"Raymond, Raymond, come here, quick: here is a poor squirrel burning up."
Raymond dropped his axe, and ran,--bounding over the logs, and hummocks; but before he reached the place, the squirrel, unable to hold on any longer, and half stifled with the smoke and scorching heat, dropped from his hold to the ground. Raymond came up at the moment, and seized him; he brought him to where Caleb was sitting,--Caleb himself eagerly coming forward to see.
"Is it dead?" said Caleb.
"Pretty much," said Raymond. The squirrel lay gasping helplessly in Raymond"s hands. "Here, put him in my cap," said Caleb; "that will make a good bed for him, and perhaps he will come to life again."
Raymond examined him pretty carefully, and he did not seem to be burnt.
He said he thought he must have been suffocated by breathing the smoke and hot air. Raymond then went back to his work, and Caleb sat upon the log, watching alternately the squirrel and the burning tree.
In a few minutes a great flame flashed out at the top of the tree: and finally, after about half an hour, the whole trunk, being all in a blaze, from top to bottom, began slowly to bend and bend over.
"Raymond," shouted Caleb,--"Raymond, look;--it is going to fall!"
The tall trunk moved at first slowly, but soon more and more rapidly, and finally came down to the ground with a crash.
The crash startled the little squirrel, so that he almost regained his feet; and Caleb was afraid that he was going to run away. But he laid over again upon his side, and was soon quiet again as before.
Not long after this, Raymond finished his work, and prepared to go home.
He proposed to Caleb that they should leave the squirrel there, upon the log; but Caleb was very desirous to carry him home, because, he said, he could tame him, and give him to Mary Anna. So Raymond asked how they should contrive to carry him. Caleb wanted to carry him home in his cap; but Raymond said that he would take cold by riding home bare-headed.
"However," said Raymond, "Perhaps I can contrive something." So he went after another piece of birch bark from the tree, about six inches wide, and two feet long, and rolled it over, bringing the two ends together, so as to make a sort of round box,--only it was without top or bottom.
To keep it in shape he tied a string round it.
"But how are you going to keep him in?" asked Caleb.
Raymond said nothing, but he took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, and spread it out upon the ground, and put his birch bark box upon it. He then laid the squirrel gently in upon the handkerchief, which thus served for a bottom. Next he drew the corners of the handkerchief up over the top, and tied the opposite pairs of ends together. Thus the handkerchief served for top, bottom, and handle.
They soon reached the place where they had left the cart; they got into it and rode on. Caleb held the squirrel in his lap, and of course, as there was nothing but the thin handkerchief for a bottom to the box, Caleb felt the weight of the squirrel, pressing soft and warm upon his knees. The squirrel lay very still until they got very near home, and then Caleb began to feel a creeping sensation, as if he was beginning to move. Caleb was highly delighted to perceive these signs of returning life; he held his knees perfectly still, that he might not disturb him, crying out, however, to Raymond,
"He"s moving, Raymond; he"s moving, he"s moving."
CHAPTER XI.
MARY ANNA.
Caleb and Raymond reached home about the middle of the afternoon: and while Raymond went into the yard to leave the cart and turn out the cattle, Caleb pressed eagerly into the house, to shew his prize. Mary Anna, or Marianne, as they generally called her, came to meet him to see what he had got in his hand.
"Is that my birch bark?" said she.
"There! I forgot your birch bark," said Caleb.--"But I have got something here a great deal better." And so saying he put his handkerchief down, and began very eagerly to untie the knots.
When he had got two of the ends untied, and was at work upon the other two, out leaped the squirrel, and ran across the room. Mary Anna, startled by the sudden appearance of the animal, ran off to the door, and Caleb called out in great distress, "O dear! O dear! What shall I do? He"ll get away. Shut the door, Mary Anna,--shut the door, quick!
call Raymond; call Raymond."
Mary Anna, at first, retreated outside of the door, and stood there a moment, peeping in. Finding, however, that the squirrel remained very quiet in a corner of the room, she returned softly, and went round, and shut all the doors and windows, and then Caleb went and called Raymond.
The squirrel had by no means yet got over his accident, and he allowed himself to be easily retaken and secured. Raymond contrived to fasten him into a box, so as to keep him safe, until next morning; and by that time they thought, if he should then seem likely to get well, they could determine what it was best to do with him.
While Caleb was coming home, there had been a strange mixture of delight and uneasiness in his feelings. The delight was occasioned by the possession of the squirrel. That was obvious enough. The uneasiness he did not think about very distinctly, and did not notice what the cause of it was. Boys very often feel a sort of uneasiness of mind,--they do not know exactly how or why,--and they have this feeling mingling sometimes strangely with their very enjoyment, in their hours of gaiety and glee. Now the real reason of this unquiet state of mind, in Caleb"s case, was that his conscience had been disturbed by his feelings of vexation and impatience, towards Raymond, for not leaving his work, to come and kindle his fire. He had not _yielded_ to these feelings. He had restrained them, and had stood still, and spoken respectfully to Raymond, all the time. In fact, he was hardly aware that he had done any thing wrong, at all. But still, for a moment, selfish pa.s.sions had had possession of his heart, and whenever they get possession, even if they are kept in subjection, so as not to lead to any bad actions or words, and even if they are soon driven away by new thoughts, as Caleb"s were, by the sight of his blazing fire,--still, they always leave more or less of misery behind.
So Caleb, as he was going home, had his heart filled with delight at the thoughts of the squirrel resting warmly in his lap; and he was also a prey, in some degree, to a gnawing uneasiness, which he could not understand, but which was really caused by a sting which sin had left there.
And yet Caleb came home with an idea that he had been a very good boy.
So, after they had got tired of looking at the squirrel, and Mary Anna had taken her seat at her work by the window, with her little work-table before her, Caleb came up to her, and kneeling upon her cricket, and putting his arms in her lap, he said,
"Well, Aunt Marianne, I have been a good boy all day to-day, and so I want you to make me a picture-book, this evening."
Marianne had a way of making picture-books that pleased children very much. The way was this: she used to save all the old, worn-out picture books, and loose pictures, she could find, and put them carefully in one of her drawers, up stairs. Then she would make a small blank book, of white paper, and sew it through the back. Then she would cut out pictures enough from her old stores to fill the book, leaving the colours blank, because they were to be covered with some pretty-coloured paper, for a t.i.tle. Then she would paste the pictures in. And here, when Mary Anna first began to make such books, an unexpected difficulty arose. For, when paper is wet, it swells; and then, when it dries again, though it shrinks a little, and does not shrink back quite into its original dimensions,--that is, quite to the length and breadth that it had at first. Now, when Mary Anna pasted her pictures in the pages of the book, that part of the leaf which was under the picture was wet by the paste, and so it swelled, while the other part remained dry. And when the picture came to dry, it did not shrink quite back again. It remained swelled a little; and this caused the page to look warped or puckered, so that the leaves did not lie smooth together.
At length she found out a way to remedy this difficulty entirely; and this was, to wet the whole of the leaf, as well as that part that the picture was pasted to, and that made it all swell alike. The way she managed the operation was this:
After sewing the book, she would cut out a piece of morocco paper, or blue paper, or gilt paper, and sometimes a piece of morocco itself, just the size of the book when open, for the cover. Then, after spreading out a large newspaper upon the table, so as to keep the table clean, she would lay down the cover with the handsome side down, and then spread the paste over the other side, very carefully, with a brush which she made from the end of a quill. Then she would put the back edge of the book down upon this cover, and lay it over, first on one side, and then on the other, and pat it down well with a towel; and that would make the cover stick to the outside leaves of the book, and cover up and hide the great st.i.tches in the back, by which the leaves had been sewed together.
Then she would take the book before her, and begin at the beginning.
First, she would lay down the cover and put upon it a piece of tin, made to fill papers with, to keep it down smooth. Then she would lay the next leaf down upon the tin. The leaf was to have the t.i.tle-page upon it, and so there were to be no pictures pasted to it. She would, therefore, lay this down upon the tin, and then, with one of her large paint brushes, dipped in the water, she would wet it all over, patting it afterwards with a towel, to take up all the superfluous water. Then she would take up the tin, and put the t.i.tle-leaf down upon the cover, and put the tin over it to keep it down smooth. The next leaf would be for pictures, and, after pasting pictures upon it, on both sides, she would lay it down upon the tin, and with her brush she would wet all those parts which had not been pasted. Then patting it with a dry towel, or soft cloth, to dry it as much as possible, she would put it under the tin. In this way she would go on regularly, through the book, pasting pictures upon all the pages, and wetting with her brush all those parts of the paper which had not been wet by the paste, and putting the tin over the leaves as fast as she finished them, to keep them all smooth. Then, when she had got through, she would put the whole away between two boards, to dry; the weight of the paper board being sufficient to keep the leaves all smooth. The next morning when she came to look at her book, she generally found it nearly dry; and then she would put some heavy weight upon the upper board, to press it harder. When it was perfectly dry, she took out the book, and pared off the edges, all around, with a sharp knife and a rule. Then she would get her paint-box, and colour all the pictures beautifully, and make borders about them, in bright colours, and print a handsome t.i.tle-page with her pen, and write the name of the boy in it whom she meant to give it to.
So Caleb, when he came and told Mary Anna, what a good boy he had been, meant to have her make such a book as this.
"But sometimes boys are mistaken in thinking they have been good boys. I should want to ask Raymond."
"He would say so, I know," said Caleb; "for I certainly did not trouble him at all, all the day."
"Suppose you run and ask him."
"Well," said Caleb; and away he ran.
"But stop," said Mary Anna; "you must not ask him by a leading question."
"What is that?" said Caleb.
"Don"t you know?" said Mary Anna.
"No," said Caleb.
"O, that is very important for boys to know; for they very often ask leading questions, when they ought not to. Now, if you go and say, "Raymond, haven"t I been a good boy to-day?" that way of asking the question shews that you want him to say, "Yes, you have." It is called a leading question, because it leads Raymond to answer in a particular way. Now, if I should go and ask him thus, "_Has_ Caleb been a good boy to-day?" with the emphasis on _has_, it would be a leading question the other way. It would sound as if I wanted him to say you had not been a good boy."
"How must I ask him, then?" said Caleb.
"Why you can say, "Raymond, Aunt Marianne wants to know what sort of a boy I have been to-day," that way of putting the question would not lead him one way or the other."
"Why, he might know," said Caleb, "that I should want him to say I have been good."
"Yes, but not from the form of the question. The _question_ would not lead him."
While Mary Anna was saying this, Caleb was standing with his hand upon the latch of the door, ready to go; and when she had finished what she was saying, he started off to find Raymond.