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How Little Bushie Figured in the Paradise.

"No, Bushie, my boy, you can't go to the corn-field to-day," said Mrs. Reynolds to her son of nine years old, one fine May morning, about two years after the sad event recorded in the foregoing chapter. The little fellow had been teasing his mother for two or three hours to let him go to the field where Burl was plowing corn, knowing full well, as every only child does, the efficacy of importunity.

"But, mother, Burl is singing so big and glad out there, and I should so love to be with him. And I should so love to watch the squirrels running up and down the trees and along on top of the fence; and the little ground-squirrels slipping from one hollow log to another; and the little birds building their nests; and the big crows flopping their wings about the limbs of the old dead trees. And then, too, Burl would be—"

"Let Burl go on with his singing," interrupted the mother; "and let the squirrels go on with their playing; and the birds with their nest-building; and the crows with their idling about the limbs of the old dead trees. All this is very nice, I know, but hardly worth the risk you must be at in getting there to enjoy it."

"But, mother," urged Bushie, "Burl would be so glad to see me sitting up there, on top of the fence, just where he and old Cornwallis would be coming out at the end of the row. I know just 'zacly what he'd say, the minute he sees me: 'I yi, you dogs!'"

"Yes, and somebody else might be glad to find a little white boy sitting up there on top of the fence," rejoined the mother, with a warning look. "Somebody who would steal up from behind, as soft as a cat upon a bird, and before knowing it, there! you would find a big red hand clapped over your mouth to keep you from screaming for help. Then, hugged tight in a pair of red arms, cruel and strong, off you'd go through the woods and over the hills and across the Ohio to old Chillicothe, there to be made a wild Indian of, for the rest of your days, if not roasted alive at once. Only this morning, Captain Kenton, on his way from Limestone to Lexington, dropped in at breakfast-time, and told us that he had seen fresh Indian signs in the woods not more than five miles from the fort. And, Bushie, my boy, have you forgotten that only this spring Burl shot a panther in the woods between here and the field? And that only last winter he knocked a bear in the head with his ax, at the big sink-hole spring in the middle of the field? And that only last fall he trapped and killed that terrible one-eyed wolf in the black hollow just beyond the field?" And seeing her little son opening his mouth and fetching a breath for a fresh effort, the mother, with more decision, added: "No, Bushie, no! Play about the fort as much as you please, but go to the field to-day you must not, and you shall not. There!" And with this she clapped his little coon-skin cap upon his head, and ramming it down to his ears, bid him go and hunt up the other children and play at home, like mother's good boy.

Now, Bushie loved his mother dearly, even tenderly, for a juvenile pioneer, especially at meal-times and at nights; the fort, too, in bad weather, he liked well enough. But on Burl, between meals, and on the woods and fields, in fine weather, he fairly doted. The weather on the present occasion was as fine as the heart of a healthy, growing, adventurous boy could wish for recreation under the open sky—it being, indeed, the last day of May, which, as nobody ever makes a holiday of it, is always perfectly delightful. Therefore was he strongly tempted to give a snapping pull at the apron-strings and make for sweet liberty—a thing he was in the habit of doing about once a week, when the keenest switching and the liveliest dancing that one could wish to witness would follow, sure as fate. To do our urchin hero justice, however, he rarely yielded to the temptation without making some considerable effort to resist it; efforts such as older transgressors are apt to set down largely to their own credit in their private accounts between self and conscience, vaguely hoping thereby to bamboozle somebody besides themselves—perhaps the recording angel. So, this morning, he hunted up the other children, as his mother had bidden him, and made a manful—nay, desperate—effort to be sportive at home; but the little fort, within the shelter of whose wooden walls had been their home ever since that melancholy night two years ago, had never seemed to him so dull and lonesome. The hunters and field-laborers, belonging to the station, were all abroad, and the other children seemed as little inclined to play as himself.

Finding that quiet amusement was not likely to come of its own accord, Bushie was minded to draw it out by a little gentle persuasion, and to this intent challenged the tallest boy of the company—taller than himself by a head, though not so broad—to cope with him in a boxing match. Having already tried that game several times and invariably come off with a savage griping in the pit of the stomach, the tall boy made it a point just then to hear his mother's call—though heard by no one else—which answering, he walked off briskly, under press of filial obedience, to see what was wanted. As if hoping to force what would not come of its own accord, or by persuasion, Bushie now laid unauthorized hands on Grumbo's tail, and giving it a cracking pull, got his finger bitten; ditto, then, on Tom's tail, and giving it a cracking jerk, got his leg scratched. Evidently, quiet amusement at home to-day was a consummation quite out of the question, however devoutly to be wished. So, he gave it up as a moral achievement beyond his present resources, and with the feeling of a boy who though he had failed in the discharge of duty had yet endeavored well, he went and stood in the gate-way of the fort, which, as it directly faced the distant field, was just the place to give the Tempter a fair chance at him.

The sky—how sunny and blue it bent above him! The woods—how shady and green they rose before him! The little log fort—how dull and lonesome it lay behind him! The little log grist-mill down there on the banks of the river at the foot of the hill—how tiresomely it went on creaking and humming and droning, forever repeating, "What a pity! what a pity! what a pity!" or, "Clip it, Bushie! clip it, Bushie! clip it, Bushie!" according to the tune one's fancy might chance to be singing at the moment. The Tempter was creeping upon him apace. The melodious strains of that powerful voice—how cheerily, sweetly they come resounding through the echoing woods, growing more and more distinct as the singer neared the hither end of his furrow! The distance was too great for Bushie to distinguish the words of the song; but to his longing ears, the burden of it seemed to be something very much to this effect:

"Come, come, come, Bushie, come!

Burl a' plowin' in de fiel',

A singin' for his little man to come."

Here the Tempter crept up close to him and whispered in his ear: "Don't you hear him Bushie? He's singing for you. Clip it! Panthers, bears, wolves, Indians! Pshaw! They'll never dare to come a-nigh you, with that voice ringing in their ears. Clip it! Ain't he singing for his little man to come? Clip it! I say. To be sure your mother will switch you well for running away, but who minds that? It's all over in the shake of a sheep's tail, and by the time you've rubbed your back and legs a little, eaten your supper, and said your prayers, you'll be feeling just as comfortable as ever. Clip it, I say; clip it!"

Bushie could endure it no longer. So, after a short, one-sided debate between the good of him and the evil of him—the evil allowing the good but a half-say in the matter—our little white hero formed the bold design of making a sudden sally from the fort and surprising our big black hero in the open field. First, though, he must make sure that the coast was clear—i.e., that his mother was too busy about her household concerns to notice him and put her foot on his adventure. So, going back to the house, he peeped in at the door and reconnoitered. Finding the chances rather in his favor, he returned to the gate, whistling as he went, and otherwise making a big pretense of being perfectly satisfied with his present surroundings, which, as there was nobody to be hoodwinked by it, was stratagem wasted. But no sooner did his foot touch the great oaken sill than with a sheep-like jump he had cleared his skirts of the gate, and now across the open clearing, in the center of which stood the fort, he was clipping away with a swiftness perfectly marvelous in one of his age. Splendidly done, my fine rogue! How the mother of a well-ordered family of precise boys and prim girls would like to have the mending of your morals—i.e., the switching of your skedaddling young legs—this fine morning!

Gaining the covert of the woods unobserved, he struck into a bridle-path which ran winding amongst the trees and grape-vines toward the field, where he soon subsided, first into a dog-trot, then into a brisk walk, which he maintained for the rest of the way with long and guilty strides. When he was come to the fence which divided the woods from the field, with squirrel-like nimbleness he climbed up and perched himself on the rider, or topmost rail, just where his black chum and old Cornwallis should be coming out at the end of the furrow.

Perhaps it were well to take advantage of the present moment, while we have him so conspicuously before us, to draw a life-size portrait of our little hero—which, however, at first glance may seem somewhat larger than life, the subject being uncommonly well grown for a boy of his age. His body and limbs are as round, smooth, tight, and hard as those of a buckskin doll; the materials used in their construction being of the most substantial description, and consisting chiefly of Johnny-cakes, hominy, venison and other wild meat, with as much milk, maple molasses, and pumpkin-pie as the unsettled nature of the times would admit. His eyes are blue and bright, large and wide open—such as can look you full in the face, yet without boldness or impertinence. One would naturally suppose that a boy who was in the weekly habit of breaking away from apron-string control, and getting a whipping for it, ought to have long, narrow, half-shut eyes, of some uncertain color, which, though they can stare boldly enough at your boots, buttons, or breastpin, can never look you full in the face, like those big blue ones we have up there before us. His hair does not fall in clustering ringlets over his ears and around his neck, as we usually find it in nice, interesting little boys who figure in story-books; but it is pretty enough, being of a dark, rich brown, as glossy as watered silk. His nose is a good one, though at its present stage of development showing rather too much of the pug to look well on canvas; but it will gradually ripen into the Roman as the owner ripens into years and experience, and comes to a full knowledge of his own importance in the world. The mouth, too, is a good one; not a rosebud mouth, such as we sometimes see in fancy pictures of the boy Washington, with his little hatchet; of the boy Napoleon, with his little cannon; or of the boy Samuel, at his perpetual devotions; but a large mouth, handsomely formed, and capable, with the help of dimples in the cheeks and the shine in the eyes, of as bright and loving a smile as heart of fond mother could wish.

The outfit of our little hero is in keeping with the rustic simplicity of the times, consisting of but three garments—an outside shirt, an inside shirt, and a hairy coon-skin cap: the latter having no visor, but being in lieu adorned behind with the ringed tail, just as it grew on the living animal. The cap conceals one of his best features—a forehead bold, broad, round, and white, which, could it be seen, would much improve our portrait. The inside shirt, as may be seen by the collar, is of homespun cotton; the outside shirt of fair, soft buckskin, secured at the waist by a belt of the same material, and falling a little below the knees. Saving the buckskin of mother nature's own providing, the sturdy young legs are without covering—a deficiency which admits of plausible explanation. In those days of simple living and simple thinking, parents, going from cause to effect by shorter cuts than they do at the present time, were much more strict and direct in the training of their children; and breeches softening, as needs must, the severity of the switch, hence the moral efficacy thereof, boys, for the first ten years of their travels in the Paradise, were seldom allowed to wear them—buckskin breeches especially. Nor should we be surprised if just here were to be looked for the reason why our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were so much more energetic, manly, and upright than their grandsons and great-grandsons, and so many more of them broad-backed, clean-limbed, and six feet high.

The background to our portrait is a forest, lofty, shaggy, and dense, and the home of a thousand wild things, which, being invisible at this moment, could not, with due regard to fidelity, be introduced into our picture. The foreground is a cultivated clearing of about one hundred acres, with woody walls, unbroken in their leafy density, hemming it in on every side. Directly in front is a field of corn, the dark and thrifty green of which may well bespeak the deep, rich soil of the Paradise. Farther in are several other inclosures, either white with clover or brightly green with blue-grass, or darkly green with the yet unripened wheat. In the midst of all, and forming the central feature, stands a cabin, deserted and lowly since that unhappy night two years ago.

Scattered about the clearing, singly or in clumps, or even in small groves, are to be seen the giant survivors of the primeval forest, which, rearing high aloft their green heads and flinging afar their mighty arms, yield pleasant shade to the horses, sheep, and cattle grazing about them. But more numerous are to be seen those that are not survivors, though still standing, drained of their sap of life by the woodman's ax, which hacked those jagged girdles around their huge trunks. Standing there leafless, rigid, and gray, they remind us, in their branching nakedness, of the antlered elk, and in their gigantic unsightliness of the monstrous mastodon, that thing of grisly bone which, as a thing of life, no son of Adam ever beheld. Hard by stands an enormous oak, whose main bough, scathed and deadened by lightning, is thrust from out its ragged green robe like the extended, unsleeved arm of a giant, leaving a broad gap in the foliage open to the sky.

Upon this blasted limb of the oak, as if met there to hold an indignation meeting relative to the scare-crows posted about the field, or to the objectionable nature of the plowman's music, or to some real or fancied cause of grievance, have congregated a large assembly of sober-feathered, sober-visaged, but noisy, wrangling, turbulent crows, who, like many unfeathered bipeds on the like occasions, seem to have left their good breeding and good sense at home. Crows and their ways have always excited much interest in the minds of philosophic men, and the maneuvers of these before us have been watched with lively curiosity by our little friend Bushie ever since we began drawing his portrait.