MRTG o ee Ss S4larys Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1875, by Streat & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress. Washington, D. C. PORES WEEE j Noes 22, 29 - _ ree. a NEW YORK NOVEM BER Diy) Dhree Dollars Per Year.| FRANCIS S. STREET, ‘ ; ee esis alice Es ch gin | tag eas oe Two Copies Five Dollars. No. + BY MARY E. LAMBERT. Last night, while others slept, I at my window stood, And looking forth, I saw the hali-grown moon Bathe her pale beams in bosom of the sea, Then light the trees that waved in far-off wood. All seemed so silent, scarce a sound I heard— Upon the water, ships distant, with white sails, Moved like pale phantoms, while from out the wood Came chirps of crickets and faint call of bird. Ddlapttipenannil And as I watched, there fell a sudden chill Dpon my senses; all the warm blood That lately coursed so mildly through my veins Seemed frozen, and with one great throb stood still. The very moen seemed white to grow with cold— Huge mountains rose from out the northern sea Of froshy clouds, like icebergs tipped with snow, Until they seemed the broad space to infold. As I still gazed, I saw an artist hand | Paint all the trees in rarest, richest hues— { Brown, scarlet, gold; indeed, the very grass | Changed its bright green at touch of mystic wand | { } I wondered would the skillful artist spread His colors rare upon my fading flowers! When morning came I hied me to their side, | And lo! the work was done=my flowers were dead! Preak-Neck Ben, | THE BOY PIONEER. — OR, — FRONTIER LIFE IN MINNESOTA. By Frank H, Stauffer. Author of “FANCHET, THE FAWN,” ete., etc. CHAPTER I. LOST ON THE PRAIRIE, “Christie! Christie!” Break-Neck Ben made a speaking trumpet -of his freckled hands, and called his sister through the lonely glen. She was not in sight, to be sure; but things that are not in sight are sometimes within hearing. Such was not the case this time, nor with her, however; for no reply came, though he called re- peatedly, and more loudly each time. He was a short, thick-set little fellow, muscular in development, quick in movement, keen in vision, settled in his purposes. Hair bushy, cheeks swarthy, eyes bright, mouth large, face honest and—ugly. Little Christie, however, did not think him ugly; nor did anybody else, once they became acquainted with him, for he was brave, polite, thoughtful, and good-natured, and at sixteen had pulled through rougher experiences than many men do in half a life- time. He wore a bear-skin cap, round as a bullet, and without any peak, which, perhaps, was the reason his face was so freckled. He had on a knit blouse, entire to be sure, but well patched, and with pockets on the hips large enough to carry a good luncheon. His pantaloons were sustained by a belt ofleather, to which hung @ sheath-knife. His boots came up to his knees, and were heavy and hob-nailed, and as broad and flat-footed as army shoes. , There wasn’t a lazy bone in his body, nor a par- ticke offear in his composition. He could read, write, and cipher, and was ‘‘chuck full of a hard day’s work.” The backwoodsmen called him Break-Neck Ben; not because he ever broke other people’s necks, but because he frequently risked his own. He rode the wildest horses, swam the deepest streams, climbed the highest trees, penetrated the thickest forests, and pushed across the broadest prairies—a little recklessly so, but always with sa- gacity. Somebody has said that boys go through the world either petted or pelted. It was not the case with Ben. He would not be petted, though he liked praise, as every boy does; and whenever he was pelted he managed to pelt back as much as he could. Not just the Sunday-school code, to be sure, but there were no Sunday-schools near where Ben lived, He didn’t set himself up is a saint, and yet was con- siderably below the average of little sinners. Christie was his sister. She often wandered from the cottage, but she seldom went so far, and never stayed so late—for it was almost dusk. The sunlight was slanting over the hills, the cows were coming across the prairie to be milked, a team- ster was guiding his ox-cart along a bridle-path on his way‘home, afew ‘black clouds were looming up on the herizon: The birds were keeping up a great racket in the tree-tops, just as if they all wanted to roost on the same limb. Padded feet were causing:the dry twigs to crackle, and by-and-by, as the night deepened, fiery eye-balls would glare through the thickets. You see, boys, all this was out in ‘the wilds of Minnesota, a good many years ago, and before she had been taken into the family of States on a prom- fse of good behavior. The towns of St. Paul and. St. Cloud weren’t loca- ted; Mendota was a. little trading post; then Fort Snelling was one.of the strongest forts on the fron- tier, now it is as useless as a swallow’s nest, for the frontier is three hundred miles further on. Break-Neck Ben called again and again, then set his head to one side and listened. But he heard nothing but the echo of his voice among the rocks and trees, and a sound that might have been the baying of wolves. He was beginning to become alarmed about his little sister. He glanced back at the cottage, which Y SSG Wt (nlite at BO 1875. FRANCIS S. SMITH. ; Y]- iy MEY - = QY (le ; a Uj. \ } Se a X f/ é Se Lote Strong, muscular fingers grasped him, and dragged him ecross the boulder It was built of logs and rough hewn shingles, with | father and mother sat down to the supper table; not a chimney that covered half the gable, and a cone- shaped roof over the door to shed the rain. Morning glories festooned door-irame and win- dows, and verbenas, petumias and nasturtiums bloomed in the beds fringed with boxwood. His mother was taking in the clothes from a strip of line; his father, in his shirt-sleeves, was carrying a pail of swill to the pigs; the chickens were mount- ing the slats which led to their roosts. Next Ben glanced down the glen, and it looked dark and dangerous; but he did not care for that while thinking of Christie. Into the shadows he plunged—calling her—-calling her! Past the bluff of jagged rocks—calling her! Over the noisy, low-bedded brook—calling her! Through the long, rank grass—calling her! But no answer came back. The echoes of his to eat, but to talk and wat until Ben came back with little Christie. It grew dark rapidly; there was no moon; the black clouds were driftingup from the horizon. Mrs. Brentwood pushel aside the window cur- tains; after a while sheit the fat-lamp; then Mr. Brentwood went to the der. He looked across. the pairie, he strained. his eyes into the glen. He took jut his pipe, but did not light it, for he was more ineasy about the children than he cared to let on. He waited, watched,. vhistled, then he walked back into the room. Hestood’by the fire-place, his hands behind him, and lis eyes wandering toward the little clock. “T can’t think, Mary, mat keeps the children.” He spoke quietly, butthe fact of his uneasiness was not tobe hidden fom her. Her face grew voice mocked him. Darker grew the night, deepet \ vhite, then all the color 'eturned to it. He saw her grew the underwood, lonelier grew the way. of Ben, of course, had alast name, and that Brentwood. Break-Neck Ben Brentwood! A sw name because there were so many bees in it, used to say. His father’s name was John, and he had built the little cottage, rough-hewing the logs, cutting the shingles, and laying the chimney-place, Ben helping him, of course.,® looked very pretty in the gathering twilight. The pigs fed and the clothes carried in, Ben’s ylips flutter. “She is’ praying in silace,” he thought. ‘She always gets her strengh in that way. I’ve heard the parson talk about a. abundant entrance into Heaven. Whether he mant that the gates would be swung ‘wide open, Oo whether there would be agladder welcome tha ordinary, I don’t know. 3ut if anybody gets intc Heaven in that way it will be my wife, Mary.” RMN PARI MII SRE FETT The wife trimmed te lamp, then took up her BITTE EI ie ii knitting. Twenty minutes passed, and then John Brentwood again walked to the door. Though streaks of red were visible low in the west, it was quite dark, for a storm was brooding. Heavy black clouds .were scudding by overhead, and a damp, misty smell went by on the wind. The raccoon quayered his. notes in the, hollows; the wolves bayed on the slopes; the horses pawed restlessly;. the cattle lowed; the leaves rustled like dry corn-shucks. John Brentwood shook his head, and tightened the belt around his waist. The low, distant rumbling of thunder was heard, a stream of lightning flamed across the sky, the wind whistled angrily, a drop of rain fell on the back of his hand, then another on his cheek. “Tt is going to be a bad night,” he muttered, with a Shake of his head. ‘‘Benis game, and slow to give in, but he should‘have been back with Christie ere this.” Into the cottage he strode. ‘‘Mary, I must go after the children,” he said. His voice was grave,. but not quite steady. His wife lifted her face, and there was a quiver of pain in it. “Ben is strong and, brave,” she said. will take care of them.” “J know, Mary,” replied he, trying to seem satis- fied. ‘‘But they will. get, wet. , There’s an ugly storm coming up, and Christie isn’t very strong, you know. Ben hasn’t found her, or he would be back. He isa sensible boy, and wouldn’t dally, lest we should become needlessly alarmed.” He took down his rifle from behind the chimney, examined the cap, then slipped a piece of buckskin over the hammer. Then from the mantel he took a lantern; he saw that there was a candle in it, and matches in the tube soldered to the bottom of it. His wife watched him, her lips again fluttering. She wasn’t very strong, nor very brave, but she trusted in the Lord, and He hath said: ‘‘He who putteth his trust in me shall be safe.” “Mary,” said Mr. Brentwood, ‘‘get me Christie’s hood and cape. And some doughnuts, Mary, to put in my overcoat-pocket. The little chit will be half famished.” ‘ “You'll take Dollie, John ?”’ She meant the mare—fleet as an. Arab. steed, as tough and gentle as a Shetland pony. ‘To be sure, dear,’ said he. ‘‘The children can ride her double-back, while I walk. Why, bless “Heaven RAT AN TS a PS IE RED your heart, if she comes within thirty yards of them, however dark it may be, she’ll whinny. Get the things, Mary.” The mother got the hood, cape, and doughnuts, and tied them up into a small parcel. The tather put on his overcoat and fastened the little bundle to one of the great horn buttons. Then he bent and kissed his wife; he had to bend, he was such a giant of a fellow, however squatty Ben was. ‘John, you are more uneasy about the children than you let on,” she said. ‘Do you think so?” asked he, He laughed; but it was not a natural laugh, and she was not deceived by it. “There is no doubt but I'll find them,’ he contin- ued. ‘I’ll saddle Dollie, then ride to the door, and you can hand me the rifle.” He lighted the lantern and, strode out to the sta- ble, which was a long, low shed, thatched with straw, and capable of stalling half-a-dozen cattle. Dollie heard his step, and saw the flash of the lan- tern, and whinnied. He entered the stable, sad- dled her, brought her out, and vaulted upon her back. She pawed, neighed, then shied at a brigh flash of lightning. ‘ “Steady, Dolly!” said John Brentwood, settling himself in the saddle, and pulling hard on the rein, a hint to her that it was best for her to mind. He rode to the door of the cottage. The light from the lantern gleamed across the pale, anxious face of the wite. ‘Here is your rifle, John,” she said, her hands up- lifted; ‘‘your powder-flask and shot-pouch, too.” “Sure enough, Mary,’’ replied he, as he took the ar- ticles. “And now thatI think ofit, you may hand me the shell‘trumpet off the mantel. I may be able to make Ben hear, when I can’t see him.” The wife brought the sea-shell, and he blew ablast on it that made the woodsring. The mare shook her head and snorted, not relishing the noise. m “John, had you not better put out the lantern?’ anxious- ly asked the wife. ‘‘The mare will pick her way.’? “You are afraid that the light will make;yme a mark for the redskins, eh? There haven’t been any about for months. Still, I'l oblige you.’’ He blew out the light, and she was startled at the dark- ness, “Good-by, darling,’’ he said. . ‘Don’t worry.” “God's love aud watchfulness go with you,’’ she rever- ently said. He rode out upon the prairie in a brisk trot, a flash of lightning now and then revealing horse and rider, lessen- ing ip the distance. . The rain beat in Mrs, Brentwood’s face, and the wind seemed to cut like a-knife, so she entered the cottage and closed the door after her. John Brentwood: found it rough enough on the prairie. The grass was almost up to his stirrups, and was wet and heavy; there were no knolls or groves to break the winds the rain beat down swiftly, slantwise, saucily; the light- ning fiared blindingly, and crash of thunder followed crash. He drew his deer-skin cap far over his forehead, and put up the collar of his coat. “Sailors would call this ‘nasty’ weather,” he muttered, “Jt is not fit for an old settler like myself to be out in, let alone two children, one of whom is not much more than ababy. Mercy! If little Christie should be lying in a gulch, wet, draggled, bleeding, famished, dead.” The thought made him shudder. He compressed his lips, and .giving the reins a jerk, struck off at almost 2 right angle. “Dl skirt the prairie now,” he thought, be on a line witli some of the ravines. ‘and then Fi The blast from the If it reaches gea-shell will be heard ata greater distance. ‘ en coo THE NEW YORK WEEKLY, tie ——— enemas Ben’s ears he will recognie it and signal in some way.”? The verge of the praiite reached, he placed the shell to his lips and blew @ louder blast than was ever blown at castle gate, He bent forward and listened. He heard the die-away echo, the patter of the rain on his person, the whir ofa Startled partridge, the flutter of the leavés, the breathing of the mare. But no reply from Ben. On he rode, ever and anon blowing his shell-bugle; but no news of Ben or Ohristie. On he rode, the mare flinging the black loam about her, or striking sparks of fire from the rocks, the wind sough- ing, the lightaing flaring, the thunder roaring and crash- ing, the rain beating down, Birds fluttered on their roosts, frogs croaked in the marshes, ewls hooted dismally, foxes filtted by in the White mist, wolves glared and grinned, ‘le blew the shell trumpet until his lips were swollen; he called antil his throat was hoarse; he waited and iis- tened, Wo sign or sound came from the lost ones, He crossed a brook almost deep enough for the mare to Swiin, and at dusk it had been a mere rivulet. Whemare snorted asshe pulled up the wet, shelving ank-on the opposite side, theu she shied, stopped, aud trembled in every limb. Something living was just akead—seen by the mareand felt*by the rider. Was it bear or brigand ? Gouger or Comanche? Ghoul or ghost? Was it Ben flung from the roaring brook? Was it Qhristie, with white, dead face, tangled hair, and frayed dress? Why didn’t the lightning flare up just then, so that the startied rider might see? OHAPTER It. THE WHIR OF AN ARROW, What was just ahead? An inexplainable sensation crept over John Brent- Wood; it was not fear, but lt was more unpleasant and unnerving than fear. He settled his feet well in the stir- ups; he did not speak to the mare, but he patted her en- couragingly on the neck. p She planted her feet in the black mire, quivered, pricked her ears, snorted—then neighed. Another horse neighed an reply, not five yards ahead, Son Brenutwood’s uneasiness subsided. He was ready to battle with anything alive and human. He filled his Jungs, put the shell to his swollea Jips, and blew a blast that would have split the throat of some of Gideon’s men. There was a pitch, a snort, a growled oath, then a deep Voice cried out: “Standi—iman or demon! White?! “White as yourself, Joe Ellis,’ responded John Brent- wood, recoguizing the yoice, and feeling still more re- lieved. “Thats John Brentwood, Vil swar,’’ came back through the blackress, in ayoiee as stropg as an auctioneer’s, “When you biewed your nose that ar way, l war nigh Sent over my horse’s head. L[tho’t I'd rid rignt intoa camp of the red varmints. Don’t blow your hose agin that ar way without givin’ me some kind of warnin’.”’ Mr. Brentwood jaughed, urged the mare threugh the matied grass, and soon the avimals were rubbing their noses together. i ; “What are you doing eut ‘to-night, Joe?’ asked Mr. Brentwood. “Makin? a fool of myself, I dar’ say. I war ridin’ over to Sandy * gs, but nothin’ of this ar storm war made menshun ofin my almanic. The water’s raanin’ out of the top of my boots, an’? they feel as heavy as lead. I Warjust thinkin’ of cutting it for your hut, Knowin’ I’d be welcome. What are you doin’ out??? ‘After the children, Joe. Little Christie strayed away from the-cabin; then Ben went in search of her, and Beither of them’s got in,”’ “‘Merey sakes!’ exclaimed. Joe Hilis. ‘Brentwood, you Gon’t mean to suy ‘that the childer are out in this ar storny?” ; ‘ “7 am afraid so.” “Well, mayn’t be so bad arter all, neighbor,’ re- jolnedthe- other, rather condolingly. ‘You see, that ar - Ben oftyourn would take to cover. He’scunnin’, gritty, 5gperlenced—a boy-man, with a bigger allowance of brains than’s commonly distributed to boys in these parts."’ “Ben is a rigitsmart boy, Joe, if 1 do-say it inyself; but itis: not him lum worried about. Yousee, 1 am notsure that he has found:Christie.” ust then the lightning hung for a second or two in the sky, a broad, quivering sleet of fame, dimly revealing the two-riders, 7 Soe Ellis sat upon arough, rain-drenched horse, shag- gy-maned, with less speed than bottom—a fair sample of the! English cob, Soe himself was a lean, lank, slab-sided fellow, encased in-eeer-skin, his chest seemingly so narrow that one won- dered how his voice could be so deep and strong. Whe rim of his slouch hat shed the-rain in every direc- tion. A}l of his face seemed to be beard save the very brown forehead and the little twinkling eyes.