys by the Instructor regarding the Juniperus Virginiana, but from his manner you would have thought him competent to give points to Uncle Elk himself. I have said that our young Irish friend was gifted with an excellent memory, a fact which he had proved many times, and especially while listening to the words of the hermit in his home the night before. In the latter instance, however, he was deeply interested while he had become a trifle wearied by the dissertations of the Instructor. You know how it is in such circumstances.

None the less, as I said, Mike’s manner gave the opposite impression. Assuming the pose of director he walked slightly in advance of the corporal, as the two set out to find the cedar sticks needed. Since all the boys had heard the directions of Uncle Elk, they followed their comrades and joined in the search. Kenneth Henke, prompted by the waggish spirit of Mike, ran a little in advance and halted beside a vigorous maple sapling.

“What do you ask better than this? Aren’t we lucky, Mike?”

“That we are, ’tis just what we want, as me cousin Hughey said when his mither set a bushel of peeled praties in front of him for dessert.”

And Mike walked up to the maple and tapped it smartly with his buckthorn.

“What are you driving at?” asked the astonished corporal; “that isn’t a cedar.”

“And who said it was? Why didn’t ye wait till I finished my enlightening observation? I was about to say whin ye broke in that it is the very tree that we want to lave alone. What do ye maan by such unseemly levity?” demanded Mike, turning upon the other lads who were laughing at his slip. “Now, corporal, don’t try to cut down that cedar wid the back of yer hatchet; the blade will sarve ye much better.”

With the keen-edged implement the other youth quickly severed a dry limb from the proper tree and trimmed it to a length of eighteen inches. Having done this, he looked up and saw Uncle Elk and Scout Master Hall among the spectators gathered round him. Robe turned to the old man for further directions.

“Whittle each end to a sharp point.”

This was quickly done.

“Cut another stick and hew it flat, with the thickness of the first; make a notch in it and at the end of the small end of the notch a little saucer-like pit.”

Let me describe what was done under the direction of the Instructor.

A small pine knot was selected and a little excavation cut in it with the point of the corporal’s knife. This was to receive the upper end of the vertical sharpened stick, the knot serving as a cap to hold the upright in position and in which it revolved, after the fashion of the common auger which is worked with one hand. The lower end of the upright fitted in the cavity of the flat stick which lay horizontal on the ground and this revolving point generated the fire.

The one necessity was that the dry, pointed lower extremity should be made to spin around fast enough for the friction to produce a flame. This speed had to be much faster than can be secured by the unaided hand, no matter how swift it may be. The needed velocity is thus secured:

A cedar bow, some two feet long was made. There was no difficulty in doing this, since every patrol of Boy Scouts is sure to be well provided with twine or cord. The bow was bent sufficiently to hold taut the string that is wound once around the upright stick. Then, by drawing the bow back and forth for its whole length, the vertical piece revolved very fast and the necessary friction was secured on the lower point which rested in the cavity of the flat stick lying on the ground.

Before operations began some thin dry cedar shavings, macerated with cedar bark, were rolled into a sphere the size of a billiard ball. This made excellent tinder and all was ready.

Instructed by Uncle Elk, Corporal Robe rested his left hand on the pine knot or cap on the top of the upright stick, so as to hold it in place. He fixed one knee on the flat piece on the ground to keep it from slipping. Then, as indicated, he started the business by drawing the bow its full length back and forth. The drill fairly hummed. It was hardly a minute when the dust thus ground out turned black, smoked and filled the notch. The flat stick was withdrawn and with his hat the corporal fanned the powder, which quickly showed a crimson point. The tinder was gently laid on top of this, the fanning renewed and lo! a glowing flame broke forth. Then followed clapping of hands and compliments.

Although Mike Murphy had played the part of spectator all through, he doffed his hat and bowed low.

“This is so sudden, gintlemen, as Terry O’Brien said whin the lightning knocked him off the church steeple where he was working, but I thank ye all the same.”

“It took about three minutes,” remarked Uncle Elk, “because the corporal is an apprentice; I have done it in less than a minute. In these modern days it isn’t often necessary to know how to start a fire solely by means of friction, but you can see that such knowledge might well prove the means of saving one’s life. There isn’t a flint and steel in your whole party, and I presume the same may be said of all troops of Boy Scouts. Suppose that in the depths of the woods, in the middle of winter, a small company finds that every match has been used. The only method of starting a fire is by the means just employed. It is so simple that it is always at command. So many story writers have the habit of saying in their glib, off-hand way that their marooned or astray heroes kindled a flame by rubbing two sticks together that the readers believe it, when the thing is as impossible as perpetual motion. Now, since you have started a fire, your next duty is to put it out.”

No water being handy, the few embers were scattered and stamped into the moist earth, until not a spark remained. Addressing the company, Uncle Elk said:

“Ernest Thompson-Seton tells an amusing story which he heard from Walter Hough. An Apache Indian turned up his nose at the matches of the white men and boasted that he could ignite a quantity of sticks quicker than Hough could with matches. It was such, a preposterous claim that Hough challenged him to a trial. It was accepted, they took their positions, the buck gave a few turns, but as the umpire was about to say ‘Go!’ the Indian called, ‘Stop—stop him—no good.’ He rearranged the contrivance and Mr. Hough grasped his match.

“‘Stop—stop him—no good,’ protested the redskin again, demanding a delay a third time before he nodded his head and the umpire called, ‘Go!’

“Mr. Hough felt his advantage was so overwhelming that he did not hurry in striking the sputtering match, but hardly had it ignited, when the Apache uttered an exclamation of triumph, for he had produced smoke. This was covered with tinder, fanned a few seconds and broke into a vivid flame before the white man had his sticks ablaze.

“The Indian had won, but it was by a trick. While he appeared to be testing his contrivance the sly rascal was really ‘winding it up’ and it was a part of his game.

“The Moros of the Philippines have an ingenious way of producing fire. They use a short piece of bamboo, a bit of broken china and tinder. Holding the bamboo firmly in his left hand, the bit of china, with a pinch of tinder between the china and thumb in his right hand, the native strikes a quick downward blow with the china along the bamboo. A long spark follows and ignites the tinder which is readily blown into the blaze.”

“Why should the process you describe cause a flame?” asked Scout Master Hall.

“The bamboo is very hard with a glazed surface; the sharp edge of the china pares off a thin strip of the glaze, and the friction of the blow ignites it. The operation is so simple that the Moro children have no trouble with it. But we have no bamboo in our woods, and that method is consequently impossible. The method you have just learned is quite likely to be at your command in all circumstances when lost in the woods and is much more convenient than the other means.”

CHAPTER XIII—A Bit of Detective Work

Less than half a mile farther brought the troop of Boy Scouts to the home of Elkanah Sisum, their Instructor in Woodcraft. Naturally he took the lead, with Scout Master Hall next and the youths straggling after them.

Expressions of pleased surprise followed the sight of the log structure in the midst of the neat patch of cultivated ground. Mike Murphy was the only lad who was familiar with the place and he held his peace. While his waggishness was generally irrepressible, he knew when good taste suggested that others do most of the talking.

The party had stood only a few minutes feasting their eyes, when Mr. Hall asked:

“How long have you lived here, Uncle Elk?”

“Some fifteen years, which have been years of quiet meditation and serene enjoyment. While I do not wish to cut myself wholly off from the society of my fellow men and I make occasional visits to Boothbay Harbor and even to Portland, yet my comfort is here among my books with my own thoughts and in communion with my Maker, tending the piece of ground, fishing, and hunting for the smaller game that is found in this part of Maine.”

A slight but significant fact must be recorded. It was at this time that Scout Master Hall noticed a vague peculiarity in the manner of the old man which he would have found it hard to describe. It appeared in his manner and very faintly in his voice. The leader was the only one who detected it and he made no reference to it until long afterward.

The survey was brief when their guide walked forward to the open space in front of his dwelling, where he again halted and spoke to those gathered about him:

“When I finished building my cabin, the only lock I placed on the door was the old-fashioned latch. I shoved the leathern string through the auger hole above it, so that it hung outside, and never since then by night or day, in sunshine or storm, through winter or summer, has it been drawn inside. I keep open house and every one who chooses to honor me with a call is welcome.”

“Do you have many visitors?” asked Alvin Landon.

“Weeks have passed without bringing one; then I have had as many as two in twenty-four hours. I have lately had that number. The first was Michael last night and the second a stranger whom I have never seen, but who called this forenoon after I left home.”

The old man enjoyed the astonishment of his visitors.

“If you have never seen him how do you know he has been here?” was the natural question of Patrol Leader Chase.

“I saw the proof in the same moment that I reached the clearing. He came across the lake in a canoe, walked up the path, entered the house, stayed a little while and then left. You being strangers in this section could hardly be expected to discover the shadowy impressions of his shoe here and there, especially since your failure a little while ago to find the trail of the wild animal prowling in your neighborhood.”

“Ye will not forgit, Uncle Elk, that it was mesilf that told ye about the beast that took a promenade by the spot,” reminded Mike Murphy.

“No; I am not likely to forget that, but I am forgetting the claims of hospitality. I can’t offer you the elbow room you have at the clubhouse, but you are none the less welcome.”

He twitched the latchstring, the door being so balanced on its hinges that it swung inward of itself. He stepped across the threshold to the mantel where Scout Master Hall was sure he saw him take a small article, glance at it and then shove it into his pocket. Facing about he called to his friends to enter.

They crowded into the room. The host did not draw aside the curtain which shut off the other half of the lower floor and which was his sleeping quarters.

You have read a partial description of the home of the hermit,—the most surprising feature of which was the well-thumbed volumes of scientific and scholarly works, in addition to several high class magazines and publications. Mr. Hall noticed that while the visitors were gazing around with natural curiosity, Uncle Elk stopped for a moment in front of his book shelf, glanced at the volumes and then quickly stooping, picked up what seemed to be a speck of dust from the bare floor. It was all done so quickly that the Scout Master would never have recalled it but for that which followed.

There were not enough seats for a third of the company and the youths kept their feet. Perhaps it was a harmless touch of vanity, with which all of us are more or less endowed, that led Uncle Elk to make a display of his skill as a detective.

“Yes,” he added a few minutes later; “there has been a caller here during my absence this forenoon.”

Scout Master Hall had the tact to humor the harmless weakness of the old man.

“Can you tell me whether he was an Indian or a white man?”

“He was of the same race as ourselves and is about forty years old. He carried no weapon,—nothing more than a fishing tackle. He is well off in the world’s goods, has been three days in the neighborhood and is friendly toward me.”

“I could have told ye the last, Uncle Elk,” said Mike, “for there isn’t anybody who doesn’t feel that way.”

“Well said,” commented Scout Master Hall, “and it is true.”

The old gentleman bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“You may suspect I am guessing, but I am not. When the man entered and saw that the owner was absent, he made himself at home, as I wish every one to do while awaiting my return. I suppose it was natural that he should be struck by my little library. He examined some of the books, and while doing so used the fingers of his right hand to scratch his beard, as a man often does unconsciously. He withdrew four of the volumes from the shelf, but was not much interested in them, for he replaced them, lighted a perfecto cigar, sat down in my easy chair, smoked a little while, with the chair gently rocking, then with his cigar half consumed, he passed out of the door and down the path to where he had left his canoe and paddled across the lake.”

Even with the assurance given by Uncle Elk, some of his listeners found it hard to credit all he said. He looked calmly into the array of faces, well aware of what was in the minds of his callers. He expected a question and Mr. Hall asked it:

“We know that all you have told us is true, because you said it was. They recall so vividly some of the ‘deductions’ of Sherlock Holmes that I hope you will enlighten us as to your methods.”

“What doubt has occurred to you?”

“You detected the faint disturbances made by the visitor’s feet, where he did not keep to the middle of the path. These told you the shoes were those of a white man, because, I presume of their fashionable make, and they showed that he came from and returned to the lake, but what warrant have you for saying he carried a rod?”

“He leaned it against the front of the house at the side of the steps where the imprint plainly shows. It was natural for him to do that instead of carrying it inside.”

“Why do you decide that he is a man in middle life?”

Uncle Elk was manifestly pleased by the chance to display his ingenuity.

“Let me explain several deductions of rather evident facts. At the right hand end of the upper shelf of books are four volumes: Fiske’s ‘Cosmic Philosophy’; James’ ‘Pragmatism’ and ‘Pluralistic Universe,’ and Henri Bergson’s ‘Creative Evolution.’ These books are a trifle out of alignment,—just enough so to show it was caused by some one else. Therefore he took them from their places. In returning the books to the shelf, he changed the places of Prof. James’ two works,—another proof if it were needed of the accuracy of my deduction. He must have stood exactly in front of that side of the book shelves, for on the floor to the right of such position are several short hairs, some black and some gray. They would not have fallen of themselves and must have been displaced by his fingers. They tell me his beard was grizzled or mixed and consequently he was in middle life.”

“Your explanation is based on the theory that he is right handed,” said the Scout Master; “are you not guessing there, Uncle Elk?”

“No; standing directly in front of the four volumes, the few threads of hair fell still further to the right. Their texture shows they came from his beard and not the crown of his head. They would not have fallen as they did unless they were displaced by the hand on that side of the man.”

“It seems to me,” continued the Scout Master, “that in so trifling a matter a person would make no distinction in the use of his hands. Besides, some persons are ambidextrous.”

“In certain circumstances he would use either hand, but the position of the outermost volume shows that it was shoved back by the same hand that loosened the two or three strands from his beard. When a man uses the same hand to do both of those things, it is good proof that he is right handed.”

“I am at a loss to understand how the position of the books shows that your visitor employed his right hand in restoring them to their places.” Uncle Elk’s eyes twinkled as he grew more subtle.

“You may think my explanation fine spun, but it is absolutely logical. It happens that ‘Pragmatism’ is the least interesting volume to me. I have not opened it for several weeks. A slight film of dust has gathered on the upper gilt edges. In withdrawing the book I rest my thumb against the upper part of the back and my first two fingers on the top; so every one does. Observe.”

Uncle Elk illustrated his words. With the book in his hand he shifted it about so that the sunlight was reflected from the bright yellow.

“There are the marks made by the first two fingers of a man’s hand, but the disturbance of the fine layer of dust clearly shows that the finger to the right was longer than the other. That is to say, it was the right hand: do I make myself clear?”

“You do how do you know the man sat down in your chair and rocked back and forth?”

“That is the simplest matter of all. I suppose that living as I do I become more or less a crank. One of my notions is never to leave the house without seeing that the left rocker of my chair is exactly over and in a line with that crack in the floor. Notice now and you will see that it rests diagonally across the crack. Do you ask anything plainer than that?”

It was Bobby Rice who made the natural remark:

“I don’t see why a rocking chair should shift about.”

“Arrah now, have ye no sinse?” asked Mike Murphy reprovingly; “Uncle Elk didn’t say why a rocking chair kicks up its heels, but ye ought to know that the craturs always do so without giving any raison or excuse. Haven’t I tried to use me mither’s chair at home wid the result that it always hitches through the dure whin I’m not thinking and gives me a back somersault? Ye surprise me by your stupidity, as Jim Hooligan said whin his taycher remarked he could not see what plisure a lad found in fighting two ither lads.”

“Why were you so quick to say your visitor is a man in good circumstances?” asked Scout Master Hall.

“Because he smokes fifteen-cent cigars. Most campers out are fond of the brier-wood pipe, but when they use cigars they don’t buy expensive ones unless they can afford it, and not always then.”

“What fact gives you so much confidence in their quality?”

“I know the brand, for I have smoked them myself; I caught the fragrance the moment I opened the door; the silken ashes which he flipped off in the fireplace is another proof if you wish it. Michael, are you satisfied?”

“I couldn’t do better mesilf, but ye haven’t completed yer rivelations.”

“What is lacking?”

“I demand that ye give us the name of the gintleman that ye niver met or heard of and that spint a part of to-day at yer risidence.”

“He is a physician named Wilson Spellman.”

The boys stared at one another, with expressions of incredulity. It sounded as if Uncle Elk was presuming too far upon their simplicity. By way of answer he drew a card from his pocket and held it up so that those nearest readily read the name engraved thereon. Below it were the pencilled words:

“Come and see me at my camp on the upper side of the lake.”

Scout Master Hall recalled the crossing of the floor by Uncle Elk, when he opened the door, as well as his quick scrutiny of the book shelves.

“The message written below shows the doctor’s friendly disposition, and is a further proof—which was not needed—that he is a white man. Since he has waived ceremony and called upon me, I shall not wait long before returning the courtesy.”

“He has been in the neighborhood for three days?” said the Scout Master inquiringly.

“Yes; I saw the smoke of his camp-fire three mornings ago. We should have seen him paddling across the lake this morning, had we not all been so far in the woods.”

The Boy Scouts now wandered over the grounds, under the direction of their owner, who suggested that as it was near noon, they should use their lines and prepare a fish dinner as his guests. The Scout Master thanked him but amended by proposing that they should all go back to the clubhouse, where they had abundant supplies and every needed convenience, and that he should favor them with his presence. He finally decided to stay in his own home until late in the afternoon, when he would join them for supper. He agreed to this the more readily since it was understood that Mike Murphy was to be initiated as a Tenderfoot Scout,—that is provided he could pass the necessary examination. No one except he and Uncle Elk knew the thorough instruction he had received and the boys, including the Scout Master, thought it hardly possible for the youth to answer the questions, unless they were made specially easy. It was the self-confidence of Mike himself that permitted the test to go on.

“Don’t let up aither,” he said to the leader; “soak it into me the best ye know how. If I’m to be squashed, I want to be squashed fair and square, as Pat Rooney said whin three automobiles ran over him.”

The balmy afternoon passed rapidly, with several of the boys fishing from the canoes along shore and others wandering through the woods, brightening their knowledge of the different trees and studying the birds, of which only a moderate number were observed.

Scout Master Hall saw in Mike Murphy the making of a model Boy Scout. It may be said that when the troop convened that evening, chiefly by the glow of the oil lamp suspended overhead from a beam in the middle of the ceiling, the meeting was a special one, called for the purpose of helping a young tenderfoot along the trail. The proceedings may not have been strictly regular, but no criticism could be made upon their spirit.

Uncle Elk was invited to occupy the seat of honor as it may be called, but he preferred to remain in the background as observer and listener. The night was cool enough to make enjoyable the crackling logs on the broad hearth and to add to the illumination of the spacious apartment. There was considerable rain and cool weather in August that year.

At about eight o’clock, Scout Master Hall opened the session with a commendation of the Boy Scout organization and a compliment to those who wished to join it. As it was impossible to have the examination conducted as prescribed by the Court of Honor, the Scout Master assumed the duty himself.

The second step would have been the collection of observation lists for future use, but this was omitted, as was the call for drill formation. The National Flag was displayed and the scout salute and sign followed, winding up with two good yells which made the rafters of the bungalow ring.

Mike was now questioned as to his knowledge of our banner. He was entitled to a written examination, but declined it and again urged his examiner to show no mercy. Standing in the middle of the room the candidate amazed his listeners. Not only did he promptly answer every prescribed question, but he interjected many facts that were new to nearly all who heard them. I have already hinted of several, such, for instance, as that our flag throughout the War of 1812 bore fifteen instead of thirteen stripes, and that Congress restored the original number in 1818, knowing that otherwise the beautiful symmetry of the emblem would be destroyed by the increase in the number of States.

“Michael,” said the Instructor from where he was sitting; “can you tell us to whom the credit belongs for the present pattern of our flag?”

“To Captain Samuel C. Reid—God bless his memory!”

“And who was Captain Samuel C. Reid?”

“He commanded the American privateer, General Armstrong, which knocked the iver-lasting stuffing out of a British squadron of three vessels and two thousand men, while he had liss than a hundred heroes. Worra, worra, what a shindy that must have been!”

And then Mike impressively repeated the lines that Uncle Elk had taught him:

By this time, the Scout Master and everyone of the boys were convinced of the truth. They knew the theme that had engaged Uncle Elk and Mike the evening before, and had they felt any doubt on that point it would have been quenched by the sly glances that flitted between the couple.

The next requirement was for the candidate to step to the table in the middle of the room, where two pieces of hempen cord had been laid, and to tie at least four of the eight knots which have been already explained. He held up the pieces, like a magician about to give an exhibition of his skill, and tied every one with a deft quickness that brought a hum of admiration.

Then he took the scout oath, explaining all its provisions in his own language or rather in that of his brilliant teacher, not forgetting the significance of the scout badge and that which is worn by the tenderfoot. The Scout Master pinned the badge over the left upper pocket of his coat. The whole company clapped their hands.

“I am delighted, Mike,” said Mr. Hall; “I never knew any one to acquit himself so admirably. If the opportunity presents itself, you will make as creditable a Second Class and finally a First Class Scout, with no end of merit badges. You know you must serve a month before you are eligible for the next grade. Our stay in Maine will be no longer than that and I shall not have the pleasure, therefore, of witnessing your advancement. Your home is in this State and you will probably demit from our Patrol and join some other more convenient. I understand that Rev. Mr. Brown, the Methodist minister at Boothbay Harbor, has organized a fine company of Boy Scouts, and they will be glad to welcome you to their ranks. I wonder, even when I know the circumstances, how you acquired such a knowledge of the duties of a tenderfoot.”

“Begging yer pardon,” replied Mike with a grin; “there’s no cause fur wonder. The knowledge of which ye spake and which passed through me noddle, come from him.”

And he pointed at Uncle Elk, sitting behind the others, who so far as his beard permitted one to see, smiled and said nothing.

CHAPTER XIV—The Story of Johnny Appleseed

It has already been made clear to you that the sojourn of the troop of Boy Scouts in the southern Maine woods during this summer was simply a vacation in which there was a relaxation of rigid discipline such as attended their hikes and what may be called business outings. A certain part of each week-day was devoted to drill; the bugle was sounded morning and evening; the National Flag was saluted; yells practiced and so on. The leader simply kept the youngsters on edge, as may be said. They were given full liberty most of the time, with freedom to use the canoes for fishing in the lake, or to wander in the woods studying trees, bird and insect life, as the varying tastes of the boys prompted. One of the most enjoyable treats of the boys was that of story telling. This took place in the evening after supper, the extinguishment of the outdoor fires, the putting away of the dishes and the setting of things to rights. Scout Master Hall was never at a loss for an instructive or amusing “yarn,” but was too wise to give the boys a surfeit. He encouraged them in the discussion of different subjects, to explain what they had read and to try their own skill at story telling.

“Never hurry in relating anything,” said he, “for to do so is to weaken its effect and cause impatience on the part of your listeners. Try to bring out all the points; don’t grow garrulous or wander from the main thread; don’t preach, or fish for a moral where there isn’t any, and finally stop when you are through.

“Now, nothing is more certain than that Uncle Elk has an exhaustless fund of stories in his wealth of knowledge and experience. You have me with you always—or at least a good deal of the time—while we shall not have him half as much as we wish. Let us, therefore, use him while we can. Uncle Elk, tell us a story.”

Every boy clapped his hands and looked expectantly at the old gentleman sitting modestly in the background. He bowed in recognition, while those who were seated in chairs shifted them around and those on the floor adjusted their positions so as to face him.

“As Michael would say, this is so sudden that I am uncertain for the moment how best to comply with your wishes; but while listening to the examination of our young friend and the well chosen words of Mr. Hall, I called to mind the record of a man who lived and died many years before any of you were born, and who in many respects will serve as a model for all Boy Scouts.”

And this is the story which Uncle Elk told, and concerning which I wish merely to say that it is strictly true in every particular:

“One of the strangest characters who had to do with the settlement of the Middle West was Jonathan Chapman, born in New England in 1770. He was of gentle birth, and well educated, but was ill treated by a young woman. I have never heard the particulars, but it is said she turned him away in favor of another person, and Chapman felt so bad he made an exile of himself.

“Now, boys, quite likely when you become a few years older, you will meet some young woman who you will feel sure is the finest person of her sex that ever lived, and perhaps you will think life isn’t worth while unless you can win her love. I hope you will have no such disappointments, but, if you do, don’t let it break your heart. You have heard the old saying that there are as fine fish in the sea as ever were caught. So there are thousands of excellent girls and if you don’t gain the first one you fix your affections upon, brace up and look around for another.”

“And ’spose she likewise turns ye down, as was the case wid Tim O’Shaughnessy in Ireland, who was rejected by more young leddies than he could kaap count of?” gravely inquired Mike Murphy.

“Stick to it; never give up the ship.”

“I’ll sind yer advice to Tim, though I misgive me that he will die of old age while the search is still going on, but he must find enj’yment in coorting or he wouldn’t keep at it as he does and smile all the time.”

“Well, to go back to Jonathan Chapman. He felt so bad that he packed up his belongings and left New England forever. He started for the West as it was then called and the next heard of him was in what are now the states of Ohio, Illinois and Kentucky, which at that time formed a part of the vast, wild Northwest Territory. He tramped by himself among the scattered settlements and visited the different tribes of Indians, who in those years were continually on the war path; but no red man, no matter how fierce, ever tried to harm Chapman.”

“How was that?” asked Alvin Landon, voicing the surprise of the other boys.

“The Indians believe that any one whose brain is unbalanced, or who is seemingly lacking in some of his mental faculties, is under the special care of the Great Spirit, and instead of trying to injure such a person they will befriend him.”

Mike nudged Alvin and said in an undertone which, however, every one heard:

“Ye needn’t be afeared, me friend, to spend your days among the same red gintlemen.”

Alvin shook his fist at his friend, who dodged an imaginary blow. Uncle Elk smiled at the by-play and continued:

“In some respects Chapman was a model Scout, for no kinder hearted man ever lived. He would never kill an animal unless to save his own life and even then he grieved over the necessity which made him do it. When he almost stepped upon a coiled rattler, he would turn aside and leave him unharmed. One cold night he started a fire at the base of a huge oak in the woods. A few minutes later he heard a great scratching inside the hollow trunk and the snout of a she-bear was thrust out of the opening above his head. She and her cubs were alarmed by the unusual proceeding and she seemed to be getting ready to make a change of quarters with her family. Chapman instantly kicked apart the burning brands and left. The story is that he sat and shivered in other quarters the night through, but I can’t see the necessity for that and I must think he kindled a new fire after making sure he did not disturb any wild creature.

“Chapman is remembered in the history of the Middle West as ‘Johnny Appleseed,’ because he thought it was his mission to distribute apple seeds among the settlers and Indians, asking only that they should be planted and the king of all fruits cultivated. With a bag thus filled and slung over his shoulder, he tramped for hundreds of miles through all sorts of weather, sometimes paddling down or up a river, sleeping wherever night overtook him, often in Indian lodges and again in the lonely cabin of some settler, or by the camp fire of a party of scouts far in the depths of the wilderness. Whoever his hosts might be he presented them with handfuls of seeds and made them promise to plant and tend the fruit. Very few failed to keep their promise to him.

“You will not be surprised when I add that Johnny Appleseed was deeply religious. He spent hours in prayer and tried to employ his waking time just as he believed his Heavenly Father wished him to use it. He was a Swedenborgian in faith, and in addition to the stock of appleseeds he always carried a number of tracts which he distributed among his friends. Since the Indians could not read the printed words, he told them of the Great Spirit as he believed him to be, and who shall say that such precious seed did not bear fruitage?

“When his supply of tracts ran low, he tore them into separate sheets and divided them among the scouts and settlers accompanying them with a few words of counsel. The hardy men might jest with him at times but they never purposely hurt his feelings. Simon Kenton, one of the greatest of all the western scouts, kept for years the tracts which he received from Johnny Appleseed. You may not know it, but Kenton in his later days became a humble Christian. He had a fine voice and often led the singing at the famous camp meetings in the West.

“But to return to Johnny Appleseed. Year after year, in summer and winter, in storm and sunshine, he tramped the lonely wilderness, or guided his dugout up and down the rivers and streams, distributing tracts and seeds, giving good advice and showing by his conduct that he lived as close to his Saviour as mortal man can live.

“One summer afternoon he landed on the shore of the Ohio, and with his plump bag of seeds over his shoulder, plunged into the woods. He was on his way to a village of Wyandots, where he was sure of welcome. Before he reached the place, he came upon nearly a hundred warriors gathered in a large natural clearing. They were running races, wrestling, throwing the tomahawk and firing at targets. Moreover, their faces were daubed with black and red paint.

“The first glance told Johnny the truth. These red men were about to go on the war path. A raid had been planned upon the frontier settlements, and fire, destruction and massacre would again sweep along the border as it had done many times. Did Johnny argue or plead with them? He was too wise to do that. He passed in and out among the fierce bucks, addressing the leaders by name, giving them handfuls of seeds and saying something pleasant to each. He even stood by and praised their skill in marksmanship and athletic sports. Not an Indian showed the slightest distrust, but treated him with as much kindness as if he belonged to their own race and meant to take part with them in the raid near at hand.

“Johnny stayed with them for more than an hour, then said good bye and with the bag over his shoulder strolled toward the river bank where he had left his dugout. As soon as he was beyond sight, he dropped his burden to the ground and ran like a deer. Leaping into the crude craft, he sent it skimming over the water like a swallow, never pausing until he had gone five or six miles. Then he caught sight of that for which he was hunting,—the gleam of a tiny point of light in the dense undergrowth along shore. He sped like an arrow to it and hardly paused to draw his boat on the bank when he dashed to the camp fire with a shout. Had he not called out his name, he probably would have been shot by one of the three scouts who were broiling their evening meal, for the rule with those hardy fellows was to shoot first and investigate afterward.

“One of the party was Simon Kenton. They were out on a scout because of rumors of impending trouble among the Shawnees, Wyandots and other tribes. The story which Johnny Appleseed told made further scouting on their part unnecessary: the red men were about to start on the war path and no time was to be lost in warning the settlements and exposed pioneers.

“Ten minutes after the arrival of the messenger the four had scattered, all taking different directions and hurrying with the speed of the wind through the dark wilderness. It would have been throwing effort away to keep together or to travel in couples. By breaking apart they could reach as many different points without unnecessary delay and thus make the warning more general.

“Now, while Kenton and each of his comrades made all haste toward the settlements, Johnny Appleseed put forth every effort to reach the home of a pioneer acquaintance who lived by himself with his wife and two small children. It was only a few miles off and was certain to be visited by a small party of Wyandots, who would draw away from the main band long enough to destroy the family that, having no suspicion of their danger, would be caught unawares.

“The incident which followed sounds unbelievable and yet it was only one of several similar ones. Despite Johnny’s haste when he reached the clearing in front of the cabin, he discovered a party of a dozen Wyandots, in the act of surrounding the house with the intention of setting it on fire and burning the inmates to death. The red men were too powerful and well prepared to be beaten off by the single defender. Johnny carried no gun, his only weapon being a large knife, which he used in preparing food or his camp fire. Besides, he was ready at any time to give up his life rather than fight.

“What he did do was to rush in among the painted warriors and address them like some inspired prophet sent of heaven. He told them the Great Spirit would be angry if they harmed the white man who had always been their friend, and that disaster would assuredly overtake them in their more important attack upon the settlements. His message was from the Great Spirit and woe to them if they closed their ears to his warning words!

“Well, he must have had a hard time of it, but he played his part to perfection. In the end, the band of redskins drew off and went back to the main company, the settler whom Johnny had saved never dreaming of his danger or suspecting what had taken place, until Johnny told him the story many years afterwards. I may add that the main campaign proved what they called in those days a ‘flash in the pan,’ since the message of Johnny Appleseed gave Kenton and his two companions just enough time in which to reach the stockades that otherwise might have been captured.

“I might tell you many stories of the remarkable man known as Johnny Appleseed, who spent his life in doing good in his own peculiar way. As I said at the beginning, he was an ideal Boy Scout grown to maturity, whose sole purpose was to help his fellow men. That is the basis of our organization. Every boy and girl, every man and woman, can do something, and God judges you only by the improvement you make of your opportunities. It may not be yours to wander through the woods, distributing seeds and tracts and giving good counsel, but you can speak the cheering word, encourage the discouraged one, cheerfully obey your parents and teachers, help the feeble and downhearted and do hundreds of things which, small of themselves, amount in the end to more than you can estimate. The consciousness that comes to you when you do something of that kind repays you a hundred fold.

“Some folks say that Jonathan Chapman or Johnny Appleseed was crazy. Measured according to our standards, perhaps he was mentally unbalanced, but I have sometimes fancied that he was one of the sanest of men, for he gave his all for humanity. He thought and cared nothing for his own comfort. He often went hungry, shivered with cold or panted with heat, but so long as life lasted he never fainted by the way.”

“How long did he live?” asked the Scout Master.

“Until about three-score and ten. The last picture that we have of him is standing on an eminence and looking down with radiant face on one of the most beautiful panoramas that mind can picture. His long thin gray hair dangled over his shoulders, his beard was white and scraggling, he had no cap or coat, the only garment being a shaggy buffalo skin wrapped about his gaunt body, with his legs below his knees bare. One of the leather bags was slung over his shoulder, and a staff was in his hand.

“He died in 1847, and of him it may be said his labors bore fruit over a hundred thousand square miles of territory. Limitless acres of choicest apples in the Middle West sprang from the seeds which he scattered over that vast region. His birthday—January 15—will always be honored by the pomological societies of America.”