No More Learning

Trace the steps by which he
pictured the sunrise. Why did he not wonder at the belief of the
"ancient Magians"? What thought does cause amazement?




SPRING


Spring, with that nameless [v]pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair--
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods, the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court, with green festoons,
The banks of dark [v]lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree,
The blood is all aglee;
And there's a look about the leafless bowers,
As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still, on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange [v]semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.

[Illustration: The Woods in Spring]

As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.

In gardens, you may note, amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and showers need must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn,
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.

At times, a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech's heart,
A blue-eyed [v]Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
"Behold me! I am May! "

HENRY TIMROD.




AMONG THE CLIFFS


It was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind
among the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground.

The wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of
half-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still
for an instant. The world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the
mountain air tasted of the fresh [v]sylvan fragrance that pervaded the
forest, the foliage blamed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant
[v]Chilhowee heights were delicately blue.

That instant's doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys
stood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers
to a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The
flock took suddenly to wing,--a flash from among the leaves, the sharp
crack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and
down toward the valley.

The young mountaineer's exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He
came running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the
depths where his game had disappeared.

"Waal, sir," he broke forth pathetically, "this beats my time! If my
luck ain't enough ter make a horse laugh! "

He did not laugh, however; perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only
[v]equine risibility. The cliff was almost perpendicular; at the depth
of twenty feet a narrow ledge projected, but thence there was a sheer
descent, down, down, down, to the tops of the tall trees in the valley
far below.

As Ethan Tynes looked wistfully over the precipice, he started with a
sudden surprise. There on the narrow ledge lay the dead turkey.

The sight sharpened Ethan's regrets. He had made a good shot, and he
hated to relinquish his game. While he gazed in dismayed meditation, an
idea began to kindle in his brain. Why could he not let himself down to
the ledge by those long, strong vines that hung over the edge of the
cliff?

It was risky, Ethan knew, terribly risky. But then,--if only the vines
were strong!

He tried them again and again with all his might, selected several of
the largest, grasped them hard and fast, and then slipped lightly off
the crag.

He waited motionless for a moment. His movements had dislodged clods of
earth and fragments of rock from the verge of the cliff, and until these
had ceased to rattle about his head and shoulders he did not begin his
downward journey.

Now and then as he went he heard the snapping of twigs, and again a
branch would break, but the vines which supported him were tough and
strong to the last. Almost before he knew it, he stood upon the ledge,
and with a great sigh of relief he let the vines swing loose.

"Waal, that warn't sech a mighty job at last. But law, if it hed been
Peter Birt 'stid of me, that thar wild tur-r-key would hev laid on this
hyar ledge plumb till the Jedgmint Day! "

He walked deftly along the ledge, picked up the bird, and tied it to one
of the vines with a string which he took from his pocket, intending to
draw it up when he should be once more on the top of the crag. These
preparations complete, he began to think of going back.

He caught the vines on which he had made the descent, but before he had
fairly left the ledge, he felt that they were giving way.

He paused, let himself slip back to a secure foothold, and tried their
strength by pulling with all his force.

Presently down came the whole mass in his hands. The friction against
the sharp edges of the rock over which they had been stretched with a
strong tension had worn them through. His first emotion was one of
intense thankfulness that they had fallen while he was on the ledge
instead of midway in his [v]precarious ascent.

"Ef they hed kem down whilst I war a-goin' up, I'd hev been flung down
ter the bottom o' the valley, 'kase this ledge air too narrer ter hev
cotched me. "

He glanced down at the somber depths beneath. "Thar wouldn't hev been
enough left of me ter pick up on a shovel! " he exclaimed, with a tardy
realization of his foolish recklessness.

The next moment a mortal terror seized him. What was to be his fate? To
regain the top of the cliff by his own exertions was an impossibility.

He cast his despairing eyes up the ascent, as sheer and as smooth as a
wall, without a crevice which might afford a foothold, or a shrub to
which he might cling. His strong head was whirling as he again glanced
downward to the unmeasured [v]abyss beneath. He softly let himself sink
into a sitting posture, his heels dangling over the frightful depths,
and addressed himself resolutely to the consideration of the terrible
danger in which he was placed.

Taken at its best, how long was it to last? Could he look to any human
being for deliverance? He reflected with growing dismay that the place
was far from any dwelling, and from the road that wound along the ridge.
There was no errand that could bring a man to this most unfrequented
portion of the deep woods, unless an accident should hither direct some
hunter's step. It was quite possible, nay, probable, that years might
elapse before the forest solitude would again be broken by human
presence.

His brothers would search for him when he should be missed from
home,--but such boundless stretches of forest! They might search for
weeks and never come near this spot. He would die here, he would
starve,--no, he would grow drowsy when exhausted and fall--fall--fall!

He was beginning to feel that morbid fascination that sometimes seizes
upon those who stand on great heights,--an overwhelming impulse to
plunge downward. His only salvation was to look up. He would look up to
the sky.

And what were these words he was beginning to remember faintly? Had not
the [v]circuit-rider said in his last sermon that not even a sparrow
falls to the ground unmarked of God? There was a definite strength in
this suggestion. He felt less lonely as he stared resolutely at the big
blue sky. There came into his heart a sense of encouragement, of hope.
He would keep up as long and as bravely as he could, and if the worst
should come,--was he indeed so solitary? He would hold in remembrance
the sparrow's fall of Scripture.

He had so nerved himself to meet his fate that he thought it was a fancy
when he heard a distant step. But it did not die away, it grew more and
more distinct,--a shambling step that curiously stopped at intervals and
kicked the fallen leaves.

He sought to call out, but he seemed to have lost his voice. Not a sound
issued from his thickened tongue and his dry throat. The step came
nearer. It would presently pass. With a mighty effort Ethan sent forth
a wild, hoarse cry.

The rocks [v]reverberated it, the wind carried it far, and certainly
there was an echo of its despair and terror in a shrill scream set up on
the verge of the crag. Then Ethan heard the shambling step scampering
off very fast indeed.

The truth flashed upon him. It was some child, passing on an
unimaginable errand through the deep woods, frightened by his sudden
cry.

"Stop, bubby! " he shouted; "stop a minute! It's Ethan Tynes that's
callin' of ye. Stop a minute, bubby! "

The step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy
demanded, "Whar is ye, Ethan Tynes? "

"I'm down hyar on the ledge o' the bluff. Who air ye ennyhow? "

"George Birt," promptly replied the little boy. "What air ye doin' down
thar? I thought it was Satan a-callin' of me. I never seen nobody. "

"I kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key I shot. The vines bruk, an'
I hev got no way ter git up agin. I want ye ter go ter yer mother's
house, an' tell yer brother Pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb
up by. "

Ethan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a [v]celerity
in keeping with the importance of the errand. On the contrary, the step
was approaching the crag.

A moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the
broken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of
sharp, eager blue eyes. George Birt had carefully laid himself down on
his stomach, only protruding his head beyond the verge of the crag, that
he might not fling away his life in his curiosity.

"Did ye git it? " he asked, with bated breath.

"Git what? " demanded poor Ethan, surprised and impatient.

"The tur-r-key--what ye hev done been talkin' 'bout," said George Birt.

Ethan had lost all interest in the turkey.

"Yes, yes; but run along, bub. I mought fall off'n this hyar place,--I'm
gittin' stiff sittin' still so long,--or the wind mought blow me off.
The wind is blowing toler'ble brisk. "

"Gobbler or hen? " asked George Birt eagerly.

"It air a hen," said Ethan. "But look-a-hyar, George, I'm a-waitin' on
ye an' if I'd fall off'n this hyar place, I'd be ez dead ez a door-nail
in a minute. "

"Waal, I'm goin' now," said George Birt, with gratifying alacrity. He
raised himself from his [v]recumbent position, and Ethan heard him
shambling off, kicking every now and then at the fallen leaves as he
went.

Presently, however, he turned and walked back nearly to the brink of the
cliff. Then he prostrated himself once more at full length,--for the
mountain children are very careful of precipices,--snaked along
dexterously to the verge of the crag, and protruding his red head
cautiously, began to [v]parley once more, trading on Ethan's
necessities.

"Ef I go on this errand fur ye," he said, looking very sharp indeed,
"will ye gimme one o' the whings of that thar wild tur-r-key? "

He coveted the wing-feathers, not the joint of the fowl. The "whing" of
the domestic turkey is used by the mountain women as a fan, and is
considered an elegance as well as a comfort. George Birt [v]aped the
customs of his elders, regardless of sex,--a characteristic of very
small boys.

"Oh, go 'long, bubby! " exclaimed poor Ethan, in dismay at the
[v]dilatoriness and indifference of his [v]unique deliverer. "I'll give
ye both o' the whings. " He would have offered the turkey willingly, if
"bubby" had seemed to crave it.

"Waal, I'm goin' now. " George Birt rose from the ground and started off
briskly, [v]exhilarated by the promise of both the "whings. "

Ethan was angry indeed when he heard the boy once more shambling back.
Of course one should regard a deliverer with gratitude, especially a
deliverer from mortal peril; but it may be doubted if Ethan's gratitude
would have been great enough to insure that small red head against a
vigorous rap, if it had been within rapping distance, when it was once
more cautiously protruded over the verge of the cliff.

"I kem back hyar ter tell ye," the [v]doughty deliverer began, with an
air of great importance, and magnifying his office with an extreme
relish, "that I can't go an' tell Pete 'bout'n the rope till I hev done
kem back from the mill. I hev got old Sorrel hitched out hyar a piece,
with a bag o' corn on his back, what I hev ter git ground at the mill.
My mother air a-settin' at home now a-waitin' fur that thar corn-meal
ter bake dodgers with. An' I hev got a dime ter pay at the mill; it war
lent ter my dad las' week. An' I'm afeard ter walk about much with this
hyar dime; I mought lose it, ye know. An' I can't go home 'thout the
meal; I'll ketch it ef I do. But I'll tell Pete arter I git back from
the mill. "

"The mill! " echoed Ethan, aghast. "What air ye doin' on this side o' the
mounting, ef ye air a-goin' ter the mill? This ain't the way ter the
mill. "

"I kem over hyar," said the little boy, still with much importance of
manner, notwithstanding a slight suggestion of embarrassment on his
freckled face, "ter see 'bout'n a trap that I hev sot fur squir'ls. I'll
see 'bout my trap, an' then I hev ter go ter the mill, 'kase my mother
air a-settin' in our house now a-waitin' fur meal ter bake corn-dodgers.
Then I'll tell Pete whar ye air, an' what ye said 'bout'n the rope. Ye
must jes' wait fur me hyar. "

Poor Ethan could do nothing else.

As the echo of the boy's shambling step died in the distance, a
redoubled sense of loneliness fell upon Ethan Tynes. But he endeavored
to [v]solace himself with the reflection that the important mission to
the squirrel-trap and the errand to the mill could not last forever, and
before a great while Peter Birt and his rope would be upon the crag.

This idea [v]buoyed him up as the hours crept slowly by. Now and then he
lifted his head and listened with painful intentness. He felt stiff in
every muscle, and yet he had a dread of making an effort to change his
[v]constrained position. He might lose control of his rigid limbs, and
fall into those dread depths beneath.

His patience at last began to give way; his heart was sinking. The
messenger had been even more [v]dilatory than he was prepared to expect.
Why did not Pete come? Was it possible that George had forgotten to tell
of his danger. The sun was going down, leaving a great glory of gold and
crimson clouds and an [v]opaline haze upon the purple mountains. The
last rays fell on the bronze feathers of the turkey still lying tied to
the broken vines on the ledge.

And now there were only frowning masses of dark clouds in the west; and
there were frowning masses of clouds overhead. The shadow of the coming
night had fallen on the autumnal foliage in the deep valley; in the
place of the opaline haze was only a gray mist.

And presently there came, sweeping along between the parallel mountain
ranges, a somber raincloud. The lad could hear the heavy drops splashing
on the tree-tops in the valley, long, long before he felt them on his
head.

The roll of thunder sounded among the crags. Then the rain came down
tumultuously, not in columns but in livid sheets. The lightnings rent
the sky, showing, as it seemed to him, glimpses of the glorious
brightness within,--too bright for human eyes.

He clung desperately to his precarious perch. Now and then a fierce rush
of wind almost tore him from it. Strange fancies beset him. The air was
full of that wild [v]symphony of nature, the wind and the rain, the
pealing thunder, and the thunderous echo among the cliffs, and yet he
thought he could hear his own name ringing again and again through all
the tumult, sometimes in Pete's voice, sometimes in George's shrill
tones.

Ethan became vaguely aware, after a time, that the rain had ceased, and
the moon was beginning to shine through rifts in the clouds. The wind
continued unabated, but, curiously enough, he could not hear it now. He
could hear nothing; he could think of nothing. His consciousness was
beginning to fail.

George Birt had indeed forgotten him,--forgotten even the promised
"whings. " Not that he had discovered anything so extraordinary in his
trap, for it was empty, but when he reached the mill, he found that the
miller had killed a bear and captured a cub, and the orphan, chained to
a post, had deeply absorbed George Birt's attention.

To [v]sophisticated people, the boy might have seemed as [v]grotesque as
the cub. George wore an unbleached cotton shirt. The waistband of his
baggy jeans trousers encircled his body just beneath his armpits,
reaching to his shoulder-blades behind, and nearly to his collar-bone in
front. His red head was only partly covered by a fragment of an old
white wool hat; and he looked at the cub with a curiosity as intense as
that with which the cub looked at him. Each was taking first lessons in
natural history.

As long as there was daylight enough left to see that cub, did George
Birt stand and stare at the little beast. Then he clattered home on old
Sorrel in the closing darkness, looking like a very small pin on the top
of a large pincushion.

At home, he found the elders unreasonable,--as elders usually are
considered. Supper had been waiting an hour or so for the lack of meal
for dodgers. He "caught it" considerably, but not sufficiently to impair
his appetite for the dodgers. After all this, he was ready enough for
bed when a small boy's bedtime came. But as he was nodding before the
fire, he heard a word that roused him to a new excitement and
stimulated his memory.

"These hyar chips air so wet they won't burn," said his mother. "I'll
take my tur-r-key whing an' fan the fire. "

"Law! " he exclaimed. "Thar, now! Ethan Tynes never gimme that thar wild
tur-r-key's whings like he promised. "

"Whar did ye happen ter see Ethan? " asked Pete, interested in his
friend.
"Seen him in the woods, an' he promised me the tur-r-key whings. "

"What fur? " inquired Pete, a little surprised by this uncalled-for
generosity.

"Waal,"--there was an expression of embarrassment on the important
freckled face, and the small red head nodded forward in an explanatory
manner,--"he fell off'n the bluffs arter the tur-r-key whings--I mean,
he went down to the ledge arter the tur-r-key, and the vines bruk an' he
couldn't git up no more. An' he tole me that ef I'd tell ye ter fotch
him a rope ter pull up by, he would gimme the whings. That happened
a--leetle--while--arter dinner-time. "

"Who got him a rope ter pull up by? " demanded Pete.

There was again on the important face that indescribable shade of
embarrassment. "Waal,"--the youngster balanced this word judicially,--"I
forgot 'bout'n the tur-key whings till this minute. I reckon he's thar
yit. "

"Mebbe this hyar wind an' rain hev beat him off'n the ledge! " exclaimed
Pete, appalled and rising hastily. "I tell ye now," he added, turning to
his mother, "the best use ye kin make o' that boy is ter put him on the
fire fur a back-log. "

Pete made his preparations in great haste. He took the rope from the
well, asked the [v]crestfallen and browbeaten junior a question or two
relative to the place, mounted old Sorrel without a saddle, and in a few
minutes was galloping at headlong speed through the night.

The rain was over by the time he had reached the sulphur spring to which
George had directed him, but the wind was still high, and the broken
clouds were driving fast across the face of the moon.

By the time he had hitched his horse to a tree and set out on foot to
find the cliff, the moonbeams, though brilliant, were so [v]intermittent
that his progress was fitful and necessarily cautious. When the disk
shone out full and clear, he made his way rapidly enough, but when the
clouds intervened, he stood still and waited.

"I ain't goin' ter fall off'n the bluff 'thout knowin' it," he said to
himself, in one of these [v]eclipses, "ef I hev ter stand hyar all
night. "

The moonlight was brilliant and steady when he reached the verge of the
crag. He identified the spot by the mass of broken vines, and more
positively by Ethan's rifle lying upon the ground just at his feet. He
called, but received no response.

"Hev Ethan fell off, sure enough? " he asked himself, in great dismay and
alarm. Then he shouted again and again. At last there came an answer, as
though the speaker had just awaked.

"Pretty nigh beat out, I'm a-thinkin'! " commented Pete. He tied one end
of the cord around the trunk of a tree, knotted it at intervals, and
flung it over the bluff.

At first Ethan was almost afraid to stir. He slowly put forth his hand
and grasped the rope. Then, his heart beating tumultuously, he rose to
his feet.

He stood still for an instant to steady himself and get his breath.
Nerving himself for a strong effort, he began the ascent, hand over
hand, up and up and up, till once more he stood upon the crest of the
crag.

And, now that all danger was over, Pete was disposed to scold. "I'm
a-thinkin'," said Pete severely, "ez thar ain't a critter on this hyar
mounting, from a b'ar ter a copperhead, that could hev got in sech a
fix, 'ceptin' ye, Ethan Tynes. "

And Ethan was silent.

"What's this hyar thing at the end o' the rope? " asked Pete, as he began
to draw the cord up, and felt a weight still suspended.

"It air the tur-r-key," said Ethan meekly, "I tied her ter the e-end o'
the rope afore I kem up. "

"Waal, sir! " exclaimed Pete, in indignant surprise.

And George, for duty performed, was [v]remunerated with the two
"whings," although it still remains a question in the mind of Ethan
whether or not he deserved them.

CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.


=HELPS TO STUDY=

Tell what happened to Ethan Tynes one day when he was hunting. How
was he rescued? What qualities did Ethan show in his hour of trial?
Give your opinion of George Birt; of Pete. Find out all you can
about life in the mountains of East Tennessee.


SUPPLEMENTARY READING

The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains--Charles Egbert Craddock.
The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come--John Fox, Jr.
June--John Fox, Jr.




The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket's song, in the warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

JOHN KEATS.




A DEAL IN BEARS


When a whaling ship is beset in the ice of Davis Straits, there is
little work for her second engineer, once the engines have been nicely
tallowed down. Now, I am no man that can sit in his berth and laze. If
I've no work to do, I get a-thinking about my home at [v]Ballindrochater
and the ministry, which my father intended I should have adorned, and
what a fool I've made of myself, and this is depressing. I was not
over-popular already on the _Gleaner_ on account of some prophecies I
had made in anger, which had unfortunately come true. The crew, and the
captain, too, had come to fear my prophetic powers.

At last I bethought me of sporting on the ice. There was head-money
offered for all bears, foxes, seals, musk-oxen, and such like that were
shot and gathered. So I went to the skipper, and he gave me a Henry
rifle, well rusted, and eight cartridges.

"Show me you can use those, McTodd," says he, "and I'll give you more. "

I made a big mistake with that rusty old gun. I may be a sportsman, but
before that I'm an engineer, and it seemed to me that Heaven sent metal
into this world to be kept bright and clean. So I took the rifle all to
pieces and made the parts as smooth and sweet as you'd see in a
gun-maker's shop, barring rust-pits, and gave them a nice daubing of oil
against the Arctic weather. Then I put on some thick clothes I had
made, and all the other clothes I could get loaned me, and climbed out
over the rail on to the [v]floe.

The _Gleaner_ lay in a bay some two miles from the shore, and let me
tell you, if you do not know it, that Arctic ice is no skating-rink.
There are great hills, and knolls, and bergs, and valleys spread all
over, and even where it's about level, the underfoot is as hard going as
a newly-metalled road before the steam-roller has passed over it.

The air was clear enough when I left the bark, and though the [v]mercury
was out of use and coiled up snugly in the bulb, it wasn't as cold as
you might think, for just then there was no wind. It's a breeze up in
the Arctic that makes you feel the chill. There was no sun, of course;
there never is sun up there in that dreary winter: but the stars were
burning blue and clear, and every now and then a big [v]catherine wheel
of [v]aurora would show off, for all the world like a firework
exhibition.

My! but it was lonely, though, once you had left the ship behind! There
was just the scrunching of your feet on the frost [v]rime, and not
another sound in the world. Even the ice was frozen too hard to squeak.
And overhead in that purple-black Heaven you never knew Who was looking
down at you. Out there in that cold, bare, black, icy silence, I had
occasion to remember that Neil Angus McTodd had been a sinner in his
time, and it made me shiver when I glanced up toward those blue, cold
stars and the deep purple darkness that lay between and behind them.

It may be that I was thinking less of my hunting than was advisable, for
of a sudden I woke up to the sound of heavy feet padding over the crisp
frost rime. I turned me round sharply enough, but as far as the dim
light carried there was nothing alive to be seen through the gloom. As
soon as I stopped, the footsteps stopped, too, and I don't mind
admitting that my scalp tickled.

However, when I'd hauled up the hammer of the Henry, and it dropped into
position with a good, wholesome _cluck_, my nervousness very soon
filtered out. There's a comfort about a heavy-bore rifle like a
Henry--which is the kind always used by whalers and sealers--that you
can't get from those fancy little guns. And then, as it seemed that the
animal, whatever it might be, wasn't going to move till I did, I
shuffled my high sealskin boots on the crisp snow to make believe that I
was tramping again.

The creature started after me promptly. It was hard to tell the
direction, because every sound in that icy silence was echoed by a
thousand bergs and hummocks of ice; but presently from behind a small
splintered ridge of the floe there strolled out what seemed to me the
largest bear in the Arctic regions. You must know that the night air
there has a [v]deceptive light--it enlarges things--and the beast
appeared to me as standing some five feet six inches high at the
shoulder, and measuring some twenty feet from nose to tail.

There was myself and there was the bear in the dark middle of that awful
loneliness, with no one to interfere; and as there was only one of us to
get home, I preferred it should not be he. So I took a brace on myself,
and stood with the Henry ready to fire.

There was nothing you might call [v]diffidence about that bear. He
slouched along up to me at a steady walk, with the hair and skin on him
swinging about as though it was too large for his carcass and he was
wearing a misfit. He seemed to look upon me as dinner, and no hurry
needful. There was a sort of calm certainty about him that made me
angry.

I was not what you might call a marksman in those days, and so I set a
bit of [v]hummock about ten yards off as a limit where I could not very
conveniently miss, and waited until the bear should come opposite that.
Well, he came to it right enough in his own time. There was, as I have
said before, no diffidence about the creature. And then I raised the
Henry and fired her off.

_Cluck_ went the hammer on the nipple, but there was no bang.

My! it was a misfire, and there was the bear coming down on me as steady
and unconcerned as a [v]traction engine! I clawed out that cartridge
and crammed in another. The bitter cold of the metal skinned my fingers
like escaping steam. Then I cocked the gun again, shouldered it, and
pulled trigger again.

Once more she wouldn't go off!

The bear was now nearly on top of me and was beginning to rear on its
hind legs. Somehow the rifle came into my hand muzzle-end, and I hit the
great brute across the eyes with the butt hard enough to have felled an
ox.

I might as well have struck it with a cane. _Whack_ came a big
yellow-white paw, the Henry went flying, and my wrists tingled with the
jar; and there was I left looking, I've no doubt you'll think, very
humorous.

The bear might have finished me then if it had chosen. But it must needs
turn aside to go snuffling at the rifle and lick the oil off the locks.
I turned and footed it.

Now, at the best of times, I am no [v]sprinter, and in the great
mountain of clothes one wears up there in the cold Arctic night, no man
can make much speed. Besides, the way was that uneven it was a case of
hands and scramble more often than plain running over the sharp, spiky
level.

The bear, once he had finished his snuffle and lick at the Henry, came
on at a dreadful pace, making nothing of those obstacles that balked
me,--he had been born up there, you know. He laid himself out--I could
see over my shoulder--like one of those American trotting horses, caring
nothing for the ups and downs and ankle-breaking ice. In about two
shakes he was snorting at my heels again, till I could almost feel his
hot breath. The bundle of clothes hampered me. I stripped off my outer
over-all and let it drop behind me.

The bear stopped and snuffed that, but I didn't stay to watch him. I got
a good fifty [v]fathoms ahead of him whilst he was thus occupied. But
presently, when he'd got all his satisfaction out of that, on he comes
again, and I had to give him my coat. I hadn't a chance of equaling him
in pace, but the trick with the clothing never tired him. Fifty fathoms
was the least gain I made over a single piece, and as I got lower down
toward my skin he stayed over the clothes longer.

But still the _Gleaner_ was a long way off, over very tumbled ice, and
there I was careering on in a costume which was barely enough for
decency, and certainly insufficient for the climate.

However, it was little enough the bear cared for such refinements as
those. I stripped off my last garment as I ran, and gained nigh on two
hundred yards whilst he investigated it; and there were the bark's upper
spars showing above the hummocks half a mile away, with me in nothing
but my long seal-skin boots!

But there was no help for it. Up came the hot breath behind me, and I
leaned up against a hummock and stripped off a boot. I hailed the
_Gleaner_ with what breath I had left, but no one gave heed. Away went
the other boot, and there I was running, mother-naked, over the jagged
floe, leaving blood on every footmark.

Right up to the vessel did the outrageous beast chase me, and then when
I got on board and called for guns, it slunk away into the shadows of a
berg and was seen no more. My feet were cut to the bone; I was
frost-nipped in twenty places, and you may imagine I had had a poor
enough time of it. But the thought of that canvas over-all which I had
thrown away first kept me cheerful. It was indeed a very humorous
circumstance. Ye see it was a borrowed one.

I got down below to a berth, and the steward, who was rated as a doctor,
tended me. But Captain Black put sourness on the whole affair. He came
down to my bunk and said, "Where's that Henry? "

"Lying quiet on the ice," said I.

"Do you mean to say you left that rifle behind? My rifle! "

"I did that same. The thing wasn't strong enough to fire a cartridge. I
tried two. "

And then Black used violent and unjustifiable language. I was in no
condition to give him a fair exchange. Besides, I made an unfortunate
admission. I owned up to taking the rifle apart and cleaning her. I
owned up, too, that I'd been free with the oil.

Black stuck out his face at me, and his fringe of beard fairly bristled.

"And you call yourself an engineer! You talk about having gone through
the shops! Put your filthy engine-room oil on my Henry's locks, would
you? Why, you idiot, have you yet to learn that oil freezes up here as
hard as cheese, and you've made up the lock space of that poor rifle
into one solid chunk? "

"I never thought of that. "

"To look at your face, you've yet to start thinking at all. "

So we had it out, and as I was now aroused, I gave him some words on the
inefficient way he ran his ship. At last I threatened to prophesy again,
and this cooled him off. I offered to go hunting bears for him and he
became quite polite.

"I'll make you an offer touching those bears," he said. "For every skin
you bring here aboard, I'll give you seven shillings [v]bonus above your
share as a member of the ship's company. I'll give you another rifle,
two rifles if you like, and a fine bag of cartridges. But, you beggar, I
make one condition. You take yourself off and away from the ship to do
your hunting. You may make yourself a snow house to stay in, and live on
the meat you kill. "

"You wish to murder me? "

"I wish to be rid of you, and that's the truth. Man, I believe you're
Jonah resurrected. We've had no luck since first you put your foot on my
deck planks. And, what's more, the crew is of my way of thinking. So,
refuse my offer, and I'll put you in irons and keep you there till I can
fling you ashore at [v]Dundee. "

Now there is no doubt Black meant what he said, and so I did not waste
dignity by arguing with him. I had no taste for the irons, and as for
being turned out on the ice--well, I had a plan ahead. But I didn't
intend to leave Black more comfortable than I could help.

So I shut my eyes and said that the ship would have very bad luck that
winter, that there would be much sickness aboard. (This was an easy
guess. ) I said, considering this fact, I was glad to leave such an
unwholesome ship.

The crew were just aching to get rid of me. This prophesying sort of
grows on a man; once you've started it, you've got to go on with it at
all costs, and I could no more resist just letting my few remarks slip
round amongst the men than I can resist eating when I'm hungry.

The nerves of the _Gleaner_ people were in strings from the cold and the
blackness of the Arctic night, and it put the horrors on the lot of
them. The one thing they wanted was to see the last of me. They gave me
almost anything I fancied, but my means of transport were small. There
was a bit of a sledge, which I packed with some food, two Henry rifles
and a few tools, five hundred cartridges, and the clothes I stood in. No
more could be taken.

Then I went on deck into the bitter cold and over the side, and stood on
the ice, ready to start on my journey. The crew lined the rail to see me
off, and I can tell you their faces were very different. The older ones
were savage and cared little how soon Jonah might die. The younger ones
were crying to see a fellow driven away into that icy loneliness, far
from shelter.

But for myself I didn't care. I had method in all this performance. Soon
after we were beset in the ice, a family of Esquimaux had come on the
_Gleaner_ to pay a polite call and get what they could out of us. They
were that dirty you could have chipped them with a scaling hammer, but
they were very friendly. One buck who stepped down into the engine
room--[v]Amatikita, he said his name was--had some English, and came to
the point as straight as anything.

"Give me a [v]dlink, Cappie," says he.

"This is a dry ship," says I.

"Plenty dlink in that box," says he, handling an oil-can.

"Oh, if that's what you want, take it," I told him, and he clapped the
nozzle between his lips, and sucked down a gill of [v]cylinder
lubricating oil as though it had been water.

"You seem to like it," I said; "have some more. "

But that was his fill. He thanked me and asked me to visit his village
when I could get away from the ship.