The schoolmaster's stories, for boys and girls

Preface

Some years ago there was a party of forty or fifty boys who met at my house once a week, and to them I often told stories. They sat on the arms of my chair, hung themselves over the back of it, squatted by my feet on the floor, and leaned on one another's shoulders. I noticed that they were particularly eager for stories that had the smell of the frontier about them. I believe I have told in this book some of the very stories that used to amuse these good fellows, who got a great hold on my heart by listening to my stories and liking them. Dear boys ! I thought of dedicating the book to them, but they are all gone. Not dead — I did not say that But in five or six years every rascal of them has shot up into something like a young man. Some of them are raising little patches of faint-looking beard on their upper lips, and some of them are nearly six feet high. Think of dedicating a story book to sophomores, and store-clerks, and such like ! It's a way boys have. Just when you think you've got a boy, he turns to a man. Boys and tadpoles are uncertain things.

There are some queer little improbable, unbelievable, halffairy-story sort of things here, which I have often given in small doses to girls. They have generally taken them as kindly as they would have taken sugar-plums or pickles.

6 Preface.

Some of these stories have morals to them, for when one first begins to write one does not know any better than to put morals to stories. You may skip the moral if you want to, — when you eat a squirrel you are not obliged to eat the tail. Many of the stories have no morals to be skipped, and in some the moral is so twisted into the story that you can't get one without the other. You'll have to read the good advice, my young friends, or do without the story.

Some readers may now and then recognize a familiar face. Some of these stories have appeared during six or seven years past, in The Little Corporal^ Our Young Folks, The Schoolday Visitor y The Suytday School Scholar, and The Youth'' s Companion.

"Mr. Blake's Walking Stick" appeared in a little book by itself, and the "Queer Stories" and some others were once before in book covers. But both of these were burned up, — books, stereotype plates, and all, in the Chicago fire. They were very melting stories at that time. Perhaps some mischievous reader may say to me as one minister said to another whose barrel of sermons had been burned with his house, " They gave more light from the fire than they ever did in any other way ! "

But a long preface is pretty nearly as bad as a moral. So I open the door, take off my hat, and bow.

Brooklyn, Oct., 1874.

Contents

THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORIES.

I. POLLY STRADER, THE FEMALE TRAPPER. ... II

IL AN INDIAN FRIEND 24

II. An Indian Friend

A GREAT deal has been written of Indian friendship and Indian gratitude. Now, the truth is, there is not much of either in the Indian character. But there have been some cases in which Indians have shown the utmost devotion to their friends. An instance of this kind was the preservation of Mr. Spencer's life, during the massacres, by Chaska, his friend. There is a curious and superstitious relation that sometimes exists between Indians, in which case they freely venture their lives for each other. Macdonald, was a young Scotchman, who had grown up almost wholly in the Sioux country. As a vogageur and guide he had distinguished himself, and no man could cross a prairie in a winter storm with a trai7i de glice (split wood sled) better than he.

Among the Indians with whom he had formed a friendship, was one called Chetonka^ the " big horse,"

from the fact that he rode a white man's horse instead of an Indian pony. One day Chetonka proposed to Macdonald that they should become each other's Koda,

"What is that?" said Macdonald.

The word Koda^ in the Dakota or Sioux language, means " God," and the young voyageur did not understand that it had any other meaning.

"Among our people," said the Indian, "when one man is another's Koda, they become brothers. They cannot marry in each other's families, and they defend one another."

"Then," said Macdonald, "I will be your brother. When you come to my lodge, you will eat with me.'*

"Ho!" said the Indian. This is their universal sign of approbation.

"And when I am in your village, I will go to your lodge."

"Ho!" said Chetonka. "And," continued the Indian, "I will give you the best meat I can find. I will kill a dog, or roast a musk-rat for you."

Macdonald did not much like this bill of fare, but he did not say any thing for fear of offending his friend. And from that time they were good friends. When the white man visited the Indian village, his Koda made him a feast, and when the Indian came to the white man's lodge, the latter brought out the best his larder afforded.

The voyageur, tiring of his wandering life, made a claim upon the banks of one of the beautiful streams that ran into the Minnesota river, near its source. Here, in a grove of slender popples, he built his cabin of tamarack logs, from which he hewed the bark in such a way as to leave the underbark in strips upon the log. As the under bark is reddish, it makes baautiful strips when left in this way. Full of fancies, he thought his modest claim might one day grow to be a town, when other settlers should gather around him ; and he concluded, if this should happen, he would name the village after his Indian friend, " Chetonka."

In one corner of the modest cabin Macdonald built a book-shelf, upon which he arranged his small library, consistmg of a Testament, an old "English Reader," and a copy of Burns' Poems. Thes<3 three books hardly needed a shelf, but the idea of a library pleased his fancy. In another corner he had a bedstead, made of popple poles. In the other end of the cabin was a fireplace. The roof was made, like many roofs on the frontier, of broad strips of white oak bark. The house was not the warmest in the world, but he thought he should be able to keep from freezing. For though he was the proprietor of the future city of Chetonka, he was still quite poor, and there was, as yet, no inhabitants in his city but musk-rats and gophers. One day, having wandered off rather more than five miles from his house, in search of game, he was greatly surprised to see an Indian, mounted on a large horse, following him. He was reheved, however, when the red man came up, to find it was his friend Chetonka, the "Big Horse."

"Ho!" said the white man, to which the Indian answered with a "Ho!" They shook hands and Macdonald lit his pipe, and, taking a whiff or two, passed it to the Indian. There is no greater evidence of friendly feeling among the Indians, than smoking from the same pipe.

"And what brought you here, my friend?" said the white man, after they had smoked awhile in silence.

"I came," said the Sioux, "to let the 'White Head' know that there was danger."

The Indians always gives a man a name that corresponds with something in his appearance. General Sibley, for instance, is called by them "The Long Trader," because he is tall, and was once an Indian trader. Macdonald's hair was flaxen, and hence his Sioux name, which signified "White Head."

"Is there going to be trouble at the payment?" asked the voyageur.

" No ; but there is a party of Cut-heads from the plains, who have come to steal horses, and I fear they will take yours."

Chetonka was a Sioux of the Sisseton tribe. This tribe were annuity Indians, that is, they had sold their lands, and were in receipt of an annuity from the Government. But the Cut-heads, or Yanktonnais, were a tribe of buHalo hunters from the plains, who, though they belonged to the Sioux nation, and were nominally at peace with the whites, were utterly lawless. When the Scotchman heard that a party of these savages were after his horses, he felt that he had reason to be alarmed, for he had three good ones grazing on the prairie near his house.

"I must go back and take care of them, my friend," he said, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and gave the Indian a handful of tobacco as a present.

"You must not go back. White Head. The Yanktonnais are strong; and why should Black Dog their leader, return to his tribe with your scalp hanging at his belt? He is even now on his way, and would perhaps reach your horses before you could."

A7t Indian Friend. - 29

"Where is their camp?" said the white man.

Chetonka told him.

"Then," said Macdonald, "I shall go there and hide, and when the horses are brought in to-night, I shall watch my chance and run them off."

" J am afraid you will not succeed," said the Indian.

"Why?"

"The Black Dog performed the Ham-day-pee before he left his village. He went round through the village for three days, with knives stuck through the flesh of his back, to which the head of a buffalo was attached by a hair rope, and which he drew after him. Then he saw a vision ; and now he is sure he will be successful in stealing your horses."

"But," said Macdonald, "I don't believe in Ham-day-pee."

The ceremony of Ham-day-pee, or "God-seeking," or rather "dream-seeking," is performed by the tribes of western Sioux, when they wish to be successful in any undertaking of importance, whether it be of hunting, war, or horse-stealing. They have various horrible ways of torturing themselves, keeping their minds fixed upon the object they desire until they see a vision.- I suppose that fasting and torture for days together would bring on a delirium that would enable any body to see "visions."

"The Sissetons," said the Indian, "do not practise the Ham-day-pee much ; we like the medicine dance better. But if Tunkan, the Stone god, has given Black Dog a vision, I fear you will not be able to get your horses back.'^

"But, my friend," said the white man, "I do not observe Woh-du-zay, and yet I kill as many deer as you do."

When a Sioux kills an animal, he always throws away some part, as a sacrifice to the God of the chase. Some give the heart, others the liver, etc. ; but the same man always gives the same part."^

Chetonka, when he heard the skeptical remark of his friend, only smiled and said : " It is our custom ; but the white man has no God but Wakontonka,'' (the Great Spirit) .

But there was no time to parley. The Indian did not wish to be known as having given information, and so

* The writer wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to the fragment of a manuscript of J. W. Lynd, Esq., in the archives of the Minnesota Historical Society. Mr. Lynd was killed the first day of the massacre, a martyr to his love of Indian research. His manuscript is stained with his own blood. A portion of it is published in the "Collections of the Minnesota Historical Society, for the year 1864."

mounted his horse, and taking the nearest ravine, to avoid observation, he hastened home again.

Macdonald soon traversed the ten miles between him and the camp of the Cut-heads ; but it was alreadydark when he reached the place. It was near a stream; and through the bush along its margin the voyageur crept, until he reached a place near the Indian camp. Here he lay until midnight, when Black Dog and his party came home with all three of the Scotchman's horses. There was little "Shaggy,'^ the best French pony on the frontier, and "Molly," his mate; and there was " Sin," a large horse, who was so called because he was so "mortal ugly," as Macdonald said. The frontierman thought he would rather die than let the thieving Yanktonnais have his dear little "Shaggy."

For two hours after the arrival of the party, the Indian camp was in an uproar of barking dogs and hallooing : but at two o'clock all was quiet. Macdonald then crept from his hiding-place, and going in among the horses, cut the ropes by which his three horses were tied. But Shaggy was so delighted to find his master near, that he neighed. This roused the dogs, and the voyageur found that he must leave at once and in haste. He mounted Shaggy, knowing that the rest would follow him.

In order to avoid awakening the Indians, he took a trail that led up the stream, crossing above the camp, instead of taking the more direct one through the camp to the crossing below. When Macdonald had crossed the stream, he was obliged to ride down on the other side, past the lower ford, to get into his proper trail. Just as he rode up the farther bank of the river, he could see by the light of the moon, then rising, that Black Dog and his friends were mounting for pursuit.

It was now a fair race for the lower ford, with the odds against the white man. But vShaggy laid himself out for a fine run, while Molly and long-legged old Sin came thundering at his heels. For half a mile down the stream the race continued, — half a dozen savages on one side, and a voyageur riding for life on the other. Glorious little Shaggy, how he flew ! But there were ravines and swamps on Macdonald's side, while the Indians had a smooth trail. Macdonald saw that the Cut-heads would reach the ford first, and so he drew his revolver for a fight. But just as the savages turned to descend the bank into the stream, they saw, too late, a tree laid across the trail. Their horses plunged into the limbs, and the riders were hurled forward to the ground.

"All!" laughed Macdonald, as he rode on, "ChetOFika has set a trap for the thieves."

The Indian had cut down a sapling across this road, foreseeing that Macdonald would take the upper traiL ' and his pursuers this one.

The voyageur did not stop until he had reached a place of safety. A day or two later he heard that the Black Dog and his Cut- heads had returned to the plains, the former with a broken arm. He had suspected Chetonka of a part in the affair, and had stolen his large horse in revenge, and to compensate him for the loss of his own pony, who had extricated himself from the tree-top and followed Macdonald' s horses for some distance, and then had wandered off upon the prairie. But Chetonka's horse was worth almost nothing for prairie life, so that he had not made much.

Macdonald had determined to give his friend old "Sin," to repair his loss ; but on returning to his house, he found Black Dog's pony browsing in the marsh below. Capturing him, he rode over to Chetoaka's lodge, and gave him to his faithful friend, adding two blankets and a good stock of ammunition, as a token of his appreciation of his Koda's friendship.

The village of "Chetonka" has not yet become a

The Schoolmaster's Stories.

great city. In fact, it contains only one house, of striped tamarack logs, and its public library has but three volumes in it.

III. A Swim In The Darkness

HANS PEPPENHEIMER, the German trapper, was a brave and honest-hearted man, who had built a cabin on a considerable stream in one of the new counties of Iowa. He had two bright girls, Wilhelmina and Katrina, who helped about home, and a boy of twelve, named Frederick. The latrer was a brave, manly little chap, and very fond of accompanying his father on his trapping expeditions. One morning in the early part of November, Hans Peppenheimer took down his rifle and examined it carefully. Carl, the old dog, who was lying on the hearth with one eye shut, understood this movement, and got to his feet at once, with a whine of impatience and joy. Frederick, who lay dozing in the trundle bed, understood it as well as Carl, and tumbled out at once, scratching his head

and rubbing his eyes to rouse himself up.

" Hurrah ! '^ said he, as he caressed Carl : " there's fun ahead, old fellow. Do you want to start up a deer, to-day?" The dog wagged his tail and danced round in a way that showed he understood perfectly all that was said.

And so, while Wilhelmina broiled a piece of smoked venison and fried some potatoes for breakfast, Fred employed himself in making bullets. After breakfast, the trapper took his rifle, and Fred put the game-bag over his shoulder and stuck the long hunting-knife in his belt. The girls thought he was too young to carry so sharp an instrument, but Fred only said, "Pshaw! girls always are so afraid ! " Carl had quit his play, and was saving his strength for work. With head and tail up he started off with the utmost dignity, keeping eyes and nose out in all directions for game.

By noon they had visited several traps, and Mr. Peppenheimer had killed half a dozen pigeons. Hans built a fire and roasted three of these for dinner, while Carl made his meal off the body of a musk-rat whose skin Fred had just taken off. While they were eating the pigeons, wdth some bread that Fred had brought, they noticed the old dog leave his dinner and commence to run up and down the bank of the river, at a furious pace.

"What's up, old fellow?" said Fred. "What is it, Carl?"

The dog gave a whining bark, and by this time Mr. Peppenheimer had caught sight of two deer on the opposite side of the river.

" Fred," said he, " I must have one of those. You have travelled five miles already, and you must stay here while I follow them. I will come back this way. See ! they have gone down the river. I will go down to the rapids and wade across. It looks lowering, and if it should rain you must find a hollow tree."

Saying this, the trapper started eagerly down the stream, leaving Carl to keep' Fred company. Crossing the river at the rapids, he started after the deer and soon caught sight of them on a neighboring hill. But he followed them three or four miles before he got a shot, and then he only succeeded in wounding one of them, and he was obliged to go a mile further before he brought it down. By this time the storm had come on, and the rain was falling in torrents.

It was nearly night before Hans turned his steps homeward. The rain was frightful, and the trapper travelled fast, though burdened by a saddle of venison. He w^as becoming uneasy, for he knew that the river would rise rapidly. Streams always rise fast near their heads. When Hans came in sight of the river, just at dark, his worst fears were realized. It was a wild, mad torrent, full to the very brim.

What should he do ? On the other side was poor Fred, exposed to the pitiless storm. There were wolves in the forest, and what if Fred should fall a prey to them.^ Even if he did not, the thought of his staying out there all night was not to be entertained. Hans made up his mind that he must cross the river at all hazards.

He first hallooed for Fred, but the rush of the waters and the incessant roar of the rain drowned his voice. Then he stopped to think. A mile above, he had noticed an old canoe on the opposite side of the river. The canoe had been abandoned by somebody, and had drifted against the top of a fallen tree. That canoe gave him some hope. He started up the river bank, pushing back the underbrush and wild artichokes, and fighting the mosquitoes. Every moment increased his distress on account of his boy.

At last he came opposite where the canoe lay, and by a friendly glimmer of lightning he saw that it was still there. The current was so stron^: that he knew it would not do to try to swim there, — he would be carried down the stream by the torrent, and come out far below the canoe. So he ascended the river bank nearly half a mile further, and then took off his clothes for a swim.

It was not very far across, and Hans was a tolerable swimmer. But did you never notice that the best swimmers are often drowned in time of danger? The reason for this is that, they lose their presence of mind, and make just the same mistake that young swimmers make. They swim too high. They think they must keep their shoulders out of water. Of course the effort to keep so much weight above the water will soon exhaust the strongest swimmer.

Presence of mind is every thing under such circumstances. That is very easy to say, but few people know how to keep their presence of mind. There is, however, one excellent rule. Think beforehand just what mistakes you are likely to make, and be on your guard. Hans said to himself: "Now, my life, and perhaps the life of Fred, depend on my swimming to-night. I must not fight this current, or I will soon give out. I must not let myself get excited and swim too high."

So saying, Peppenheimer crept out on a log, and slid off into the cold water, going entirely under at the first dash. When he came up the current was sweeping him madly down, and his first impulse was to strike out excitedly against it. But he said to himself, " Swim straight across, and swim low ! " and so, with a long, steady stroke, he struck out against the cold waters, taking care to keep his head just above the surface. There is nothing about the swimmer's body that need be above the water, except nose and eyes.

But the first dozen or two of strokes did not seem to make any headway at all. The current set strongly from the other side at that point, and Hans soon found that he was nearly exhausted. He had been swimming too fast, and the cold was chilling him. But he said to himself, " Swim low, swim slowly, and swim straight across."

At last the sturdy strokes of the hardy and resolute German frontierman began to tell, and Peppenheimer found himself in the middle of the wild stream, fighting the rushing waters in the dark. After a while his strength began to fail, more from the benumbing effect of cold than from exhaustion. But rousing him self, and giving a dozen vigorous strokes, he put himself under shelter of a point of land where there was little current, and he soon reached a shoal place where the water ran over a sand-bank. He was still some distance above the canoe, and started to wade down the stream. Several times his feet caught in brush half-buried at the bottom, when the swift current sent him headlong into the water.

Before he reached the canoe, the water became so swift that he had to swim again. Down the stream he went at a great speed, until he came to the canoe, which was lying against a limb of a tree. When he reached it, the trapper threw up his hands and caught the ^Ag<^ of it, and then endeavored to set his feet on the bottom. But there was no bottom there. His feet were carried under by the current, and he found himself with his head sticking up on one side of the canoe, and his feet out of water on the other. It took considerable effort for him to get back above the canoe.

When he had climbed into it, he found that the heart had rotted out at each end. It was that sort of a canoe that is called in the West a " dug-out,'' that is, it was made out of a log of wood; and the heart of the wood rotting, or having been worm-eaten, had left a large opening at either end. Of course it was necessary for Hans to paddle back for his clothes; but the canoe was full of water before he got ready to start.

The Schoolmaster's Stories.

So taking it out on the bank, he emptied the water out and.proceeded to stop the holes.

How did he do it ? Why, he broke off a lot of willow twigs and drew them through the holes until they were pretty well stopped. Then he took the soft clay from the bank and daubed it all over the willows. He was all this time in an agony about Fred, but it was out of the question to attempt to reach him through the brush without the protection of clothes. So he took a piece of the brushwood for a paddle, and in half an hour he had managed, by pulling along by the overhanging willows, to ascend the stream to a point opposite the place where he had left his clothes. Then he struck out and paddled across.

But by this time the water had worked its way through the clay daubing, and the canoe was full. It had to be drawn out and emptied again, and then daubed once more. Taking on board his venison and his gun, after having dressed, he started back across the river. He paddled out boldly into the mad current, and floated down. When he reached the place where he left Fred at noon, he landed and hallooed; but he got no answer.

The rain had ceased, and the moon was shining dimly through the fog. Hans found the ashes of the fire by which they had roasted the pigeons at noon. Here he stopped and called. But he got no answer but the husky and smothered cry of an owl that sat in the top of a dead tree. There is nothing more start- *ling to a man alone in the woods, than the wretched Hoo-hoo-hoo-00-ah-ah of the owl. Under the circumstances, this sound made Peppenheimer's hair stand on end.

What had become of Fred ? When he saw the storm coming, he had betaken him to a hollow tree. Here he lay in safety and comfort, until about the time that Hans left the rapids and went up the stream for the canoe. Then he began to think of the rising water, and afraid that his father would attempt to cross, he determined to go to the ford and build a fire, that he might give his father assurance of his safety and light upon the water, if he should attempt to cross.

But when he started out into the darkness and rain, he turned back in fright, and crept into the tree again. He thought of wolves, the possibility of waking up a bear, the cold drenching rain, and the horrible loneliness. But when he lay down again, and thought of the chances of his father's being drowned in the wild torrent, he determined to face all, and go to the ford.

After a tedious time crawling through the brush, he reached the rapids. But to build a fire in such a rain was no easy task. After having used up all his matches but one, he succeeded in getting some whittlings from the inside of a piece of seasoned wood, and by great perseverance and careful management, he at last m^de a fire. Then he heaped on sticks of all kinds until he succeeded in getting a roaring bonfire. But in one of his excursions after wood he stumbled on a bear, to his great horror. Carl barked lustily at it, but poor Fred ran back to his fire and climbed a tree. Climbing a tree may save one from a wolf, but Fred forgot that the bear was a much better climber than he was. But there he sat in the forks of the tree, shivering with cold, wet and fear.

After a while Carl came back, and tracking Fred to the tree, looked up and barked. Then he lay down by the fire.

Fred began to get tired, and was afraid he might fall asleep and lose his hold. But he struggled against it. He dare not stay on the ground for fear of wolves and bears. But once he found himself falling into a doze. Thoroughly alarmed, he took off the " comfort " that his mother had tied about his

A Swim m the Darkness. 45

neck, and wrapped around his waist, and then lied it around the tree.

He was just falling into a doze, when Carl gave a low bark and pricked up his ears. Fred looked at him a moment. Then the dog shot away into the bushes. Fred watched him a few minutes, but Carl neither barked nor came back. Fred felt badly enough, now that he was left all alone, and if the truth must be told, I'm afraid he shed a few tears. But he prayed to God to bring his father back, and bring him safe home again, and then he felt'better.