Tom retired to bed the night after his mother had confided to him the history of his father’s business trials, feeling that she had conferred an honor upon him in thus sharing with him her life-secret, and that he understood his parents as he never did before. He was conscious, also, that she had put him under new obligation to be always frank with her, as she had been with him; that she had, in fact, made the obligation very sacred, for he realized that it was an act of condescension in her thus to make him the repository of her secrets, while to share his with her was but the duty of a child, and for his own advantage. And he thought, “How can I now desert the family for any imaginary good, and leave her to reproach me by her patient cross-bearing for dear father and the children’s sake?”

It cost him a bitter struggle to act in accordance with this view. In the darkness of the night he wrestled long and hard to put down the wish to free himself from the burden that was now laid 106 upon his conscience. He, the squatter’s son, in his wretched life, had built up a golden future for himself, as the ambitious young, of every condition, are sure to do when once the heart is roused to wish, and the mind to plan, for great things. And now, to give it all up, and come down to the cheerless drudgery of home-service in such a home,–it could not be expected that he could do this, only after a severe conflict with his own nature, if at all. It is true his mother had exhorted him to wait for Providence to open the door before him. But he could not help recalling, with an aching heart, through how many long, weary years she had waited; and what door of relief had been opened for her? And was she not a thousand fold more deserving of such an interposition than he? He reflected on this point till his brain was in a whirl; the more he pondered the matter, the darker it seemed.

“I am called,” he reasoned, “to keep by the family if I never see brighter days–that’s the meaning of her words, and the demands of my lot. Am I ready to do this–to be true to duty, if it involves, as it has to her, poverty, seclusion from privileges, toil, suffering, obscurity?”

He knew that he ought thus to decide, and to decide cheerfully. But he could not. He tried again and again to reach the decision only to recoil from it. His will was powerless to calm 107 the rebellion within. Ah, the pioneer’s ragged son had been precipitated into a solemn moral crisis, which tested him, and showed him how weak he was! The tumult of feeling, and sharpness of the battle, had, at length, cast him into utter despair, when his mother’s remark concerning his father’s mistake in setting about getting rich by the strength of his own will, abruptly recurred to him.

“What did she mean by that?” he asked; and he sat bolt upright in bed to consider the point.

He could not, however, quite master the idea, and wished his mother was awake, that she might explain herself. Then his mind returned to the subject, and lo, the mist rolled away, and the truth shone out.

“I see it: father should have sought direction and strength of God. And that is just what I ought to do. He can give me grace to perform my duty,–yes, even to choose it.”

And Tom, under the inspiration of the light that was breaking in upon his soul, resolved,–

“I’ll ask God to enable me to do as mother has advised, and as I see to be right in the circumstances.”

And covering his face with his hands, he lifted up his heart in prayer. As he prayed, a heavenly peace seemed to pervade his whole being. It stole upon him so gently and unexpectedly, that 108 he felt like shouting praises to God; and at last, unable to keep his marvellous happiness to himself, he called, softly,–

“Mother, mother!”

“What do you wish, my son?” she asked, always ready to answer her children’s calls.

“O, mother,” he replied, “I have been struggling and praying, and I’ve got the victory.”

Instantly she was kneeling on the rough floor by his side,–she understood him,–and tears of grateful joy ran down her face, and she said,–

“It is as I would have it, Tom. God has taken you up, and all will be well.”

Next morning Tom arose with a peaceful, serious face. His mother did not allude to the happy change that had transpired within him during the night, but as she busied herself about breakfast, she would occasionally wipe away the tears, for her heart was full.

“Mother,” said he, as they finished their frugal meal, “I’ve been thinking it would be a good plan to get up all the wood we can while the weather is pleasant. Winter’ll be coming along by and by, and it’ll be so nice to have a warm fire all the time then, and not have to wade through the snow after something to burn.”

“Yes,” she replied, “we have not had our Indian summer yet; and while that lasts we shall 109 use but little fuel, and if you and the children are smart, you can get quite a pile ahead.”

“Why is the beautiful spell we have in fall called Indian summer?” he asked.

“Because,” replied his mother, “the Indians were in the habit of attacking the white settlements then; they don’t go on their war expeditions after cold weather sets in. And,” she added, sighing, “I shall be glad when snow comes, for I shall feel that we are safe until spring opens.”

“The Allens are dreadful mad about their cattle,” remarked Tom. “The old man tracked them to a ravine in the woods, and found that his oxen had been killed and dressed: the horns and hide lay on the ground, and the blood was scarcely cold, but not an Indian was to be seen. He couldn’t even find a trail, and he’s an old Indian-fighter, you know.”

“Have any Indians been seen near here, since?”

“Yes; Mr. Payson, the missionary, saw one the other morning as he was going from Root River settlement to Slough Creek. He was passing the Norwegian’s cabin, near the grove, when suddenly a Sioux galloped by on his pony, giving a loud whoop as he rode out of sight. And Mrs. Pingry had a great scare. Her husband was away after supplies, and she was alone about her work, when the door opened and an Indian stalked 110 in and took a seat. Pretty soon a second came, and did the same, and then another; until a dozen sat round the room, silently smoking their pipes. She says she knew by their manner and the way they were painted that they intended mischief. She determined, however, not to appear frightened, and went on with her work. Soon one of them got up and broke open her husband’s trunk, and then the rest fell to rummaging the house, helping themselves to whatever they wished; and she was expecting they would next assault her, when, to her relief, she heard the barking of a dog, and the rumbling of wheels, at which the savages took alarm, and in a moment were gone.”

“And what,” asked Mrs. Jones, “do the settlers think of this?”

“O, they only laugh about it. They don’t expect any serious trouble. They say that the chiefs have had a grand talk with the government agent, and declare that they wish to be on good terms with us. But some of our people do all they can to provoke the Indians, and say they would like to have a brush with the red-skins!”

“But what’s that?” he exclaimed, as loud shouts and the barking of dogs broke on their ears. Mrs. Jones and Tom hurried to the door, and saw some men and boys chasing a large animal across the prairie.

“A bear! a bear!” cried a neighbor, rushing 111 breathlessly up to Tom, saying, “Is your father at home? Tell him to come on, and we’ll pepper his carcass!” and without waiting for an answer, or explaining whose carcass he meant, he hastened after the others.

The creature that they were pursuing was so fat that he did not run very swiftly, and the dogs gained on him; aware of which, he was making desperate efforts to gain the shelter of a small grove not far off, while stringing along for quite a distance behind were his pursuers. Some were hatless, a few had guns, but most were armed with pitchforks or clubs; and one man, in his zeal, carried a piece of rusty stove-pipe, although what use he proposed to put it to in capturing Bruin, it was difficult to imagine, unless he intended, should Bear gain the grove, to smoke him out with it. The truth is, he was putting up a stove in his cabin when the cry of “Bear, bear,” interrupted his labors, and he joined the chase, forgetting that he held anything in his hand. He was wiry, lank, and long-legged, with sandy hair that came down straight and thin upon his shoulders, and being without his coat, with pants that reached only half way between his knees and ankles, he cut a ludicrous figure as he straddled on, followed by a short, dumpy man, who, waddle as ambitiously as he might, swiftly fell behind, 112 without, however, seeming in the least discouraged.

“There, they are surrounding the grove,” said Tom, as the men and boys spread out from the centre till they had encompassed Bruin’s leafy retreat.

Soon there was the report of guns, and not long after, the hunters returned, looking tired and disappointed.

“The bear must have got away,” said Mrs. Jones.

But Charley came rushing towards her, and, throwing up his cap, cried,–

“O, isn’t it fun! It wasn’t a bear, mother; it was only Mr. Abbott’s black hog that he lost last fall, and thought was dead. He had run wild, feeding on roots and acorns, and was awful fat. But they didn’t know ’twas a hog till they shot him, the dogs kept up such a yelping, and the grass and bushes hid him so. They’ve gone after a wagon to take him home.”

But Tom was at work making an opening in the fence nearest the woods; seeing which, Charley called out,–

“What you doing that for, Tom?”

“I’ve been thinking,” answered Tom, pleasantly, “that we shall want some wood near the cabin next winter, instead of digging it out of the snow, and I’m fixing a place to drag it through.” 113

“Yes, children,” added the mother, “Tom and I have been talking it over. Suppose you take hold together and see how big a pile you can get up. It will be so nice to have plenty of wood to cook the corn-cakes with, and keep us comfortable when it’s freezing weather!”

The project pleased the youngsters, even to Bub, and, headed by Tom, they began at once to put it into execution.

It is customary in new countries for the first comers to help themselves freely to the trees on government land, for logs with which to construct their cabins, and to rive into shingles and saw into boards; and many a sinewy oak had fallen before the frontiersman’s axe in the woods near the Joneses, leaving the brawny limbs upon the ground. There were also many dead trees still standing, and from these sources dry, hard wood of the best quality could always be obtained.

Tom directed operations. The limbs and small dead trees were thrown or dragged in piles a certain distance towards the field; from there another took them to the opening in the fence, and from thence others of the youngsters pulled them up to the house. The girls and boys had a merry time of it, Sarah making the woods ring with her bird-like voice as she sang at her task, while many a joke was exchanged by the lively little company. But no one of them entered on the 114 labor with more zeal, and a higher appreciation of his own services, than Bub.

“That child is always under foot,” said Eliza, as she stumbled over him while tugging along a scrawny limb.

“You ought to go into the house,” said Tom; “I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.”

“No, I won’t,” answered the child, “tause I dot to tarry in the wood;” and seizing a long branch under one dimpled arm, and a short, heavy one under the other, to make good his words, with the will of an older head, he started for the cabin.

Out from under his arm would be wrenched the long one by some bush beside the path, and Bub would pick it up and pull at it until it had cleared itself, when down would go the big piece from the other arm. Then he would bravely lift it again, his baby frock going up with it; and thus dropping his load and picking it up, with an occasional tumble, which he would not cry about, he reached the house, dragging his load in through the door, to the imminent danger of knocking over the old stove. He now rested from his labors to eat a cold potato and a piece of his mother’s much-loved corn-cake, which, while disposing of, he dropped asleep, his rosy cheeks crammed to their utmost capacity.

“Pooh!” cried Charley, coming noisily in to 115 see if dinner was most ready, “why didn’t you keep to work, like the rest of us?”

Bub resumed eating, and replied, dignifiedly,–

“Tause I found out that it wasn’t fun.”

The unexpected effect of his answer on Charley, who received it with uproarious laughter, highly offended the child; and when Charley was out of sight, he said to his mother,–

“I isn’t never going to work no more.”

“Ah, why not?” she inquired.

“Tause I don’t like to work.”

“Then,” said she, “you’ll never make a man.”

“Do men have to work?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she replied.

“Then I won’t be a man,” he answered, decidedly.

“Won’t!” exclaimed his mother; “what, then, will you be?”

“I sail be a missernary, and walk wound, and wear dold dlasses!”