Chapter I: Front Matter

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. XIII. AUGUST, 1886. NO. 10.

[Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]

A ROCKY MOUNTAIN HERMIT.

BY ALFRED TERRY BACON.

A few days ago as I was coming out of the dark mouth of a cañon, glad to be once again in the low afternoon sunshine and the free air, there rang out from the blooming plum-thicket beside me a clear, low whistle, repeated often. It was only a curlew hidden down by the brook, under the sweet-scented canopy of flowers; but the whistle came again so sweetly and boyishly that my thoughts flew far away; the tired horse fell into a walk; the reins dropped from my hand over the high Mexican saddle-horn; the mountains and the flower-covered valley seemed blotted out of sight, and instead there came up a vision of a little brown-eyed boy, who lives two thousand miles away—he seemed to be standing before me and looking up, whistling just as the curlew whistles.

But there was no one near. I was alone among the mountains, twenty miles away from any man, and twice as far from any whistling lad. It was only a little vision that the curlew’s note called up for me, but I was grateful to the hidden bird; for that clear remembrance was like sight, and it was long since I had seen a human face or heard a voice. The curlew calling by the brook never knew that it was doing a kindness for a boy far away on the other side of the continent; but in jogging my memory it reminded me of a letter, lying tucked away, which had cost its writer a great deal of hard work—a letter from the brown-eyed lad who thinks the life of a backwoodsman almost as interesting as the life of Robinson Crusoe and the other wonderful men in the story-books. Perhaps there are some other boys who would like to hear how a man lives all alone in the Rocky Mountains.

Near the central part of the Territory of Wyoming there is a group of mountains which belong to the Rocky Mountain system, though they are far separated from the highest range. All the mountains are higher than any of our Eastern ranges; but standing in the midst of plains that are many thousand feet above the sea, their general height does not seem great. They are very beautiful in their covering of heavy pine forests with countless tall crags and towers and sharp obelisks of natural rock rising from their summits; and in the center of the group there stands one lofty peak rising far above all its fellows. While all the mountains around were gay with spring flowers, its high head was still wrapped in snow; and now as mid-summer approaches, it is still crowned with a white wreath which will only melt away in the late summer, to return in the early autumn.

The Rocky Mountains are unlike the other great ranges of the world, in having broad, smooth, grassy valleys scattered everywhere among them. Some of these valleys are of very great size, even among the highest mountains, and they are so different from other mountain valleys that they have received a different name; they are generally called parks. This lower group of mountains also, like the great main range, has these lovely natural parks of smaller size. The largest and most beautiful of them all, a mile in width and many miles in length, lies along the eastern side of the great peak; and just where the evening shadow of the mountain falls across the park, shutting off an hour or two of late sunshine, there stands a little lonely log cabin, which is my hermitage. There I am spending a month or two, far away from men, like Robinson Crusoe. I have, to be sure, the company of a horse and a dog, but there is no man—not even a Man Friday; and therefore, as it is not possible for me to talk to any one, I must do a little talking with my pen, and tell what a queer sort of a life I lead. For even in this wilderness I have one great comfort which was denied to poor old Robinson—sometimes, by taking long rides, I can get letters; though, as the post-office is fifty miles away, mail days are very scarce. Still, slowly passed along from ranch to ranch, letters come and go; and so, in time, what I write will reach the railroad and then the outer world.

Life in this part of the globe is not always so lonely. On nearly all the rivers and creeks of Wyoming there are ranches scattered at distances of ten or twenty miles apart. On the eastern edge of these mountains, there is a ranch only eight miles away from my hermitage, and there is another in the foot-hills on the western side, not twenty miles away. But now all the ranches are deserted, for the only business in all this region is the raising of cattle, and through the early summer all hands are hard at work on the “round-ups,” which run over the whole breadth of the territory, searching for cattle scattered by the storms of the last winter. Through the cold and the darkness and the deep snows of winter Crusoe-life would, indeed, be rather too hard to bear. Then, there were three of us together in the little cabin, and there were sometimes friendly visits between the men on the distant ranches. But now, alone in the wilderness, twenty miles from any human being, I feel the loneliness less than did we three together in the still, dead winter; for the whole world is alive and beautiful.

No one knows, moreover, how much pleasure there is in the friendship of an affectionate dog and an intelligent horse, until he is shut off from all other company, and is obliged to make them his intimate friends. Gip and Monkey, my dog and my horse, spend so many hours of every day exploring the mountains with me, that we have grown to be very faithful friends.

A hermit, you know, usually has not much work to do. Those old fellows who used to hide themselves in caves and deserts, in old times, spent most of their days in solemn meditation; but I am not just that kind of a hermit. To sit still and think all the time would be the hardest work in the world for me. The only necessary work that falls to my lot at present is keeping the camp, preparing food and looking after a small band of horses that are running at large in the park. My first task is to ride a few miles up the park and see that the horses are on their proper range; and after that, all the day is free for reading or writing or hunting or wandering about through the mountains, finding fresh varieties of flowers or exploring unknown cañons or climbing the tall crags to look across the mountains to the vast plains that stretch away as far as the eye can reach, like a blue sea. In these daily rides through the wild mountains there is so much that is new and strange to Eastern eyes, so much that is beautiful and grand, so many kinds of curious wild animals, such quantities of gay flowers never seen in the States, that there is enough pleasure in them to make up for all the loneliness of these few weeks.

We seem to be alone most of the time—Monkey, Gip, and I—and that is why we are such friends; but we are not alone so much as we seem to be. There are plenty of neighbors upon the mountain-sides, and some that wander through the park; but they are so very unsociable that when they see us coming they walk the other way. But then it is true, to be sure, that some of them are not always very kindly treated by us when we meet them, so perhaps we are to blame. There are two families of neighbors, who live in caves on the mountain, for whom I have a great respect. I would not give them offense on any account, for they are very powerful, and usually have things all their own way in the neighborhood. They are the brown bears and the gray bears. Often I see their great fresh foot-prints in the mud along the creeks when I go out in the early morning. The tracks look as if a man with very large, broad feet had been running bare-footed through the mire. I never follow their trail very far to see where they have gone, for I prefer to have a friend or two with me when I go to make the acquaintance of these mighty gentlemen or the members of their families.

At the nearest ranch on the western side of the mountains, there lives a German who was the first pioneer to bring cattle in among these valleys. The encounters that he has had with all the various animals that live in the forest are very interesting. Not long ago, this old fellow built a new cabin for himself at the foot of a mountain. Before his house was finished, he went out one day and killed a fine fat deer. Bringing the carcass home at night, he hung it up against the back of his house, and then hanging a blanket over the doorway which was still without a door, he went to bed. He slept soundly, but there dimly seemed to him to be some disturbance about the house during the night; and when he went out in the morning, every bit of his fine deer was gone, and the bear tracks up and down the mountain-side showed what had become of it. But game was plentiful, and it was not long before his deer was replaced by a big-horned sheep, which is the most tender and juicy meat that ever was eaten. This time he was more careful, and lay awake half the night, fearing that he should lose his stock of fresh meat. When it was very late and he was about to give up watching, he at last heard a sound at the back of the house. Something was at work on his wild mutton. There was a noise of scratching and tearing. It seemed as if several bears were making short work with his meat. He seized his loaded rifle and jumped out of bed with very scanty clothing on. Going to the doorway and drawing aside the blanket, he saw that the night was cloudy and as dark as Egypt. He stopped and thought for a moment that it would be impossible to kill a bear in such darkness, even if he should be able to hit it, for these beasts are so tough that they will carry a dozen bullets about in their bodies without much inconvenience, if they are not wounded in the heart or the brain. So our friend laid down his rifle and took instead a loaded shot-gun. “This is the thing for them,” he said to himself; “it will pepper them all over and scare them so they never will come again.” Then, with gun in hand he silently climbed the projecting logs at the nearest corner of the cabin, and creeping across the roof, peeped over the edge above the place where the sheep was hung. Something appeared to be moving below in the darkness. Taking a random aim, he blazed away. The shot scattered and evidently took effect; for there arose a chorus of growls and howls and yells that would have made the bravest man’s hair stand on end; there was a scampering and shuffling of many feet up and down, and around the cabin; even in the thick darkness he could see many great fat creatures running and sniffing angrily about to find who had attacked them. He saw that he was besieged on his own roof by at least a dozen furious, hungry bears. “They didn’t scare worth a cent,” he said. It was not long before they discovered whence the shot had come, and knowing very well that there is strength in numbers, they determined to have that man for supper, even if they had to put off their supper till breakfast-time. So while some sat down here and there, the others walked about, grunting and growling over their injuries. Bears can climb quite as well as men, and old Frank stood with fear and trembling in the middle of the roof, ready to receive with the butt of his gun the first nose that should rise above the edge. If two had happened to mount the roof on opposite sides, there would have been a small chance of life for the poor man. But the bears thought that solid ground was the safer place for them, so there they staid; and up above sat old Frank shivering, how long he never knew. It seemed centuries. It was a sharp, frosty autumn night, and, as he had on very little clothing, Frank was soon chilled almost to his bones. But the bears’ coats were warm enough. They were more hungry than they were cold, so there they sat and growled and waited for their prey to come down and be eaten. Soon a bitterly cold wind began to blow. Every joint in the poor man’s body stiffened; but it seemed pleasanter to freeze to death than to be eaten up by those ugly beasts, so he bore his discomfort as best he could. The hours of that night seemed to be endless, and the chill grew terrible; but at last a dull gray streak appeared in the East. No man was ever more glad to see the first sign of dawn than was that chilly watcher. Bears are very shy by daylight, and as the twilight little by little grew into broad day, Frank’s visitors trotted away disappointed and sulky up to their dens on the mountain. Their victim, more dead than alive, was able at last to climb down, and kindle a fire to warm himself. He still lives to tell the story in the same log cabin; but it has a good stout door now, and he will never again go bear-hunting with a shot-gun.

So you see it is quite as pleasant not to have the bear families too neighborly. They rarely come out of the woods by daylight, except in late summer and autumn when the plum-thickets are hanging full of fruit; and so, fortunately, we do not often see them.

The most sociable of all our wild neighbors is the prong-horned antelope, of which there are several bands running up and down the park. Every day as I ride out to the horse range I meet some of them; often, in suddenly mounting the crest of a ridge, I surprise a little herd grazing just beyond. Then it is beautiful to watch them as they bound gracefully away down the slope with the speed of a bird, seeming hardly to touch their slender limbs to the ground as they fly along. Gip likes nothing better than to go tearing after them as long as his breath holds out; though that small dog always finds it a hopeless chase, for only greyhounds and the swiftest horses can overtake the antelope when it is strong and fat from feeding freely on the fresh June grass.

Returning a little while ago, after many weeks of civilized life in a Colorado town, I found the old cabin deserted; for those who had been my companions there had gone far out on the plains to look after our wandering cattle. In the late afternoon, when the peak’s shadow fell across the valley, while I was busy making ready the simple supper, Gip stood in the doorway on guard, and I heard him give a long, low growl of suspicion. Looking out, I saw two pretty antelopes standing before the door, not a stone’s throw away, peering about in a timid, curious way to see what change had come over the little house which before had been so quiet. It is not common to see them so very near, and they were so pretty and graceful that I could only stand and admire them for a moment, forgetting my need of fresh meat. Their little hook-shaped horns and dainty hoofs are as black as polished jet; their eyes are very large and soft and dark; their bodies are a bright tawny color, but the throat and breast and limbs are snowy white. There are few animals in the world that are more elegant both in shape and in their movements than the prong-horned antelope. They came tripping down the slope with all the airs and graces of two little dandies; now trotting easily forward; now clearing a fallen tree with a beautiful flying leap; now stopping a moment to gaze and sniff about for possible danger. It was quite flattering to a lonely hermit to receive a visit from neighbors as handsome and stylish as these. But, though a friendly visit would be very pleasant, a full larder would be still pleasanter. Fortunately for my shy visitors, all the arms and ammunition had been stowed away while the house was closed, and could not be procured before the wary creatures had trotted on out of easy rifle range.

Once in two weeks comes the principal event of my backwoods life,—a horseback ride of about forty miles to carry letters to the nearest ranch, and to get those that have collected there. After riding a few miles along the valley and through a pass, I come out upon the open rolling country that stretches away for hundreds of miles without any covering of trees or bushes except along the streams; for this western prairie land is so dry that only grass and cactus and low herbs can grow upon it. The rolling land is green, and spangled with flowers through May and June; but after mid-summer it becomes as dry as a desert, and in that way kind Providence changes the standing grass into hay which will feed the thousands of cattle and horses and wild creatures through the winter.

As I ride out of the pass on these regular journeys for the mail, a coyote, or prairie wolf, that lives close by among the rocks, often comes rushing out with a doleful howl, and acts as if wishing to make acquaintance with Gip. Both the wolf and Gip seem to understand that they are blood relations. They are nearly of equal size, and they run up to each other as if they would like to be friends; but when they are close together, the courage of one or the other always fails. Either Gip turns tail, allowing the wolf to chase him within a dozen steps of the horse’s heels,—or the wolf takes alarm, and Gip runs madly after it until it disappears over a ridge. So the wild dog and the tame one make little progress in their friendship. Yet it is not a very uncommon thing in the Far West even for gentle and intelligent dogs to form a friendship with a pack of wolves, and to go off and live with them, returning now and then to pay short visits to their old masters. But more often if a dog falls in with a pack of wolves, he is quickly torn in pieces by them.

Early in the morning, before the peak has begun to gather its cap of thunder clouds which break in showers every afternoon, and while the air through the whole valley is cool and very sweet with the perfume of a million flowers, I start out for my daily ride. First there is a mile over the rich grassland along the creek where the gay flowers grow in far greater variety and beauty than in any Eastern fields; then there is a long stretch of dry, rolling land which is all one great city of prairie-dogs. At the approach of strangers there is great excitement through this town of little yellow pigmies. Those which are looking out from the highest point give a few warning calls. Then there is a tremendous scattering and scampering in all directions of the fat, short-legged little bodies in so hot haste that they look like balls of yellow fur rolling across the gravel. Some have been out feeding, and more have been about gossiping with their neighbors and making morning calls, for they are famous little busybodies: but when they hear the warning, all fly at full speed to their own homes. Then when every one is sitting at the mouth of its hole, they are ready to defy the world. For a man and a horse they care little, but at the sight of a dog, the city is in an uproar; and, feeling perfectly safe by their own homes, they delight to tease him. There is such a Babel of shrill little voices chattering, scolding, squealing, and yelping from hundreds of gravel-heaps, that Gip stands for a minute perplexed, not knowing on which one to spring first; then like a flash he darts away to the nearest hole where a jolly little tormentor is chattering its defiance. The prairie-dog stands still in the doorway of its house, scolding and twitching its tail as its enemy comes charging down, until Gip’s nose seems almost upon it; then as quick as a wink, the little tail flies up and Mr. Prairie-Dog is far away into the earth by the time Gip has fairly reached the door of his house. Then every dog in the town redoubles its chattering, and it seems as if a ripple of low laughter ran through the company at the disappointment of their enemy. But Gip, after ramming his head as far as it can be forced into the burrow, draws it out with a sniff of regret and then is off again, full tilt, after the next little saucy rascal that sits on a neighboring sandheap, making merry over his perplexity. Again he almost has one; the prairie-dog sits unmoved until Gip comes within a yard of the hole, and then it vanishes. It seems a very narrow escape for it; but it is always just so narrow, and yet they always escape. As long as man and dog are in sight they keep up their shrill din, like the chattering of a thousand monkeys; and as long as we are in their village, Gip flies madly from hole to hole, always just so eager and hopeful, though he has been chasing them all his life and has never yet caught one.

The town of the prairie-dogs is in a beautiful situation. It lies in the broadest part of the park, surrounded by the highest and grandest of the mountains. A few days ago, as I was riding through it in the early morning, I saw an animal some distance ahead running hard toward the woods. Thinking it was a wolf or coyote, I paid little attention at first, but looking closer, I saw plainly that I was mistaken, for its legs were short, and its body long and heavy. It went springing over the grass with long bounds, and its coat of fur was grayish, shading to yellow brown; and I knew it must be one of the great panthers which are generally called mountain lions. I had never before met one, though their great, round footprints, as large as tea-plates, had often been seen in the soft snow the last winter. Like other cats, they like to sleep in the day and to prowl at night. Gip took a long, wistful look at the lion; but he is a small dog, and a very wise one, and he knew his life would be short if he should approach very near to that great creature, so he went back to his hard work with the prairie-dogs, and left me to go galloping off alone for a nearer view of the lion. But Monkey dislikes wild beasts quite as much as Gip, and would never willingly have carried me very near to a beast of prey, even if the lion had not run up into the rocks on the mountain-side before I had seen it very clearly.

Beside the rough confusion of rocks into which the panther ran, there was a gentle grassy slope which seemed to extend to the top of the mountain.

I wanted to have one more look at the big cat, so Monkey had to climb the long ascent, much against his will, keeping as near to the rocks as possible; and very soon Gip plucked up courage to follow; but that was the last we ever saw of the mountain lion. However, in wandering up near the top of the mountain, I came on tracks that were quite as interesting to me as was the lion. They were the marks of a cloven hoof, nearly as large as the tracks of an ox, but longer and more pointed. As there were no cattle so high on the mountain, it was plain, at a glance, that they were footprints of the great wapiti, which, in the West, is always called an elk. Hurrying on in hope of catching sight of this great king of the forest, the footprints grew fresher, and soon I came to a glade where the grass, crushed down in spots, showed that a startled band of elk had just risen from their rest, and run away; and so, like a will-o’-the-wisp, they led me on through the forest, always letting me know that they were near, by their fresh tracks, but never quite near enough to be seen. The elk and the big-horned sheep are the shyest of all these wild animals; and the elk have the senses of sight and smell and hearing so very keen, that they will see a hunter, and will run from him, a dozen times for every time that he gets a first sight of them. Their great branching antlers, so large and heavy that a small boy could hardly lift them from the ground, lie scattered everywhere through the grass in the park, for they shed them every spring; and everywhere on the mountain-sides we find their footprints; and yet it is quite a rare event to meet them, and still more uncommon to kill them.

So all day long, with my pony and my dog, I wandered contentedly along the mountain-side, resting often under cool over-arching rocks or beside the snow-fed brooks, the banks of which are streaked with the crimson of the wild cyclamen; and all day long we tried to pay visits to our shy neighbors; but wherever we called, they were not at home. And, when the late afternoon began to drop blue, gauzy veils of shadows over the east-ward slope of the opposite mountain, we turned back toward the lonely, silent home, which now never hears the sweet sound of human speech.

I can not now tell you of all the queer inhabitants of these mountains; but next time I shall have something to say to you about the beaver, the wild sheep, the buffalo, and some other interesting neighbors of mine.

THE BABY’S DIMPLE.

BY WILLIAM H. HAYNE.

A south wind sought the baby’s cheek.
Fresh from a laughing billow,
And blew in elfish glee against
The small face on the pillow.

THE MONSTER.

BY MARIA J. HAMMOND.

I.

Ho! the great monster, the Sea!
Rushing and raging about,
Lashing his tail,—he must be
Hungry and frantic, no doubt!
Oh, should he open his lips,—
Woe to the beautiful ships!
Beautiful ships, keep away
From the great monster to-day!
Ho! the wild creature—the Sea!
Hungry and fierce he must be!

II.

Lo! the great monster, asleep,
Lying so quietly there!
Hear his low breathings so deep!
See the wind waving his hair!
Ho, little children, come near—
Come now and see him!—Don’t fear.
Touch his soft mane in your play,—
He will not harm you to-day.
Lo! the huge creature asleep—
Breathing so low and so deep!

A SAD CASE.

BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

Miss Dorothea Dimpleton, whenever she went out,
Held in her neatly mittened hand a silken reticule;
When she went to shop, to market, or to visit all about,
She carried it, as if upon her way to sewing-school.
’Twas always full, and yet her dearest friends had never heard
What ’twas full of, so they all agreed her conduct was absurd.

Miss Dorothea Dimpleton had early learned to sew;
She could hem, and fell, and overseam, could gather and could gore;
And she said, “This is an art that every woman ought to know,
But, alas! my sex disdains to learn the useful any more!
Yet I will not be discouraged; I will do my small endeavor,
And perchance I may prevent the art from being lost forever!”

So she filled with pretty “hussifs”[1] her ample reticule,
Each stocked with thimble, needlecase, and scissors, all complete,
And she stopped the little maidens on their way from morning school,
And to each of them she kindly gave a “hussif” fresh and neat,
And the little maids said, “Thank you, Ma’am!” and curtseyed to the
ground,
And then went and hid the “hussifs” where they seldom could be found.

Miss Dorothea Dimpleton felt very sure, at last,
That every little girl in town was sewing with a will;
And it was not till at least a year of feeling sure was past,
That she heard a truth so dreadful that it really made her ill:
Of all those lovely “hussifs” she had given in the place,
There had not been a needle in one single needle-case!

But that, you know, was years ago, before it had been said,
“Be sure you’re right, and” (please observe the “then”) “_then_ go
ahead!”

[1] “Hussif” (a contracted form of the word “house-wife”)was formerly used as a name for a little bag or case for holding sewing materials.

A LITTLE SEAMSTRESS.

BY MARY E. WILKINS.

She sat in her little rocking-chair, a-sighing and twirling her
thumbs:
“Oh, everything for my doll is done, and never to mending comes!
I haven’t a morsel of sewing!—Dear Mother, in all the town,
Can’t you find me one doll, no matter how small, who will wear out
her gown?”

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.