Cramp seized upon poor Ramrod, and though he made a gallant and desperate struggle to reach land with the aid of his arms alone, he felt that only by a miracle could he do so.
Moment by moment he felt himself growing weaker and less able to withstand the chill which was striking through to his very heart.
At last the supreme moment came. He could go no farther. Brave and collected to the last, he raised his eyes to heaven as in thought he commended his soul to his Maker.
At that instant the sound of oars struck his ear, and the hope it brought him gave him sufficient strength to keep up until a friendly hand grasped him under the arm.
With his last little bit of strength he raised his hand, still grasping the halter, and smiled triumphantly; then he lost consciousness.
The "coffin" was brought ash.o.r.e afterwards, but no one had the hardihood to navigate it. Even towing it was a trial of temper, for it kept swinging from side to side with a heavy jerking motion with every pull at the oars.
Ramrod, I am glad to say, lived to have many a quiet paddle in his queer boat whenever he went a-fishing; and this, it appears, was all he intended it for when he built it.
Thus ended this famous moose hunt, but the talk of it lasted for many a year; and whenever a pleasure-party were out on the river enjoying a sail by moonlight, this was the one story that was never stale, and mention of "Ramrod"s coffin" would cause a smile to appear on the face of even the most grave.
The moose, when brought ash.o.r.e, proved to be quite young, though full-grown, as its horns were not much more than "buds."
[Sidenote: Edith Harley was called upon to play a rather difficult part.
But her patience and her obedience to the call of duty brought their own reward.]
A Girl"s Patience
BY
C. J. BLAKE
"A letter from Rachel! Is it possible she can have relented at last?"
Dr. Harley looked across the breakfast-table at his wife as he spoke; and the children, of all ages and sizes, who were busy with their bowls of porridge, stopped the clatter of tongues and spoons to listen.
"Read it, dear," said Mrs. Harley, in her slow, gentle voice. "It must be ten years since Rachel wrote that last dreadful letter. Surely she must have learnt to forgive and forget by this time!"
"Send some of these children away, then. Maude and Jessie can stay; but it is time the others were getting ready for lessons."
There was a hurried, scrambling finish of the simple breakfast; then a little troop of boys and girls filed out of the rather shabby dining-room, and Dr. and Mrs. Harley were alone with their elder daughters.
""MY DEAR BROTHER,"" began the doctor,--""I am growing an old woman now, and in spite of the good reasons I had for ceasing to write, or to communicate with you in any way, I do not feel that I can keep up the estrangement from my own flesh and blood any longer.
""If you like to let bygones be bygones, I, on my side, am quite willing to do the same. I am writing, too, because I have heard a good deal, in one way or another, about your large and expensive family, and the difficulty you have in making both ends meet. It has been more than hinted to me that I ought to render, or at least offer, you some a.s.sistance. I have thought perhaps the best thing would be to take one of your girls for a six months" visit; to stay longer, or, indeed, always, if I should, after such a trial, continue to be pleased with her.
""I don"t want a young child, but one old enough to be companionable. Of course I would provide for education, and everything, so long as she stayed with me. It would surely be a relief to have even one of such a number taken off your hands, and it would be the girl"s own fault if the relief were not made permanent. If this should meet your views, write at once, and fix a date for one of your daughters to come to me. Your affectionate sister,
""RACHEL HARLEY.""
"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Maude and Jessie in a breath, "how could we ever leave you, and dear mamma too! We should be miserable away from home."
"From Aunt Rachel"s letter, I should think she must be a dreadfully stiff sort of person," added audacious Jessie. "Please don"t say that we shall have to go."
"Not so fast, my dear," returned her father. "Only one of you all can go, and I do not think either you or Maude could possibly be spared. But what does mamma say?"
"You know my wretched health, Henry," said Mrs. Harley. "I never could do without Maude to look after the housekeeping; and Jessie saves both school and governess for the younger ones. But then there is Edith. Why should not Edith go?"
[Sidenote: Edith Harley]
"Why, indeed?" repeated the doctor. "Edith does nothing but mischief--at least, so far as the account of her doings reaches my ears. She is quite too big for Jessie to teach, and we cannot afford to send her to a good school at present, which is the thing that ought to be done. It really seems to me a providential opening for Edith."
"Poor Edie!" sighed the mother again. "It would be a hard life for her, I am afraid."
"Oh, nonsense, Maria! You were always unjust to Rachel. You think, because she took such deep offence, that there can be nothing good in her. Surely I ought to know my own sister"s character! Rachel would do her duty by any inmate of her home--of that I am quite certain."
"Well, Henry, it would be a help in many ways. Edith is growing such a great girl, nearly fifteen now, and if it would lighten your cares to have her provided for, I ought not to resist. But at least it would be well to let her know what you think of doing, and hear what she says."
"I don"t know that what she says need affect the question much. The fact is, Maria, something will have to be done. We are exceeding what we can afford even now, and the children will be growing more expensive instead of less so. For my own part, I can only feel glad of Rachel"s offer. I must go now; but you can tell Edith, if you like; and tell her, too, to hold herself in readiness, for the sooner the matter is settled the better."
Edith Harley, called indifferently by her brothers and sisters the Middle One and the Odd One, was the third daughter and the fifth child of this family of nine. She was a rather tall, awkward girl, who grew out of her frocks, and tumbled her hair, and scandalised her elder sisters, in their pretty prim young ladyhood, by playing with the boys and clinging obstinately, in spite of her fifteen years, to her hoop and skipping-rope. An unfortunate child was this chosen one, always getting into sc.r.a.pes, and being credited with more mischief than she ever really did.
It was Edith who had caught the whooping-cough through playing with some of the village children, and had brought it home, to be the plague of all the nine for a whole winter and spring.
It was Edith who took Johnnie and Francie down to the pondside to play, and let them both tumble in. True, she went bravely in herself and rescued them, but that did not count for very much. They were terribly wet, and if they had been drowned it would have been all her fault.
It was Edith who let Tom"s chickens out for a run, and the cat came and killed two of them; that was just before she forgot to shut the paddock-gate, when the donkey got into mamma"s flower-garden and spoilt all the best plants.
So poor Edith went on from day to day, thankful if she could only lay her head upon her pillow at night without being blamed for some fresh escapade, yet thoroughly happy in the freedom of her country life, in the enjoyment of long summer-day rambles, and endless games with the little brothers, who thought her "the jolliest girl that ever was," and followed her lead without scruple, sure that whatever mischief she might get them into she would bravely shield them from the consequences.
A country doctor, with a not very lucrative practice, Dr. Harley had, when Edith was about ten years old, sustained a severe pecuniary loss which greatly reduced his income. It was then that the governess had to be given up, and the twin boys who came next to Maude and Jessie were sent to a cheaper school. These boys were leaving now, one to go to the university, through the kindness of a distant relative, the other to pa.s.s a few weeks with the London coach who would prepare him for a Civil Service examination.
Jessie, a nice, clever girl, with a decided taste for music, could teach the four younger ones very well--had done so, indeed, ever since Miss Phipps left; but in this, as in everything, Edith was the family problem. She could not, or would not, learn much from Jessie; she hated the piano and needlework, and even professed not to care for books.
[Sidenote: "Would it help Papa?"]
Yet she astonished the entire family sometimes by knowing all sorts of odd out-of-the-way facts; she could find an apt quotation from some favourite poet for almost any occasion, and did a kind of queer miscellaneous reading in "a hole-and-corner way," as her brother Tom said, that almost drove the sister-governess to distraction.
And now the choice of a companion for Miss Rachel Harley, the stern, middle-aged aunt, whom even the elder girls could scarcely remember to have seen, had fallen upon Edith.
The news came to her first as a great blow. There could not be very much sympathy between the gentle, ailing, slightly querulous mother and the vigorous, active girl; yet Edith had very strong, if half-concealed, home affections, and it hurt her more than she cared to show that even her mother seemed to feel a sort of relief in the prospect of her going away for so long.
"Don"t you _mind_ my going, mamma?" she said at last, with a little accent of surprise.
"Well, Edith dear, papa and I think it will be such a good thing for you and for us all. You have been too young, of course, to be told about money matters, but perhaps I may tell you now, for I am sure you are old enough to understand, that papa has a great many expenses, and is often very much worried. There are so many of you," added the poor mother, thinking with a sigh of her own powerlessness to do much towards lifting the burden which pressed so heavily upon her husband"s shoulders.
"Do you think it would help papa, then, if I went?" asked the girl slowly.
"Indeed I do. You would have a good home for a time, at all events; and if your Aunt Rachel should take to you, as we may hope she will if you earnestly try to please her, she may be a friend to you always."