The hunters were soon at the palisade door and admitted; they had no game with them. Emma jeered them for coming back empty handed.

"No, no, my little cousin," replied Alfred, "we heard the report of a rifle, and we threw down our game, that we might sooner come to your a.s.sistance if you required it. What was the matter?"

"Only that I have killed a wolf, and am not allowed to bring in my trophy," replied Emma. "Come, Alfred, I may go with you and Martin."

They went to the spot, and found the wolf was dead, and poor Trim dead also by his side. They took in the body of the little dog, and left the wolf till the morning, when Martin said he would skin it for Miss Emma.

"And I'll make a footstool of it," said Emma; "that shall be my revenge for the fright I had from the other wolf. Come, Oscar, good dog; you and I will go wolf-hunting. Dear me, who would have thought that I should have ever killed a wolf--poor little Trim!"

Martin said it would be useless to return for the venison, as the wolves had no doubt eaten it already; so they locked the palisade gate, and went into the house.

Emma's adventure was the topic of the evening, and Emma herself was much pleased at having accomplished such a feat.

"Well," said Martin, "I never knew but one woman who faced a wolf except Miss Emma."

"And who was that, Martin?" said Mrs. Campbell.

[Ill.u.s.tration: FACING A WOLF.]

"It was a wife of one of our farmers, ma'am; she was at the outhouse doing something, when she perceived a wolf enter the cottage-door, where there was n.o.body except the baby in the cradle. She ran back and found the wolf just lifting the infant out of the cradle by its clothes. The animal looked at her with his eyes flashing; but having its mouth full, it did not choose to drop the baby, and spring at her; all it wanted was to get clear off with its prey. The woman had presence of mind enough to take down her husband's rifle and point it to the wolf, but she was so fearful of hurting the child, that she did not put the muzzle to its head, but to its shoulder. She fired just as the wolf was making off, and the animal fell, and could not get on its feet again, and it then dropped the child out of its mouth to attack the mother. The woman caught the child up, but the wolf gave her a severe bite on the arm, and broke the bone near the wrist. A wolf has a wonderful strong jaw, ma'am.

However, the baby was saved, and neighbors came and dispatched the animal."

"What a fearful position for a mother to be in!" exclaimed Mrs.

Campbell.

"Where did that happen?"

"On the White Mountains, ma'am," replied Martin. "Malachi Bone told me the story; he was born there."

"Then he is an American."

"Well, ma'am, he is an American because he was born in this country, but it was English when he was born, so he calls himself an Englishman."

"I understand," replied Mrs. Campbell, "he was born before the colonies obtained their independence."

"Yes, ma'am, long before; there's no saying how old he is. When I was quite a child, I recollect he was then reckoned an old man; indeed, the name the Indians gave to him proves it. He then was called the 'Gray Badger.'"

"But is he so very old, do you really think, Martin?"

"I think he has seen more than sixty snows, ma'am; but not many more; the fact is, his hair was gray before he was twenty years old; he told me so himself, and that's one reason why the Indians are so fearful of him. They have it from their fathers that the Gray Badger was a great hunter, as Malachi was more than forty years ago; so they imagine as his hair was gray then, he must have been a very old man at that time back, and so to them he appears to live forever, and they consider him as charmed, and to use their phrase, 'great _medicine_.' I've heard some Indians declare that Malachi had seen one hundred and fifty winters, and they really believe it. I never contradicted them, as you may imagine."

"Does he live comfortably?"

"Yes, ma'am, he does; his squaw knows what he wants, and does what she is bid. She is very fond of the old man, and looks upon him, as he really is to her, as a father. His lodge is always full of meat, and he has plenty of skins. He don't drink spirits, and if he has tobacco for smoking and powder and ball, what else can he want?"

"Happy are they whose wants are so few," observed Mr. Campbell. "A man in whatever position in life, if he is content, is certain to be happy.

How true are the words of the poet:--

'Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long!'

Malachi Bone is a happier man than hundreds in England who live in luxury. Let us profit, my dear children, by his example, and learn to be content with what Heaven has bestowed upon us. But it is time to retire.

The wind has risen, and we shall have a bl.u.s.tering night. Henry, fetch me the book."

CHAPTER XX.

Alfred and Martin brought in the wolf which Emma had killed, but it was frozen so hard that they could not skin it. Poor little Trim was also carried in, but the ground was too hard frozen for them to bury the body, so they put it into the snow until the spring, when a thaw would take place. As for the wolf, they said nothing about it, but they remained up when the rest of the family retired, and after the wolf had been some time before the fire, they were able to take off the skin.

On the following morning, when the hunters went out, they were particularly desired to shoot a wild turkey if they could, as the next day was Christmas-day.

"Let us take Oscar with us," said Alfred; "he is very swift, and may run them down; we never can get up with them in our snow-shoes."

"I wonder whether they will get a turkey," said Emma, after the hunting party had left.

"I think it will be difficult," said Mrs. Campbell; "but they will try all they can."

"I hope they will; for Christmas-day without a turkey will be very un-English."

"We are not in England, my dear Emma," said Mr. Campbell; "and wild turkeys are not to be ordered from the poulterer's."

"I know that we are not in England, my dear uncle, and I feel it too.

How was the day before every Christmas-day spent at Wexton Hall! What piles of warm blankets, what a quant.i.ty of duffil cloaks, flannels, and worsted stockings were we all so busy and so happy in preparing and sorting to give away on the following morning, that all within miles of us should be warmly clothed on that day. And, then, the housekeeper's room with all the joints of meat, and flour and plums and suet, in proportion to the number of each family, all laid out and ticketed ready for distribution. And then the party invited to the servants' hall, and the great dinner, and the new clothing for the school-girls, and the church so gay, with their new dresses in the aisles, and the holly and the mistletoe. I know we are not in England, my dear uncle, and that you have lost one of your greatest pleasures--that of doing good, and making all happy around you."

"Well, my dear Emma, if I have lost the pleasure of doing good, it is the will of Heaven that it should be so, and we ought to be thankful that, if not dispensing charity, at all events, we are not the objects of charity to others; that we are independent, and earning an honest livelihood. People may be very happy, and feel the most devout grat.i.tude on the anniversary of so great a mercy, without having a turkey for dinner."

"I was not in earnest about the turkey, my dear uncle. It was the a.s.sociation of ideas connected by long habit, which made me think of our Christmas times at Wexton Hall; but, indeed, my dear uncle, if there was regret, it was not for myself so much as for you," replied Emma, with tears in her eyes.

"Perhaps I spoke rather too severely, my dearest Emma," said Mr.

Campbell; "but I did not like to hear such a solemn day spoken of as if it were commemorated merely by the eating of certain food."

"It was foolish of me," replied Emma? "and it was said thoughtlessly."

Emma went up to Mr. Campbell and kissed him, and Mr. Campbell said, "Well, I hope there will be a turkey, since you wish for one."

The hunters did not return till late, and when they appeared in sight, Percival, who had descried them, came in and said that they were very well loaded, and were bringing in their game slung upon a pole.

Mary and Emma went out of the door to meet their cousins. That there was a heavy load carried on a pole between Martin and Alfred was certain, but they could not distinguish what it consisted of. As the party arrived at the palisade gates, however, they discovered that it was not game, but a human being, who was carried on a sort of litter made of boughs.

"What is it, Alfred?" said Mary.

"Wait till I recover my breath," said Alfred, as he reached the door, "or ask Henry, for I'm quite knocked up."

Henry then went with his cousins into the house, and explained to them that as they were in pursuit of the wild turkeys, Oscar had stopped suddenly and commenced baying; that they went up to the dog, and, in a bush, they found a poor Indian woman nearly frozen to death, and with a dislocation of the ankle, so severe that her leg was terribly swelled, and she could not move. Martin had spoken to her in the Indian tongue, and she was so exhausted with cold and hunger that she could just tell him that she belonged to a small party of Indians who had been some days out hunting, and a long way from where they had built their winter lodges; that she had fallen with the weight which she had carried, and that her leg was so bad, she could not go on with them; that they had taken her burden, and left her to follow them when she could.

"Yes," continued Alfred; "left the poor creature without food, to perish in the snow. One day more, and it would have been all over with her. It is wonderful how she can have lived through the two last nights as she has. But Martin says the Indians always do leave a woman to perish in this way or recover as she can, if she happens to meet with an accident."