d.i.c.k felt somewhat at a loss; Roger had told him that the Indian understood English perfectly well, though speaking it according to his own taste, but he felt that his questions were too trivial to break the ma.s.sive silence with which the young savage surrounded himself. It was the first time he had come into contact with that dignity which is not the outcome of education, but which is a characteristic of some races.

Indians he had seen, but not such an Indian as this.

"You 're Peter, I suppose," he began at last, and then waited for some confirmation of his words. But the other was raking among the wood ashes with a little stick, and merely nodded again in answer, seeming to think it a matter of entire indifference whatever d.i.c.k chose to suppose. "When you 've been up to the house," continued d.i.c.k, "I want to know if you 'll come with me after a brute of a fox that is taking our poultry." It appeared better to put the matter briefly.

Peter Many-Names regarded him gravely still. He knew enough of the mannerless ways of white folks not to be shocked at this abrupt introduction of business. So after a few minutes' meditation, he grunted agreement. "All right, I come," he said. Then he turned his back calmly, and went on with his culinary operations. There was no mistaking the hint, so d.i.c.k walked back to the homestead again.

Shortly after appeared Peter, with some fine fish, and a somewhat less taciturn manner; and before an hour had pa.s.sed, the two lads, some provisions, guns, and an excited dog, were all on the trail of the fox.

The Indian strode on ahead with the dog straining in the leash, and left to d.i.c.k their weapons and the food, which vexed him mightily. Nor was his temper improved when he noticed that Peter carefully moderated his pace from time to time as if out of consideration for his companion's weaknesses. It is not pleasant to know that your comrade can run twice as fast as you can, and to know that he knows it also.

He had always prided himself on his strength and fleetness, and to find himself relegated to the position of follower and burden-bearer by the first Indian into whose company he was thrown was a salutary lesson.

In this manner they proceeded for some two or three miles. Every now and then d.i.c.k made valiant efforts to gain upon his companion, but Peter, as if maliciously aware of it, always kept the same distance ahead.

Once, restraining the dog with difficulty, he pointed to a little piece of grey down caught on a thorn--pathetic reminder of the perished gander. Then once more they went on, following unerringly the fresh scent, until, all at once, the character of the country changed, and a small, low, sandy hillock, almost bare of trees and underwood, thrust itself upwards amidst the encircling forests. In a confident manner, which d.i.c.k found vaguely annoying, Peter announced it to be the end of their journey.

d.i.c.k looked back. They had not come far, as distance was counted in those days, but the land was entirely strange to him. However, to the Indian and the dog it appeared to be familiar enough; for Peter Many-Names, after a few minutes' search, unearthed two broad discs of thick wood from beneath the acc.u.mulation of leaf and vine which had safely concealed them. d.i.c.k looked at him inquiringly, but he did not seem disposed to give explanations. "Me here bin before," he remarked, "catch fox. These hidy then."

Not thus had the English boy dreamed of the hunt. Rather had he thought of a progress through the woods in lordly wise, killing or sparing at his pleasure, with the Indian as an appreciative audience.

He resented the way in which Peter took the whole affair into his own hands, competent and cunning though the said hands were.

But now the Indian's proceedings arrested his attention. After much cautious scrambling and struggling, the dog led them to the mouth of a burrow, where, Peter declared, the thief must now be securely and gorgedly sleeping. At the same time, he gave d.i.c.k clearly to understand that he, and he alone, would compa.s.s the fox's destruction.

"You sit see watch," he commanded.

Were anyone else concerned in this matter, d.i.c.k would have disputed this order with heat. But already he had fallen under the spell of that savage nature, so much wilder, so much stronger, than his own.

There seemed to be something in the keen, dark face, with its strange eyes, which required obedience, and he yielded it without a word. In the wilds, the soul and will of the savage at once became dominant, not to be disregarded.

So d.i.c.k meekly conveyed himself to a little distance, and sat down on a little mound from whence he could "see watch" the whole affair, which promised to be interesting, and even peculiar. He wondered why the Indian had brought only one dog. "I suppose he's going to smoke it out," he murmured doubtfully to himself.

But that was not it. For first Peter cut small branches into slender poles about three or four feet long, until he had quite a bundle of them. These he pushed into the burrow until it was completely though loosely filled for some four feet from its mouth. Next he took one of the flat discs of wood, and fitted it carefully into the opening, using earth to wedge it firmly, and finally blocking it with a big stone.

This process, which mystified d.i.c.k entirely, he repeated at a second hole that he said was the other exit from the burrow. Then he rested from his labours with a satisfied air.

"And what about the fox?" demanded d.i.c.k.

Whereupon Peter Many-Names unbent sufficiently to enter into a long and curiously worded explanation, the gist of which was as follows:--

When the fox found the narrow entrance of his burrow blocked with the little poles, he would at once set cleverly to work to pull and kick and scratch them away, which he could easily do. But in so doing he built a barrier in the burrow behind him as he worked, and by the time he had pushed them all back, he faced the immovable plug of wood, and was penned into a section of the tunnel of little more than his own length. He could neither move backwards nor forwards, and so fell an easy victim when the plug was removed. As Peter pointed out, his industry was his own undoing.

d.i.c.k scarcely knew whether to admire or laugh at the quaint stratagem.

But the fact remained that their work for that day was done, and done without his help or advice. He supposed there was nothing to do but go back to the homestead, and his face showed how little he relished the idea.

The Indian watched him with keen eyes, seeming to read his thoughts.

At last he spoke, quietly and indifferently, as was his wont.

"Why you not stay with me this to-day?" he said, not even looking at d.i.c.k.

A sparkle sprang into the boy's eyes. To have one more day of lazy freedom! One more day of the wood-running in which his soul delighted!

One more day with no will but his own to follow, with no cares, no work, no restraint! One more day of the deep silent undergrowth and the stately uplands, of the clear chill skies and the keen cold wind!

One more day of the wilderness that was dearer and fairer to him than the farm and the fruitful fields! To wander for one more day, with no master but his own pleasure, no one calling to sterner labour; and only the silent crafty savage, himself the very incarnation of the wilds, his comrade!

His face grew bright and dreamy at the thought. It was the look which all restless folk wear at times, reflecting the love of G.o.d's "unmanstifled places" which glorifies their profitless wandering.

Profitless only in the worldly sense of material gain, yet often the stronger soul is shown in resisting the call to freedom and to nature.

But d.i.c.k had not yet learnt his lesson; and once more he chose the way that pleased him best. "Yes, I will stay," he said.

Peter Many-Names nodded, his usual mode of a.s.sent; to him d.i.c.k's evident struggle between inclination and duty had been amusing, and there was a rare gleam of merriment in his dark face. He had a far keener appreciation of the situation than had d.i.c.k, and it gave him a boy's feeling of pride to think of all the wonders of the woods he might show to his white comrade if he chose. "Come, then," he said, with a flash of his white teeth, "and I show you bear, sleeping much for winter. Come quiet."

The forests were bright with that soft recollection of spring which the early morning had promised. The bare twigs seemed as full of life and colour as if the sap had been rising instead of falling, and the recent frosts but made the going better. Very silently, Peter Many-Names turned into the undergrowth, d.i.c.k following closely in his track, and the well-trained dog following d.i.c.k as closely. He was troubled in his mind, this dog, remembering an unguarded bone near the woodpile, and longing to end such foolish, aimless rambling as his two-legged companions indulged in. Many were the wistful glances he cast back.

But d.i.c.k's face was set to the forests of his dreams, and duty called him to the homestead in vain.

CHAPTER V.

A Backwoods Christmas.

That was the last time for some months that d.i.c.k yielded to his inborn love of wandering. He had spent a night and the best part of two eventful days in the woods with Peter Many-Names. And on the second day he returned to the homestead by devious ways, very much ashamed of himself.

He became more than ever ashamed when no notice was taken of his desertion. Roger greeted him somewhat resentfully at first, owing to the fact that he had had to do all d.i.c.k's work as well as his own, during the younger boy's absence, and Stephanie looked anxious and grieved. But beyond this, nothing was said or done to remind him of his fault.

No better course could have been taken to bring d.i.c.k to a state of almost excessive penitence, and remorse speedily overtook him. His moods were always intense while they lasted; and now he settled down to his hard daily tasks with a fury of sorrowful determination which Mr.

Collinson regarded doubtfully, considering it too good to continue.

But if d.i.c.k grew weary of his resolute toil, he gave no sign.

Outwardly, he was again contented with his lot, and seemed to desire no other. So well did he work, so cheerful and patient he was, that the anxious look gradually cleared from Stephanie's face. But Mr.

Collinson, shrewd man that he was, still regarded the boy with a certain grave and wholly affectionate distrust.

The days pa.s.sed and November gave place to December. The wheat lay warm beneath a foot of snow, and Christmas was at hand.

The Collinsons always kept Christmas as nearly as possible in good old English fashion. d.i.c.k and Stephanie, used to all sorts of privation, thought that the preparations for the coming feast were positively luxurious.

Everyone at the homestead worked early and late. Mrs. Collinson was intent upon bread-making; so d.i.c.k and Roger ground grain at the hand-mill, turn and turn about, until they nearly fell asleep over the handle; and very bad and black would their flour appear to us. The silent William Charles, who was always called by his full name, seemed to chop wood incessantly. Mr. Collinson, who always worked so hard that it was scarcely possible that he could work any harder, found time to interfere jovially with everything, to the utter confusion of his wife, who, with Stephanie, was perpetually preparing extra delicacies for her thriving and hungry household. Stephanie was so busy she had no time for mournful memories; and d.i.c.k did nothing but work, and sleep, and eat enormously.

It was rough fare they had in those far-off days. But with pork and mutton, pumpkins for "sa.s.s," and pies, maple syrup and sugar, potatoes, and plenty of barley, rice, eggs, milk and tea, Mrs. Collinson and Stephanie accomplished wonders. So vast were the preparations that even the dogs seemed infected with the stir of excitement; and everyone looked forward to sumptuous faring. To Stephanie, real tea, with milk and sugar, represented in itself comfort and prosperity; she had been used to making an unattractive subst.i.tute for it with young hemlock shoots.

That Christmas dinner was a great success. Everyone was in good spirits, and even Mrs. Collinson was astonished at the way in which the eatables disappeared. The silent William Charles especially distinguished himself, and was accused of demolishing a full pint of hazel-nuts in twenty minutes.

Afterwards, with the red blinds drawn, and the great logs blazing on the hearth, faces were more serious, though not less cheerful, while Mrs. Collinson read aloud the story of Bethlehem. Stephanie, leaning back in her chair, could see a great star, cold and silver-pure, around the edge of the curtain; and it seemed to her, as she listened to the familiar words, that it must be that star which the wise men saw, shining upon her with its promise of peace.

Then followed song after song, to which Roger contributed an uncertain tenor, and Mr. Collinson a thunderous ba.s.s. In the midst of warmth and comfort and merriment, Stephanie felt her own griefs and troubles slipping further and further away. She lost herself in happy dreams for the future, which had never appeared so full of hope and cheer.

All her dreams were centred round d.i.c.k, and the home he would make for her when he was twenty-one.

Songs led to stories, and d.i.c.k developed unexpected talents, thrilling them all with legends of Lower Canada, which he had learned no one knew how. Then Mr. Collinson began a long account of an incident in the war of 1812, and when he was fairly in the middle of it, d.i.c.k signed to Stephanie, and they both slipped from the room.

Knowing how the Collinsons delighted in the old customs and traditions of an English Christmas, they had resolved to act the waits, and so give a finishing touch to that tender illusion built up in the woods of the New World from the lore and fancy of the Old. d.i.c.k dived into his blanket-coat, and Stephanie wrapped a big shawl about her, and then they both hurried out at the kitchen door, and so round to the front of the house again. It was intensely cold and still, so cold that the motionless air seemed to be heavy and painful to breathe, and stepping from the warm house was like entering icy water. The stars shone like steady silver lamps, and the woods were hushed and dark, bound to silence and desolation beneath the weight of frost. A faint white mist showed in the northern sky, and presently it spread and broadened, and the pale green ice-blink began playing and slanting and fading along its edge.

With their young faces held up to the solemn stars, the brother and sister began to sing the quaint old carols their mother had taught them long before. They had good voices, and their hearts were in the words, so the old, old tunes went sweetly enough under that vast arch of sky.

Roger softly set the door ajar, and the quietness within showed how the singing was appreciated.