The Project Gutenberg eBook of Children of the lighthouse
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Children of the lighthouse

Author: Nora Archibald Smith

Illustrator: Elinor M. Goodridge

Release date: January 23, 2025 [eBook #75180]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1924

Credits: Susan E., David E. Brown, Sue Clark, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN OF THE LIGHTHOUSE ***





By Miss Nora A. Smith


  A TRULY LITTLE GIRL. Illustrated.

  KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN, AS HER SISTER KNEW HER. Illustrated.

  CHILDREN OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. Illustrated.

  THE CHRISTMAS CHILD AND OTHER VERSE FOR CHILDREN. Illustrated.

  A HOMEMADE KINDERGARTEN.

  NELSON THE ADVENTURER. With frontispiece.

  THE CHILDREN OF THE FUTURE.

  UNDER THE CACTUS FLAG. Illustrated.

  THREE LITTLE MARYS.

  BEE OF THE CACTUS COUNTRY.


IN COLLABORATION WITH MRS. WIGGIN

  TWILIGHT STORIES. Illustrated.

  THE STORY HOUR. A Book for the Home and Kindergarten. Illustrated.

  CHILDREN’S RIGHTS, A Book of Nursery Logic.

  THE REPUBLIC OF CHILDHOOD.

    I. FROEBEL’S GIFTS.

   II. FROEBEL’S OCCUPATIONS.

  III. KINDERGARTEN PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE.

  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
  BOSTON AND NEW YORK




CHILDREN OF THE LIGHTHOUSE




[Illustration: THE CHILDREN, JENNY LIND, AND JIM CROW]




  CHILDREN OF THE
  LIGHTHOUSE

  BY
  NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

  [Illustration]

  BOSTON AND NEW YORK
  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
  The Riverside Press Cambridge




  COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE
  THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM

  The Riverside Press
  CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.




CONTENTS


     I. THE ISLAND                         1

    II. STUMPY AND THE STOREHOUSE          7

   III. THE LIGHT AND THE LIGHTHOUSE      16

    IV. HONEST JIM CROW                   26

     V. A PICNIC WITH STUMPY              35

    VI. HOW THE CAT CLIMBED               46

   VII. IN THE FOG                        57

  VIII. THE WHITE SLIPPER                 72

    IX. LESLEY TO THE RESCUE!             87




ILLUSTRATIONS


  THE CHILDREN, JENNY LIND, AND JIM CROW            _Frontispiece_

  “JIM CROW,” A PRIVILEGED VISITOR, ADDING AN
    OCCASIONAL LOW CROAK TO THE CONVERSATION                    24

  AS THEY DREW NEAR AN ODOR AROSE THAT WAS THE
    BEST KIND OF PO’TRY IN ITSELF                               37

  LESLEY COULD PLAINLY SEE HIS SMALL FIGURE IN THE
    GATEWAY                                                     49

  HE DANCED GAYLY ABOUT THE ROOM, TOSSING HIS CROWN
    BEFORE HIM LIKE A BALL                                      85

  Drawn by Elinor M. Goodridge




CHILDREN OF THE LIGHTHOUSE

∵




CHAPTER I

THE ISLAND


“Will-ery you-ery come-ery with-ery me-ery and-ery play-ery?” shouted
Ronald from the little patch of green in front of the Lighthouse.

“Yes-ery, I-ery will-ery!” answered Lesley, jumping up from the sand
and tucking her book in a cleft of the rocks. Scrambling up the cliff
like a sturdy little mountain goat, she reached Ronald laughing and
rosy and panting out breathlessly, “What-ery shall-ery we-ery play-ery?”

“I hadn’t thought,” said Ronald, descending from their “secret
language” to plain English. “Maybe we’ll get Jenny Lind and bring up
some kelp to put on our gardens.”

“I don’t call that play,” objected Lesley; “that’s good hard work!”

“Oh, nothing isn’t work,” said Ronald, sensibly, if ungrammatically,
“if you do it for play.”

“You are the funniest boy, Ronnie, I ever knew in all my life!”
exclaimed Lesley.

“Sure I am!” laughed Ronald. “I must be, for I’m the only boy you ever
did know!”--and here they both broke into a hearty peal of merriment
that brought their mother, smiling, to the window.

It was true enough. Lesley and Ronald, eleven and eight years old, were
the only children on the island and the only ones who had ever been
there, but they were not by any means the only young things. There was
a score of light-footed, dancing kids, there was a comfortable number
of chickens, a rushing, scampering horde of rabbits, “Jim,” the pet
crow, and uncounted half-grown sea-birds in the shelters of the cliffs.

As for grown-ups, there were the children’s father and mother, Malcolm
and Margaret McLean, and the old Mexican sailor, Pancho Lopez, commonly
known as “Stumpy.” Then there was the donkey, Jenny Lind, so called for
the power and melody of her voice, and of course the parents of all the
kids, chickens, rabbits, and sea-birds. In the pools of the rocks and
on the beach there were jellyfish, great and small, starfish, crabs and
sea-anemones, but these, although they added to the population of the
island, could not be said to increase its gayety.

Gayety, though, as everybody knows, never comes from outside; it is
just something that bubbles up from within, and Lesley and Ronald
McLean each had a boiling spring of it in their own hearts.

The springs had not ceased to bubble after what the children considered
Ronald’s first-class joke, when the sound of clattering hoofs and the
roll of wheels announced the approach of that Jenny Lind whom they had
intended to use as a playmate.

“Run, Ronnie, quick!” cried Lesley, “and see if father’s going down to
the beach. Maybe we can go with him.”

“Hi! Father! Father!” called Ronald. “Wait for us!” running at top
speed toward the cliff.

The donkey was pulled in at once, turning her head toward the children
intelligently as they scrambled down the rocks to the car and starting
on her way the moment she felt their weight and knew they were on board.

The children’s island, one of those in San Francisco Bay, is not a
large one--perhaps three miles around--but it looks as if it were three
times three miles deep in rocks. There are tall gray peaks shining like
spear-heads above the water--peaks where the sea-birds build; great
stretches of gray stone like castle walls, with towers and battlements;
scattered fragments of granite heaped up like crumbs from a giants’
banquet, and ten trillion, two hundred and forty-one billion, five
hundred and ninety-seven million, six hundred and nineteen thousand,
four hundred and three stones and pebbles of various sizes along the
shore.

Oh, no, there is no beach; just a rocky island with rocky edges and old
Ocean singing and sighing and laughing and crying all around and about.
No two-legged, or four-legged, or ever-so-many-legged creature could
draw loads from the shore to the Lighthouse over such a roadway, even
if it had been on level ground, and so Malcolm McLean, with the help
of old “Stumpy” and a man brought from the mainland for a week, had
laid down rails the entire distance and prevailed upon the Government
to send him a little car which Jenny Lind pulled with ease over her
private track.

“Going down to the storehouse for oil,” called Father, looking around
at the youngsters from his perch in front. “You can stay down there
with Stumpy for a while, if you like, or go back with me.”

“Oh, Stumpy, Stumpy!” cried Ronnie. “Maybe he’ll tell us a story.”

“Maybe he will,” said Father, dryly, nodding his head; “he’d rather
tell stories than work any day.”

“Perhaps,” said Ronald, thoughtfully, “it might be just the same as
work if you had to make up the stories.”

“But he _doesn’t_ have to,” came quickly from Lesley; “they all
happened to him.”

“No, not all,” eagerly, from Ronald; “not ‘The White Slipper’--I’m
going to ask him for that to-day.”

“No, not ‘The White Slipper,’” agreed Lesley. “But I wish he’d tell us
po’try, like what mother reads sometimes. I made up some myself last
night about Jenny Lind.”

“About Jenny Lind? You couldn’t make po’try about a donkey!”

“You just listen now and see if I couldn’t,” cried Lesley.

  “To shaggy Jenny Lind
   There came an awful wind
   And blew her over the cliff--

Over the cliff ... over the cliff--” slowly--“What _was_ the last line?”

“Which made her puff and piff,” laughed Ronald.

“No such word as ‘piff,’” objected Lesley.

“It’s just as good as ‘puff,’” answered the youthful rhymester. “Isn’t
it, Father?”

Father merely gave an absent-minded murmur, which might have meant
either that it was, or that it wasn’t, and touched Jenny Lind lightly
with the loop of the reins.

Up flew Jenny’s hind legs, bounce went the children, flat on the floor
of the car, and all question of po’try was dropped as they drew up to
the storehouse.




CHAPTER II

STUMPY AND THE STOREHOUSE


Stumpy stood in the doorway, waving a greeting to the children, his
wooden leg, topped by a crutch-handle, strapped to his side and his
black eyes glowing with pleasure.

He limped down the steps to hitch the donkey for the Lightkeeper,
patting the children’s heads meantime, as they tumbled about him like
frolicsome puppies.

“We’ve-ery come-ery to-ery see-ery you-ery!” cried Lesley, who was
accustomed to use the “secret language” with Stumpy.

“Yes, I see you come all right,” smiled Stumpy, “but I no speak your
tongue. You go in my house; I be there pretty soon.... Aye, aye, sir,
coming!”--this to McLean, who waited for him by the barrels of oil.

The children needed no further invitation to Stumpy’s dwelling, for it
was a museum of curiosities in their eyes, and Ronald gravely wondered
how it could be safe to leave such priceless things within reach of
the passers-by. True, there were no passers-by, except those with wings
or fins, or traveling on four feet, but at any moment--why not?--a boat
might draw up on the strand and a pirate, with a red sash and a knife
in his teeth, leap to land and snatch the treasures.

  “Stump-ery true,
   I love you!”

crooned Lesley, as she sat down by a little table in the corner.

  “Stump-ery’s a sailor,
   Sure as I’m a tailor!”

sang Ronnie, climbing on a chair from which height he could see more
easily the wonderful little ship on the mantelpiece.

“But you’re _not_ a tailor, and you do make silly po’try!”

“Neither isn’t Stumpy a sailor, _now_, and maybe I’ll be a tailor, some
time.... Oh, Lesley, isn’t this ship the most be-you-tiful thing you’ve
ever seen since you lived in this country?”

Indeed it was a beautiful thing, the pride of Stumpy’s heart and
the light of his eyes. He had bought it long ago in Mexico from the
furnishings of a Spanish ship wrecked at sea and hauled into port by
a passing barque. Whoever originally owned it had prized it dearly,
for it stood under a glass case that rested on an ebony stand bordered
with scarlet velvet. It was carved from creamy ivory--every mast,
every spar, every sail in place, a miniature steersman at the helm
and the Spanish ensign bravely floating at the peak. It sailed upon a
painted sea sprinkled with tiny crystals of sand that sparkled like the
blue waters around the island, and it was undoubtedly one of the most
beautiful things that anybody had ever seen, no matter in what country
he or she had lived.

Ronald, though a daring and adventurous child, continually watched by
sister, mother, or father lest he rush into danger, was yet careful in
his own way, and Stumpy knew that he might trust him with his treasures
and that the boy would admire “La Golondrina” (The Swallow) without
ever thinking of lifting the glass cover that enshrined the tiny
treasure.

While his silent worship was going on, Lesley was lifting with careful
fingers the feather pictures on the table and admiring the birds, the
flowers, the trees, the little landscapes, all made of tiny feathers
beautifully colored and pasted into place. These were done by Indians,
Stumpy had told her, and the black-eyed squaws with their shawl-wrapped
heads sold them on market-days in the streets of the City of Mexico.

There were Indian water-jars in the room, too, gayly decorated in
colors, an Indian bow with its arrows, gourds made into dippers and
painted in scarlet and black, and on the wall a tattered Mexican flag
with its warlike eagle grasping a rattlesnake and standing on a cactus
plant. “_Viva México!_” (Hurrah for Mexico!) Stumpy used to cry as he
saluted it in the morning, and the children had learned to salute it,
too, the moment they crossed the threshold.

The room had been partitioned off from the storehouse where the oil
for the Light was kept and had only a rough floor and whitewashed
walls, but Stumpy kept it beautifully clean, and on his small stove he
cooked wonderful red beans in Mexican style and made chocolate for the
children with foam on the cups an inch high.

His was a lonely life on the edge of the restless ocean, guarding the
stores for the Lighthouse, and he was as glad to have a visit from
Ronald and Lesley as they were glad to come. They were still admiring
his treasures when clatter, clatter, went Jenny Lind’s hoofs again,
and away rolled the car with its barrels of oil for the Light.

Another moment, and “_Viva México!_” sounded in the doorway and Stumpy
appeared with an armful of driftwood for the evening fire.

  “Stump-ery, bump-ery,
   Give him a thump-ery!”

shouted Ronald, running to meet him.

“I’m not going to thump him, I’m going to hug him,” cried Lesley and
she did it, to the old sailor’s great delight.

“Now a story, Stumpy, a story!” cried both children, together, and
Ronald added quickly, “The ‘White Slipper.’”

“‘White Slipper’? No, that too long. Your father say come home one
hour. Mother have dinner ready.”

“Oh! oh!” with dismal groans. “We thought _you’d_ ask us to dinner.”

“I would ask, sure I would, but your father boss, you know. He my boss,
your boss--Good sailor mind his boss, you bet.”

“Well, then, what _will_ you tell us?” asked Ronald, climbing on his
knee. “I haven’t hardly heard a story since I lived in this country.”

Stumpy looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. “Since you lived in
this country, hey? But that not very long, you know. Well, I tell you a
sea-story, one I know, me, one I see myself--one about a cat.”

“A cat!” exclaimed Lesley. “I thought they didn’t like water!”

“It is true,” said Stumpy; “if they did, there would be no story.”

  “Tell-ery, tell-ery,
   Stump-ery, tell-ery!”

cried Ronald, impatiently.

“Well, it must be twenty year ago,” said Stumpy, reflectively, “I ship
on cargo steamer to Scotland, your father’s and mother’s country, you
hear them tell.”

“‘Bonnie Scotland!’ we know,” said Lesley, drawing nearer.

“We have good voyage Scotland, nothing much happen, all same every day.
We land cargo place called Newhaven, all right, get new cargo take
back--you not care about that--and when everything ready for leave,
Captain say we go ashore, have good time. Some men they stay on board
keep watch, but ten go ashore, and messroom boy--he funny fellow, I
think he not right in head” (tapping his forehead)--“he say he take
ship’s cat, give her good time, too; maybe catch Scotch mouse.

“We all laugh at him. I tell you he funny fellow, and we go uptown and
leave him on beach with cat. Some men go get good dinner; some men get
drunk, like always; I find other sailor like me, been all over world
and we ‘swap yarn,’ you know.”

“We know,” nodding heads wisely, for old sailors often came to the
island.

“We have orders get back twelve o’clock night,” continued Stumpy; “we
know, anyway, got do that, and we all start along ’bout eleven, pretty
dark, big wind, storm coming all right.

“We get to beach--some, they smoke, some whistle, some walk pretty
crooked, and Johnny, that’s what mess-boy call himself, sing out to us,
‘Come on, boys, big storm ahead, cat get wet.’

“We all laugh some more and make fun, but we don’t see anything till we
get to boat and there be Johnny with the cat--she was white one, thanks
to God!”

“Why do you thank God because she was white?” asked Ronnie, curiously.

“Wait a moment, little son, and you will know,” answered Stumpy
gravely. “We all get in boat, push off, and begin to row hard as we
can, but the farther we get from land the blacker get the dark and the
big wave come splash, crash, lift us ’way up, sink us ’way down, keep
us tossing like ball in air. Every man do his best; I pray to saints,
but no can see ship’s lights, no can see other men’s face, not know
where we go. Of a sudden, maybe pretty near ship--we can’t tell--come
wave like big mountain, knock every man flat, turn boat over, upside
down, no light, no help anywhere.”

“Oh, poor Stumpy,” sighed Lesley, patting his sleeve, “how dreadful!”

“Every man start to swim best he know how, but where he swim when he
see nothing? We half-dead already when we hear that Johnny sing out,
‘Look at cat! Look at cat! See where she go!’ Thanks to blessed saints,
who let a little light down ’bout then, we could just see white spot on
top of wave and follow it. Cat see in dark, you know, children, and she
not like water, want to get out soon as she can.

“In one moment, we see lights, we see ship, we shout and shout, and men
come help us aboard, wet like sponge, cold as ice, and frightened ’way
to inside of bones.”

“Were all the men saved?” quavered Lesley, round-eyed with excitement.

“Alas, no! little daughter; two of them never seen again!”

A sigh and a little silence followed, and then Lesley’s voice was heard
again, “And the cat?”

“Ah, the cat, thanks to God, that Johnny grab her just as he get to
ship’s side and carry her up ladder. She ’most as good as Captain all
way back to California, best food, warmest place sleep, every man take
off cap to her when he meet, say, ‘Good-day to you, Lady Cat!’”

“Good-day, Lady Cat!” mimicked Lesley, laughingly, bowing to an
imaginary pussy on the rug. “I wish you a pleasant morning and a fat
rat for your dinner!”

“Dinner! Dinner!” cried Stumpy, jumping up from his comfortable chair.

“What your father say, children? Run quick, like rabbits! Go short way
up steps! Run quick!”




CHAPTER III

THE LIGHT AND THE LIGHTHOUSE


To reach the Lighthouse from Stumpy’s dwelling, you might either follow
Jenny Lind’s car-track a long way around, or scramble up a rocky
path, broken here and there by a flight of whitewashed steps, till
you arrived at the top of the mighty heap of rocks that formed the
island. Should a high wind be blowing, you crushed your hat far down on
your head, gripped the handrail hard when you reached the steps, and
often sat down flat until some sudden gust had passed by. As this was
Margaret McLean’s only fashionable promenade, you can imagine that she
seldom ventured on it, preferring to stroll about the patch of green
in front of the Lighthouse, or to walk up and down between the scanty
rows of vegetables behind. She and her husband, however, were well
accustomed to seeing the children scramble over the rocks like their
own goats and were never anxious about Ronald, if Lesley were with him,
for alone he was apt to venture too far and attempt heights which he
might reach, but never be able to descend.

He had been only a tiny tot of two or three years, running about the
kitchen, when, sitting on the floor in front of the sink one day,
he had amused himself by slipping the various cooking-pots over his
head and laughing out at Lesley with a “Peep bo!” from beneath them.
His mother, hearing the clatter, was hurrying from another room to
inquire into its cause when a series of loud cries and calls for help
were heard. She found the baby completely extinguished by a large
kettle which Lesley was trying to pull off his head, while the more he
struggled and screamed, the tighter grew the kettle.

Mrs. McLean pulled, Lesley pulled, Ronnie beat his hands and kicked and
roared until the mother was thoroughly frightened. “Get your father,
quick!” she cried to Lesley, and the child climbed, panting, to the
tower where Malcolm was trimming the Light. She was too breathless
to speak when she reached him, but he saw that something was wrong
below and half-leaped, half-tumbled down the stairs to the kitchen. He
took the baby in his arms and succeeded with his big sailor voice in
reaching the ears under the kettle.

“Be quiet, Ronnie!” he ordered. “Stop crying at once! Father’s here.
Father’ll help you.”

The screams stopped, the beating hands grew quiet, and the Lightkeeper
walked to and fro patting the small shoulders till they grew still
enough to allow him to lay the child in his mother’s arms. Then, while
Lesley watched him with astonished eyes he seized a lump of lard from
the shelf, greased the inside of the kettle and Ronnie’s head as far as
his hand could reach, saying all the time, “Quiet, sonny, quiet, sonny;
Father’s here!” This done, with one swift jerk the kettle came off and
the small boy was restored to the world.

Oh, what a wonderful father, Lesley thought; there was nothing that
he couldn’t do and nothing that he didn’t know, and I believe that
everybody on the island, including Jenny Lind, the rabbits, and the
sea-birds, thought much the same thing.

The wonderful father was waiting in the doorway to-day as the
children’s feet were heard on the rocky pathway, and after a little
washing of grimy paws and smoothing of rough locks they all sat down
at table. Six times a year the Lighthouse tender called at the island
with stores for its inhabitants, so tea and sugar and coffee, flour and
meal, spices and cereals were always on hand, but for the rest they
depended on goats’ milk, fresh fish, eggs, chickens, rabbits, and
such vegetables as they could raise on their wind-swept height, three
hundred feet above the sea.

Margaret McLean boasted, when she could find any one to hear her boast,
that she could prepare rabbit in fifteen different ways, but which one
of the fifteen she followed that day will probably never be known. At
all events, it seemed to please the children who jumped down from the
table when grace had been said, quite refreshed and ready to dry the
dishes and help to set the room in order.

The apartment in question--a large one, fortunately--might have been
called one of general utility, for it was kitchen, dining-room,
sitting-room, and study, according to the time of day. There was
a grand parlor on the other side of the passage, into which the
Lighthouse Inspector was ushered when he made his semi-annual calls,
but the children never entered it except on cleaning-days when they
were allowed to dust the haircloth sofa, the straight-backed chairs,
and the round center-table with its big Bible and tall lamp, hung with
tinkling glass prisms.

The bedrooms and the playroom were on the next story, and above that
ran the flight of narrow steps that led to the tower, and then above
them again the corkscrew stairs that wound about and about till they
reached the Light.

In solitary splendor, like the Prince of Coolavin, lived the Light, and
Father waited upon it like a slave, filling it with oil, trimming its
wicks and polishing and re-polishing and re-re-polishing the speckless
glass that sheltered it and through which its beams streamed far, far
across the waters.

Every night, as they sang the “Mariner’s Hymn” together in the
whitewashed sitting-room, with the ceaseless roar and dash of the
breakers as their accompaniment, the children thought of the friendly
Light in the tower and the gladness of the sailors when they saw it
shine.

  “Eternal Father! strong to save,
   Whose arm hath bound the restless wave;
   Who bidst the mighty ocean deep
   Its own appointed limits keep:
   O hear us when we cry to Thee
   For those in peril on the sea!”

So ran the words of the “Mariner’s Hymn,” and Ronald, who always wanted
to know the reason of things, said thoughtfully one night when they
had finished singing: “Why do we cry to God to help those in peril on
the sea, Daddy? It’s the Light that helps them, isn’t it?”

“Hush! Ronnie, you’re not thinking,” cried his mother. “Who made the
sea and the sailors? Who gave his brains to the man who thought of the
Light and set it here? The Light is but a senseless thing and needs
some one to tend it, as well you know your father does both night and
day.”

“Oh--h!” murmured Ronald, “I see!”

“You’re a funny boy!” commented Lesley, as usual.

  “Sleep-ery, head-ery,
   Better go to bed-ery!”

  “Oh-ery, no-ery,
   Don’t want to go-ery,”

cried Ronald, at which his father lifted his head from the “Lighthouse
Journal,” saying, “‘Gude bairnies cuddle doon at nicht’--you know the
poetry your mother tells you.”

The children were often allowed to climb the corkscrew stairs with
their parents to see the Light and even to open the little door in the
masonry and go out on the iron-railed gallery that ran around the
tower, holding tight to Father’s or Mother’s hand while they gazed
at the blue waters of the Pacific and counted the white sails on the
horizon.

The Light was not of the first order, although it seemed so wonderful
to the children and required more attention than the newer and more
expensive ones. It was lighted at dusk, filled again at midnight, and
put out at dawn, Margaret McLean always taking the last duty and then
hurrying down to kindle the kitchen fire, set the porridge on to heat,
and milk the goats.

She was a busy wife and mother; so busy that she had the less time to
be lonely, for not only did she wash and iron, sew and knit, scrub and
cook, milk the goats, feed the hens, and weed the garden, but she gave
the children their daily lessons, making these so pleasant that both
could already read with ease and had some knowledge of figures, while
Lesley could write a very respectable letter to Grandmother in “Bonnie
Scotland.”

Mr. and Mrs. McLean knew very well that the children would never be
likely to have any playmates, save each other, while they were growing
up, for the work on the island was not more than enough for one man,
with Stumpy’s assistance, and so there could be no other families in
residence. They had done everything they could, therefore, to provide
amusement and occupation for them, indoors as well as out. Outdoors was
very simple, with Jenny Lind, “Jim Crow,” and a host of young animals
as playmates, the beloved Stumpy as story-teller-in-chief and fishing,
hunting sea-birds’ eggs, playing on the shore and gathering seaweed and
shells as their games of never-ending delight.

Indoors a playroom had been fitted up the previous year, which was a
continual source of pleasure and a blessing, too, to Mrs. McLean, who
could always feel that her bairns were safe and happy when they were in
“Humpty Dumpty Land,” as Lesley had christened it.

It was nothing more or less than the large attic which ran the whole
length of the Lighthouse. It was not finished off, but the slanting
sides and floor had been stained a pretty green, and numerous
shelves had been fitted between the uprights for all the many
collections--birds’ eggs, seashells, sea-moss, shining pebbles, bright
beads, buttons, and those other treasures dear to children, which
would have been greatly in the way downstairs.

[Illustration: “JIM CROW,” A PRIVILEGED VISITOR, ADDING AN OCCASIONAL
LOW CROAK TO THE CONVERSATION]

In one corner was a sand-bin, with little tins and patty-pans for
making cakes, and a dolls’ house occupied another corner where Lesley
passed many hours. A rocking-horse, a stable, and a carpenters’ bench
were Ronald’s possessions, and several small chairs and tables were
among the other furnishings.

Tacked to the ceiling were a few gay Japanese parasols and lanterns,
while straw mats, a contribution from Stumpy’s Indian collection, were
scattered about the floor. Turkey-red curtains were at the windows, and
altogether a more cheerful place could hardly be imagined, especially
when both children were talking at once and “Jim Crow,” a privileged
visitor, adding an occasional low croak to the conversation.




CHAPTER IV

HONEST JIM CROW


Jim Crow, the black, the glossy, the dapper, the wise, the solemn, was
not a native of the Lighthouse island, which indeed was too barren a
spot for birds fond of good things to eat. He was not a native, but an
immigrant, for the Lighthouse Inspector had brought him to Lesley on
one of his visits, saying that he had been found in the woods on the
mainland--just a little bunch of fuzz with short dark feathers sticking
out here and there--and that it was supposed that he had fallen out of
the nest and been deserted by his parents.

The Inspector had cared for him until he was now a fine fellow with
the glossiest of black feathers, and as he appeared to be of a good
disposition and of winning ways there was no reason why he should not
make an admirable pet. The children thought so, of course, and were
never tired of watching his quaint actions and laughing at his solemn
manner.

As soon as Jim Crow grew wonted to his new home, he began to choose his
friends and seemed to love Lesley most of all. Next to her he appeared
to fancy a large white hen, with a brood of nine little chicks, in a
coop under the shade of a rock. Jim used to visit her many times a day,
standing near the bars of her prison and talking with her in a low,
croaking tone. Sometimes, between his stories, he would help himself
to the food left by Mother Hen and her family; then begin croaking to
her again, and Biddy would answer with an occasional cluck as if she
understood all that he was telling her.

The old hen, while always watchful over her little ones, never seemed
to fear that Jim would hurt any of them, and when the chicks became so
large that they were let out of the coop and the family roamed about
seeking for worms and insects, Jim still continued his association with
them, following them about for hours each day. At nightfall, however,
he always came back to his box, while Biddy and her family joined the
other fowls in the hen-house.

Another of Jim’s chums was the tuneful Jenny Lind. For some portion of
each day he used to follow her about, always keeping a few feet from
her nose, as she grazed.

When he grew tired of walking, he would hop to her back, and,
squatting upon her hips, where he could not be reached by the switching
tail, he would keep up a constant croaking and chattering. This
chattering was always in a low tone, but it went up and down just like
the voice of a person who is telling some great secret, something not
to be repeated to any one else, on any account.

Jim had his dislikes as well as his likes, and he evidently held but
a poor opinion of Margaret McLean. She had often caught him snatching
a morsel from the kitchen table or shelves and had on each occasion
hastily swept him out with the broom. Nowadays he entered the kitchen
with a wary eye fixed upon her, and if he did not go upstairs at once
to Humpty Dumpty Land, would perch in some high place and scold and
grumble to himself. You could always tell from the tone of his voice
whether he was scolding or chattering, and Mrs. McLean said she really
felt uncomfortable sometimes, when that low croaking voice went on
and on behind her back, apparently saying, “Meanie! Meanie! Mean old
thing! Drove me out! Drove me out! Wouldn’t give me any dinner! Meanie!
Meanie!”

Jim’s chief interest in Humpty Dumpty Land lay in the children’s
collections and particularly in their beads and buttons. Whenever he
made a call upstairs, after flying to Lesley’s shoulder and caressing
her with his beak, he betook himself to the green shelves and turned
over the beads, the buttons, and the pebbles one by one, saying to
himself, meanwhile: “Oh! pretty, pretty! Pretty, shiny things! Jim Crow
like shiny things! Poor Jim Crow! Only have black feathers! _Poor_ Jim
Crow!”

If these were not his exact words, though Lesley contended that they
were, they evidently embodied his meaning and the gleam of envy and
desire of possession were so marked in his cunning black eye that on
the day of the children’s visit to Stumpy, Ronald said as they played
in Humpty Dumpty Land, “I wonder if Jim Crow knows anything about your
necklace, Lesley!”

This precious treasure, a chain of tiny gold beads sent from
Grandmother in Scotland as a New Year’s present, had totally
disappeared a few weeks after the holiday and not so much as a glint of
it had ever since been seen. Lesley had wept bitter tears over the loss
and had received many a scolding for her carelessness with the pretty
gift, but indeed, indeed, she told her mother, she had never worn
it out of the house and had always kept it at night in a box in her
bedroom.

At Ronald’s query, Lesley gave a long look at her pet, who was doing
hard labor trying to break a button in two, at the same time crooning
to himself in a low tone, “Crows have no pretty buttons! Crows _ought_
to have pretty buttons! _Poor_ Jim Crow!”

“Oh, no, Ronnie,” cried Lesley; “Jim would never steal anything of
mine; he loves me too well. Don’t you, Jimmy?”

“Croak!” answered Master Crow, but he evidently felt that the
conversation was becoming too personal, for he left the room at once
in his most dignified manner. He did not mention that he held a small
red button in his beak, but, as he said afterwards, “What’s a button
between friends?”

“I’m going right down to Father and see what he thinks,” cried Ronnie,
running after Jim Crow.

“No, no, Ronnie! Don’t tell Father! I’m sure Jim never took my
necklace!” called Lesley, in distress.

Ronald was already halfway downstairs and heard not a word his sister
said in his haste to find Father, who was discovered at length in the
doorway of Jenny Lind’s stable smoking his afternoon pipe.

“What’s the trouble, sonny?” he asked. “Haste makes waste, you know.”

“Oh, Father, I’ve just thought. Do you believe Jim might have taken
Lesley’s necklace?”

“Jim?” questioned his father in a puzzled way. “Oh, you mean Jim Crow?
Why, I don’t know. What makes you think so?”

“It’s too bad!” cried Lesley, appearing at this moment; “Ronnie hasn’t
a bit of reason to say Jim took it.”

“Well,” said the boy, a little daunted by his sister’s indignation, “I
only thought.... You know yourself how much he likes shiny things, and
Mother _has_ caught him stealing in the kitchen.”

A burst of tears was Lesley’s answer and her father shook his head at
Ronald, saying in a kind voice: “Don’t cry about it, daughter. I mind
now that there was an old raven in Scotland stole my grandfather’s
spectacles once, but maybe he wasn’t well brought up.... I tell you
what, children,” bringing his hand down with a thump on his knee, “Jim
Crow _has_ got a ‘hidy-hole’ up there on the cornice of the house. I’ve
often watched him go there. I’ll get the long ladder and see what he
keeps in it.”

“Oh, let me, Daddy,” cried Ronald. “I’ll climb up the water-pipe.”

“You will not, then,” said his father, decidedly; “it’s bad for the
pipe and bad for your clothes, and you’re too heedless and reckless
altogether with your climbing.”

By this time Mrs. McLean had joined the group and heard the tale, and
she now laid a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder, while Lesley’s
tears were dried in the excitement of the moment.

The long ladder was brought, laid against the house, Father climbed
slowly up, reached the spot in the cornice where he had so often seen
Jim Crow, and crying out, “Well, if this doesn’t beat the Dutch!” burst
into a hearty fit of laughter.

“Oh, what, Father? Oh, what?” cried the children, dancing with
impatience.

“Let them come up the ladder, Mother,” called Malcolm. “I’ll hold them
and they can see for themselves.”

The children were up before you could say Jack Robinson, and, looking
into a sheltered place on the cornice, just behind the water-pipe,
beheld Jim Crow’s hidy-hole with an astonishment not to be described.

It was a veritable robbers’ cave, for it held a number of bright
feathers, some tinfoil, a variety of beads and buttons, one of mother’s
thimbles, several pieces of colored glass and china, and, and--yes, it
really _did_ hold Lesley’s necklace.

“Oh, Father! Oh, Father!” cried Lesley, half-laughing and half-crying.
“Don’t take everything away from poor Jim; do leave him something!”

“Nonsense, you silly child!” called her mother from the foot of the
ladder; but her father said, dryly, “I suppose you don’t think it
necessary to leave him the thimble and the necklace, do you?”

“No, oh, no,” whimpered Lesley. “I know that would be silly, but he
_will_ be disappointed to find them gone when he comes to look at his
collection.”

“I’m ’fraid he will, poor old Jim,” sighed Ronnie, shaking his head.

“Oh, come down the ladder!” called Mother, impatiently. “I’m tired of
holding it. If you don’t want to hurt Jim Crow’s feelings, make him
another chain, but bring down my thimble, anyway.”

Mother’s suggestion was received with enthusiasm. The party descended
to earth, but the ladder was left in place while stout thread and large
needles were demanded. Lesley and Ronald sought their stores in Humpty
Dumpty Land, and in the course of an hour put together a necklace which
would have shamed all the jewels of the Princess Badroulboudour in the
“Arabian Nights.”

Malcolm McLean, laughing at the pranks of his astonishing children,
climbed the ladder and placed the ornament in Jim Crow’s hidy-hole
and when next that honest bird went to examine his treasures, he is
reported to have exclaimed, “My stars and garters! What do you think of
that? Now that’s what I call a necklace!”




CHAPTER V

A PICNIC WITH STUMPY


It was but a short time after the adventure with that highway and
byway robber, Master Crow, when it came time for Stumpy’s annual
vacation, and he puffed gloriously away in the Lighthouse tender for
his week in San Francisco. As his place was taken meantime by a dull
seafaring gentleman having two legs, but no acquaintance with the art
of story-telling, the children greatly missed their old friend and were
wild with joy when, the day after his return, he begged their father to
let them come down to the shore for a picnic.

It was Saturday; of course there were no lessons, of course there were
fresh doughnuts, fresh bread, and goats’ milk cheese, so was not a
picnic the simplest thing in the world? There was every probability,
too, that Stumpy might make chowder in a kettle on the rocks and, oh,
why did children have to be scrubbed and brushed within an inch of
their lives when the sun shone and the waves called to the picnic?

Preparations at last being completed they set off, Ronnie carrying the
basket and scampering like a rabbit down the rocky path.

“If it wasn’t for Lesley, I’d never trust him so long out of my sight,”
sighed Mrs. McLean, watching them from the doorway.

“Well, there’s Stumpy, you know,” said her husband, drawing near, “and
Ronald climbs like a cat.”

“That’s just what he does do,” agreed Margaret. “I never knew a cat but
could climb up a tree, but there’s a many that don’t know how to get
down.”

Malcolm laughed in his good-humored way. “It’s a fine thing you’ve got
your children on an island,” he said. “If they were on the mainland,
you’d be worrying about them night as well as day.”

Lesley meantime was composing a piece of po’try in the secret language,
which was to be a sort of ode to Stumpy on his return from foreign
parts.

  “Stump-ery home-ery,
   No longer roam-ery.
   Children are glad-ery,
   So is their dad-ery.”

[Illustration: AS THEY DREW NEAR AN ODOR AROSE THAT WAS THE BEST KIND
OF PO’TRY IN ITSELF]

These were the four opening lines and there were to be another four to
be recited by Ronald, in which Stumpy was to be asked to recount the
incidents of his visit. These were never composed, however, for just
as the last line of the first verse was thought out, a turn in the path
disclosed Stumpy and the chowder-kettle, and as they drew near an odor
arose that was the best kind of po’try in itself. A large school of
porpoises, far out at sea, had just smelled it distinctly and asked for
a holiday to find out what it was, and Ronald exclaimed, as his nose
wrinkled and wrinkled and sniffed and sniffed, “That’s the best smell I
ever smelled since I lived in this country!”

“You bet good smell!” laughed the old sailor. “Everything good in that
chowder, but how you children get along all last week without Stumpy,
hey?”

  “Stump-ery true-ery,
   We love you-ery!”

cried Lesley, hugging him hard.

“Oh-ery, how-ery we-ery you-ery miss-ery!” shouted Ronald, in a burst
of eloquence.

“Well,” said Stumpy, “I ask boss for time off some day and learn your
language. Pretty hard learn, I guess. Maybe you better learn Spanish;
then we all three have secret. Come now, you get plate and spoon,
little son; we have dinner.”

If it wasn’t time for dinner by the clock, it was by the stomach, and
no geese fattened for killing could have been rounder and shinier
than the picnickers were when the meal was over. A walk to the cave
where their father had once saved nine lives from a wreck had been
promised the children, but rest on a smooth rock seemed better after
such a feast, and after much coaxing Stumpy consented to tell a story,
meantime.

It is better, perhaps, to tell it as Stumpy would have done could he
have used his native tongue, for his English was faulty, and though it
was clear enough to Lesley and Ronald it might not be so to the reader.

“It was two years ago, my children,” Stumpy began, his eyes looking far
out to sea, “when I visited a cousin in Santa Barbara and went many
times during my stay to service at the old Mission and talked with and
learned to know the good Fathers there. Naturally I told them where I
lived and that my work was on an island, and Father Francisco promised
to tell me a strange island story some evening when he was not busy.
The time came and this is the tale in his own words, as far as I can
remember them.”


THE STORY OF JUANA MARIA

“There are eight islands in the Pacific, off the coast of Santa
Barbara, lying from thirty to seventy miles away and protecting the
mainland from fierce winds and heavy tides. The nearest of these are
now used for sheep-grazing, and San Nicolás, the farthest off, was
formerly noted for its fine herds of otter and seal. On this San
Nicolás lived a tribe of Indians--if they _were_ Indians, for no one
seems really to know--and at the time of our story, nearly one hundred
years ago now, it was heard that the tribe had been reduced by disease
to less than twenty souls. A fisherman whose boat had been blown far
out to sea by adverse winds had landed on the island for fresh water
and brought the news back to Santa Barbara, adding that one old man
among the natives had been able to speak Spanish and had begged him to
tell the Missions along the coast of their plight and to implore the
good Fathers to rescue them from their island prison.

“The news spread throughout southern California and all were eager to
send for the islanders, but no ship large enough for the purpose made
its appearance. At last, the _Next-to-Nothing_, a schooner that had
been on a hunting expedition in Lower California appeared in San Diego
Harbor with a cargo of otter skins for sale and the skipper made a
bargain with the Franciscan Fathers to sail to San Nicolás and bring
the exiles back.

“The trip was made, but even before the _Next-to-Nothing_ reached its
destination a gale sprang up and a landing was effected with great
difficulty. No time was wasted ashore and the islanders who, of course,
had had no warning as to when, if ever, they would be sent for, were
hurried into the boats in great excitement and confusion and all speed
was made to reach the schooner.

“Somehow, in the hurry and hurly-burly a child was left behind whom a
young mother had placed in the arms of a sailor to carry aboard. How
this may have been we do not know, but no such child was to be found,
and the mother, desperate with fright, with pleading gestures implored
the Captain to return.

“To do this would have been almost impossible and would have imperiled
the lives of the whole party, and the skipper could only shake his head
at the woman’s frantic pleading.

“Finding that they were putting out to sea the poor girl, for she was
little more, leaped overboard and struck out through the angry waters
for the shore. No attempt was made to rescue her, perhaps none would
have been possible, and in a moment she was lost to sight in the huge
waves that crashed against the rocky coast.

“The _Next-to-Nothing_, after a stormy voyage, at last reached the
harbor of San Pedro and the islanders were distributed among the
neighboring Missions. The skipper planned to return at once to San
Nicolás to look for the mother and child, but first going north to San
Francisco for orders from the owners, the _Next-to-Nothing_ was wrecked
at the entrance to the Golden Gate and, there being no other craft
at the time fit for the hazardous journey, the expedition was given
up. The Franciscan Fathers never lost their interest in it, however,
and for fifteen years they offered a reward of two hundred dollars to
whoever would go to San Nicolás and bring them word of the unfortunate
mother and her child.

“In the fifteenth year of the offer, a seal-hunter did visit the
island, but could find no trace of human occupation, and people began
to forget the story.

“Three years later a Santa Barbara man organized an otter-hunting
expedition to San Nicolás and took with him a large company of Indian
guides and trappers. He had heard the tale of the abandoned pair, but
saw and heard nothing to make him think they were still living, or on
the island.

“On the night before they were to leave San Nicolás, however, Captain
N., walking on the beach, saw before him the print of a slender foot--”

“Oh! like Robinson Crusoe!” interrupted Lesley.

“Yes,” nodded Ronnie, “and Man Friday!”

“He saw the print of a slender foot,” continued Stumpy, “and knew it
was that of a woman. He organized a search party, but found nothing
that day save a basket of rushes hanging in a tree with bone needles,
threads of sinew, and a partly finished robe of birds’ feathers made of
small squares neatly matched and sewed together.

“Inland, they discovered several roofless enclosures of woven brush
and near them poles with dried meat hanging from them, but no human
beings. These were sure signs, however, that the island had inhabitants
and Captain N. kept up the search with a will. After two days fresh
footprints were found in the moss that covered one of the cliffs and,
following them up, a woman was discovered, crouching in terror under
a clump of low bushes at the top. Captain N. greeted her gently in
Spanish, and in a moment she came timidly towards him, speaking rapidly
in an unknown tongue. Nobody in the party understood a word she said,
although there were Indians of a dozen tribes among their number.
Captain N. described her as a tall and handsome woman, in middle life,
with long braids of shining black hair and a curious and beautiful
dress of birds’ feathers, sleeveless and with rounded neck.”

“Could she have been the child left on the island?” interrupted Lesley,
hurriedly.

“Oh, no,” answered Stumpy. “She was too old for that. The child must
have died, and this must have been the girl who leaped from the boat.

“She seemed gentle and quite willing to be taken back to the Santa
Barbara Mission, where, although there were then many Indians there and
the Fathers themselves spoke many tongues, no one of them understood
her language.

“The good Fathers baptized her under the name of Juana Maria, and she
made no protest, whatever they did, or pointed her out to do. She
drooped, however, so the story goes, from the moment she left the
island, seemed dazed and looked about with questioning eyes, and one
day she fell from her chair in a faint and the next morning had passed
quietly away. Father Francisco showed me her grave in the shadow of the
Mission tower, poor lost creature, alone and lonely in a strange world!”

“And no one ever really knew who she was, or what had happened to her?”
asked Ronald.

“No; how could they when they could not speak her language and she had
no time to learn theirs? She might not even have been the woman they
were looking for; she might not have been an Indian at all; who knows?”

“Poor, poor thing!” mourned Lesley. “Oh, what a sad story, Stump-ery,
bump-ery!”

“So sad,” cried the old sailor, lifting himself from his rock, “that I
forget my work. You wait here, you children; I come back one half-hour
and we go where your father save me from wreck and where I lose my leg
and that was one day, half good luck, half bad luck,” looking down
ruefully at his crutch.




CHAPTER VI

HOW THE CAT CLIMBED


When Stumpy had gone, Ronald wandered off among the rocks looking for
sea-birds’ eggs for his collection, and Lesley strolled along the shore
picking up shining shells and telling herself a story. In this romantic
tale she was a princess prisoned in a tower on a far-off island, but
the suitors who landed there, having heard of her marvelous beauty,
were unable to declare their passion as, unfortunately, she understood
no tongue but her own and that was strange to all of them.

As it fell out, the long-lost prince, her brother, in command of a
gallant ship, chanced to pass by the island and, arriving at exactly
the right moment, was beginning to give language-lessons to the
handsomest of the suitors, when--

“Hi, Lesley, hi! Where’s Ronnie?” called a hoarse voice that broke in
upon her dreams.

“Ronnie? He’s right here--”

“Where, then? I no see,” objected Stumpy, limping down among the
pebbles.

“He _was_ here a moment ago-- Oh,” in immediate fright, “where _can_
that boy be?”

“You no watch him?” asked Stumpy, with lifted eyebrows. “I think you
always watch Ronnie.”

“I do,” answered Lesley, in a grieved voice, “I _always_ do, but I
forgot one moment. Oh,” breaking into sobs, “_where_ is he and what
will mother say?”

“I know very well what she say,” observed Stumpy, dryly, “but what we
do before she say?”

“He must be climbing the rocks, somewhere, he _must_ be, for he said
only this morning that he hadn’t found a murre’s egg since he lived in
this country.”

Stumpy could not but smile at this Ronald-like speech, though at heart
he was a little anxious. “H----m,” he murmured. “Well, if it was a
murre’s egg he want, he have to climb pretty high-- Halloo, halloo,
Ronald!” he shouted--“Where are you? Halloo! Halloo!”

“Halloo! Halloo, Ronnie!” called Lesley in her high, clear voice.

No answer, but an unusual fluttering and screaming of sea-birds around
the “Gateway Rock” showed that something was amiss there and the old
sailor and the girl started off in that direction.

Now the Gateway Rock was the central one of three sisters stretching
out from shore, the third being entirely surrounded by water and the
second one partly on and to be reached by land. Near the top of its
jagged, shining masses was a narrow opening like a door through which
you saw the heaving blue waters of the Pacific like a picture in a
frame of ebony. The three rocks were particularly favored by gulls,
murres, and cormorants as their resting-place and Ronald had climbed
there before under his father’s advice and direction. Now, however, he
had mounted the heights alone, for Lesley could plainly see his small
figure in the Gateway as they drew near and a bit of something white
that must be a handkerchief, fluttering in his hand.

When they had painfully reached the base of the Gateway Rock, it was
plain that Ronald was calling them and that he was not hurt. The roar
of the breakers against the cliffs was so loud that they could not hear
a word he said, but his gestures showed that he had got himself into a
trap and saw no way to get out.

[Illustration: LESLEY COULD PLAINLY SEE HIS SMALL FIGURE IN THE GATEWAY]

“I can help him down if I can only get up there,” cried Lesley,
starting to climb the slippery cliff, but Stumpy held her back. “No,”
he shouted, “one enough; I get him down.”

“But how can you, Stumpy,” Lesley faltered, “with your wooden leg?”

“Got wooden leg, yes,” answered Stumpy, cheerfully, “but got two arms
all right. No be sailor for nothing. You wait; you see!”--and waving
his hand to Ronnie he started off for the storehouse.

Lesley waited on the black rocks in an agony of fear expecting every
moment that Ronald would slip down from his perch, and while she
watched his small figure and turned with almost every breath to see if
Stumpy hove in sight, she kept saying to herself, “No, I didn’t watch
him; I didn’t. I forgot all about him. Mother will never call me her
faithful little girl again!”

There was, in fact, no danger for Ronald if he kept quiet and did not
try to climb down the steep cliff alone, but the anxious sister did not
realize this, and it seemed to her that hours had passed when she spied
Stumpy limping down among the rocks with a large bundle under his arm.

“All right, Ronnie!” he shouted, as he drew near, “I come pretty soon,
now.” And he unrolled a coil of rope before Lesley’s astonished eyes
and took from within it his Indian bow and a bundle of arrows.

He held up the bow and the rope to the boy, who could see, though he
could not hear, and who waved his hands and clapped them to show that
he understood. Not so did Lesley, however, who looked on with a white
face as if she thought that Stumpy intended to tie Ronald up with the
rope and then shoot him with the arrows.

“See, little daughter,” explained Stumpy, kindly; “I tie little string
to arrow, tie big rope with loop on end to string, then shoot arrow up
to Ronnie. He pull up rope and slip loop round big rock. Then I climb
up rope, so”--illustrating hand-over-hand movement--“and I be up there
pretty quick.”

“But how can you get Ronnie down? He couldn’t climb down a rope.”

“No, that all right. He know. I do that one day up by Lighthouse. You
remember? I let your father down by rope to get little lamb that fall
over cliff and catch on rock. You remember?”

“Oh, yes,” eagerly. “Stumpy’s coming, Stumpy’s coming!” she cried,
turning to the boy.

The proper arrow was finally selected, the cord fastened to it, the
great bow bent, and whiz! went the shaft to its mark, the side of the
Gateway. In a moment Ronald had snatched it, pulled up the rope with
all the strength of eight-year-old arms, found the loop and slipped it
over a convenient peak. He tried it to see that it was taut--(“Smart
boy, that!” murmured Stumpy)--and waved his hand to show that it was
all right.

Stumpy limped to where the end of the rope hung dangling, threw off his
cap and woolen jacket, wet his hands in a pool of the rocks and started
to climb, as he had once done on shipboard. It was not far--one hundred
feet, perhaps--but far enough for a one-legged man and far enough for
a small boy shivering in the windy Gateway above, who knew well enough
that he should not have been where he was and that he was causing
untold trouble by his carelessness.

There were sharp points and projections here and there in the great
rock against which Stumpy could rest his good foot and get a little
breath, but he reached the top almost at the end of his strength and
unable to return Ronald’s bear-like hug of welcome.

“You get down, young man, ’bout as soon as you can,” he panted. “This
be ’bout the last time Stumpy get you out o’ trouble. He getting too
old.”

So saying he pulled up the end of the rope, motioned the boy to come
nearer, fastened it cleverly about his body with loops over the
shoulders, told him to sit down in the threshold of the Gateway, with
legs hanging over the cliff, and with a “Ready, now! All right!”
lowered him slowly downward into Lesley’s arms. The old sailor braced
himself, meantime, against the needle of rock where the rope was
fastened, but even so and with Ronald’s light weight it was all he
could do to manage the job, and the boy noted with distress how long it
took his beloved friend and playmate to recover his breath and gather
strength to climb down the rope himself.

Ronald was ready to meet him when he reached the safety of the rocks
below and to hold out his hand and say, like a man, “I’m sorry, Stumpy,
and I’ll never be so careless again. Thank you, and Mother and Father
will thank you, too.”

“Oh, no need thank,” smiled Stumpy. “Everybody help friend in trouble.
But now other trouble begin. Got to go home and tell boss what you do
and Lesley tell she forgot to watch like Mother say.”

Both children hung their heads and blushed, but they knew their duty
well enough and had known it without Stumpy’s reminder, so they set off
for the Lighthouse, hand in hand, with a sorrowful good-bye for Stumpy.

The soft-hearted old man watched them go with a half-smile and a
half-sigh. “Good children!” he said. “Good boy, that Ronnie, but too
much like little cat. Climb up so far she can go; never think how she
get down!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. and Mrs. McLean heard the children’s story quietly and laid the
blame on Ronald, where it rightfully belonged.

“You _must_ learn to be more careful, son,” warned his father. “It’s no
good for me to punish you. You must find out how to punish yourself so
that it will make you remember.”

“I’ll give up the murre’s egg!” cried Ronald, who had carried it safe
home in the breast of his jacket, in spite of his adventures.

“That would be a foolish thing,” objected his mother. “You did no wrong
in trying to get the egg, only in not asking Stumpy if it was safe for
you to go up the Gateway Rock alone.”

“I won’t go down to Stumpy’s for a month, then,” sniffed the culprit.

“That would be punishing Lesley as well as yourself,” said his father,
severely. “Think again!”

“But I _deserve_ to be punished,” interrupted Lesley. “I didn’t watch
Ronnie, like Mother always says, and I’m older than he is and ought to
remember.”

The boy’s face flushed at his sister’s generous words. “Then I’ll let
Lesley take Jenny Lind to water for a whole week,” he cried, “though
you always said”--this with a catch in the breath--“that it was a man’s
place.”

“So it is,” said his father, affectionately, “and now you talk like a
man.”

“And I’ll give up my pudding for a week, and maybe I’d better go to
bed now and then I shan’t hear you read the next chapter of ‘Robinson
Crusoe’ to-night.” And here the small sufferer really began to sniff,
and made his way blindly to the staircase, still with the murre’s egg
tightly clasped in his grimy paw.

“Oh, Father, oh, Mother!” sobbed Lesley. “He won’t have to go to bed,
will he, poor Ronnie?”

“‘Poor Ronnie’ will have to learn to look before he leaps,” said his
father, quietly. “Going to bed never hurt anybody, yet.” And though
Margaret McLean’s own eyes were moist she nodded her head in silent
agreement.




CHAPTER VII

IN THE FOG


  “Green-y blue, blue-y green,
   Best-est fire that ever was seen!”

chanted Ronald in the Lighthouse sitting-room one foggy evening in the
late summer.

It was indeed one of the “best-est,” if not the _very_ bestest fire
that ever was seen, for it was built of driftwood from some old
copper-bottomed wreck and the flickering flames were pale blue-y green
like a robin’s egg, deep green-y blue like a peacock’s breast, yellow
as star-shine and sunset clouds, while underneath glowed a deep red,
with now and then a purple bloom upon it.

“I picked up the wood on the shore this morning,” said Mr. McLean,
looking at the fire with satisfaction, “and brought it up with the oil
on the car with Jenny Lind. It must have come from the wreck of the old
_Hamburg_.”

“When was she wrecked, Father?” asked Ronald.

“Oh, long ago, before our time. It was on a night just like this,
probably,” looking with a shiver at the blank, white-covered windows.
“The Captain of the _Hamburg_ was steering straight for us, they say,
hoping to catch sight of the Light through the mist, but his aim was
too good and he sent his ship right into the hundred-foot channel
between the islands and a sunken rock did the rest. The men were all
saved, I believe, but the good ship lies there still, or most of it,
only the water is so deep that you can’t even see the topmasts.

“God help the poor folk at sea, to-night!” sighed Mrs. McLean, “and we
so cozy here!”

It was the usual evening party at the Lighthouse, Margaret McLean
knitting, her husband smoking and reading his book, and Lesley and
Ronald playing checkers at the table. Nothing could have been more
secure or peaceful, for Jim Crow was there, perched on a chair-back in
the corner, half-asleep, and it was known that Jenny Lind was safely
reposing in her stable, after a delightful day spent in doing next to
nothing.

The fog had been lying about in thin trails across the sky for many
hours, but had waited till night to mass its forces together into a
thick blanket, white as a roll of cotton and as dense. The Light, so
Father said, could hardly be seen a hundred yards from the tower, so
the steam fog-signal had been started and was sending out its long
shrieks of melancholy warning, “Dan--ger! Dan--ger-r-r! Keep awa-a-a-y!
Keep a-w-a-a-a-a-y!”

It was well that the little family had its own resources on such a
night, for though the Lighthouse tender brought letters and papers only
once in two months, there were a number of well-selected books on hand
and these could always be read and re-read. There was a Government
cable, of course, to the mainland, but it was not supposed to be used
save for danger, death, disaster, doctors, and drugs, and the longing
for a daily paper could not be classed under any of these heads.

“A-a-a-a-h! A-a-a-a-h!” groaned the fog-signal and Mrs. McLean looked
up from her work. “Did you happen to notice, Father,” she asked,
“in the last ‘San Francisco Chronicle’ we had, that story about the
eight-year-old boy out in Wyoming that an eagle tried to carry off?”

“Yes, I believe I spoke of it at the time. What makes you think of it
now?”

“Why, because Stumpy read it, too, and he was saying when he was up
here to-day that it was a ‘foolishness,’ as he called it, and no bird
could carry such a weight.”

“Oh, that’s not so,” said Mr. McLean, decidedly, while the children
dropped their checkers and pricked up their ears for a story. “I don’t
know about a good-sized boy, but we know that an eagle could carry a
small one. My idea is that they can lift as much in proportion to their
weight as a hawk or a horned owl, and I’ve known a horned owl to snatch
up a large house-cat and make off with it.

“My belief is that if hawks or owls can carry more than twice their
weight--and everybody knows they can--that an eagle could do as
much, or more, perhaps. Once, when I was a lad, I found an eagle
lying helpless on his back in the road shot through the body with a
rifle-ball, poor creature. I was kind of afraid of him, he looked so
fierce, and I up-ended a long road skid and dropped it on him. Before
it reached him he stretched up and caught it in his claws and held it
up the length of his legs above him. I walked up on the skid and stood
over him, and he easily held me and the skid, which I should judge
would weigh more than twenty pounds. I took pains to be weighed myself
that same day and tipped the scales at one hundred and nineteen pounds.
You tell Stumpy that, and tell him to put a stick in the claw of a
wounded eagle and let him grasp a small tree with the other and a man
must be stronger than ever I was to take the stick away from him.”

Ronald had left the table as soon as eagles, hawks, and horned owls had
begun to fly through the conversation and now leaned on the arm of his
father’s chair.

“I should think, Daddy,” he said in his wheedling way, “that it would
be a good night to tell us that story about the baby that was carried
off to Garrison Mountain when you were a little boy in Maine. I haven’t
heard it, I do think, more’n once since I lived in this country.”

McLean laughed. “I’m no story-teller,” he said, “and a good thing I’m
not. What with Stumpy and his tales and your mother there and her
ballads, you children would never have learned to read if I’d told
stories, too.”

“Never you mind about my ballads,” advised Mother, good-humoredly. “You
like them just as well as the children do. Tell the boy about the
white-headed eagle. I’d like to hear it again, myself.”

“It was a good while ago it happened,” said McLean, “for it was not
long after my father and mother died and I was brought over from the
old country to an uncle on a farm in Maine.

“We knew that two old white-headed eagles built their nest every year
on a crag of Garrison Mountain in plain sight of the folks in the
valley and we heard them screaming over us every spring when they came
back to settle down again in the old homestead. The charcoal-burners in
the camps used to hear them, too, as they swooped down to the lowlands
for rushes and grass to line their nest, and when the great eggs were
laid and the mother was keeping them warm, many a lamb or little pig
did the old father eagle take her for her dinner. Mothers used to be
extra watchful of their babies for the first few weeks of spring, but
nothing ever did happen and of course they thought nothing ever would.”

“Would an eagle really like a baby better than a lamb?” asked Lesley,
fearfully.

“Why, no, of course not, child. It would only see something soft and
light that might be good to eat and snatch it up. Well, one warm
spring morning when the apple-trees were in bloom Mrs. Shadwell had set
her baby boy out to play on the grass in the care of his sister, and
had left him but a few moments when a shadow flew by the window; she
heard the flapping of great wings, cries and calls of distress, and
she rushed to the door just in time to see old Father Whitehead rise
into the air with the baby in his claws. There was nothing to do but
to scream and scream and to snatch the big dinner-horn and blow blast
after blast upon it to summon her husband and the charcoal-burners.

“The neighbors gathered in a few moments and plainly saw the giant bird
with the white bundle in his grasp circling toward his nest. It was
dreadful to see the agony of the parents and to hear the mother cry,
‘Oh, they’ll tear my Willie to pieces. Oh, save him, save him!’

“But how were they to save him? Many a time had the best marksmen of
the settlement tried to shoot the robber pair, but never had succeeded,
and it would be a terrible risk now to try and hit the old bird while
he carried the child in his grasp. Fortunately an old hunter--‘Dave,’
they called him; I never knew his other name--had lately come to the
settlement from the North woods where he had been trapping sable.
Luckily, he heard the horn-blast on the hills and knew it meant danger
of some kind.

“Reaching the valley, he saw the great bird overhead with his white
burden, saw the crowd of neighbors, and judged what had happened.

“He loaded his long rifle, ran toward the bridge where he could get
a better view of the eagles’ nest, leveled his piece on the rail and
knelt on the planking. The father followed him begging him to be
careful, to be careful, or he would kill the child, but old Dave waved
his hand for silence, watched the eagle as he soared upward and the
mother bird circling and screaming over the nest--and waited!

“I was only a boy, but I shall never forget the fright and the suspense
in the eyes of the neighbors while they waited for Dave’s shot. It was
a long range and the bullets fired by the best marksmen in the village
had always failed to reach it, hitherto.

“Would the old hunter have better success? Could he kill the bird and
not the child?

“At length the eagle slowly descended to the nest where his young ones
were clamoring for their dinner and, just as he reached the rocky
platform on which it was built, Dave fired.

“We held our breaths, but before the smoke from his rifle had
disappeared the head of the mighty bird was seen to fall. Dave waved
his hand again for silence and leveled his piece a second time, for
the mother was slowly circling down to see what was amiss in the nest.
The old man was a wonderful marksman, the best I shall ever see, for
he fired again just at the very moment when she was stretching out her
feet to alight and in a second we saw her tumble down the side of the
crag.”

“Oh, that was splendid!” cried Ronald, his eyes sparkling with
excitement, “and then the poor mother knew that her baby was safe.”

“Not at all,” answered McLean. “She knew nothing of the kind, and none
of us did. How did she know but the young eagles were big enough to
tear the child to pieces? How did she know he would not toss about and
roll over the cliff?

“No, the thing was to get him out of the nest, and to do that they had
to climb a crag that nobody had ever gone up, not the best man in the
settlement. And they wouldn’t have done it then, if it hadn’t been for
old Dave. I was one that helped the men carry the ladders and the ropes
to the foot of the crag. I saw them climb as far as they could get a
foothold and then set a ladder up into a gnarled oak that grew out of
the rocks above. Dave climbed to the oak, pulled up the ladder and set
it still farther up, lashing it to the oak-tree, while Shadwell--the
baby’s father, you know--clambered after him on another ladder the men
had brought. He followed Dave till they found a part of the cliff where
they could climb without ladders, and then, holding on by tough shrubs
that grew here and there, they dragged themselves up to the top of the
crag.

“But then, you see, they were too high up and old Dave had to rope the
father and lower him down to the nest which was built on a kind of
rocky platform below.”

“Oh, the poor mother!” sighed Mrs. McLean, “not knowing all that time
whether the child was alive or dead!”

“They very soon knew,” said her husband, “for when the father found the
child alive and unhurt, he held it up for us all to see, and then, what
a shout went up from the valley!”

“But how did they get the baby down?” questioned Ronald.

“Much the same way as Stumpy got you down from the rock the other
day; they roped him and lowered him into the arms of the men who were
waiting at the foot of the first ladder and there were plenty of arms
and good, strong ones too.

“Oh, it was a wonderful sight. I never shall forget it, though I
haven’t thought of it for years, and shouldn’t have now, if your mother
hadn’t read that story in the ‘Chronicle.’”

“Do you think,” Lesley asked her mother wistfully, “if the little
sister had been watching the baby, that maybe the eagle wouldn’t have
carried it off?”

“That I can’t say,” answered her mother, briskly; “an eagle is a
good-sized bird to fight, but I _can_ say that it’s past time for you
two to be in bed!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Lesley did not fall asleep as quickly as usual that night, and when at
last she drowsed she awoke with a sudden start and a beating heart.
What had frightened her? She did not know, but she tiptoed to the
window to see if the fog had lifted and found that all was clear and
the Light shining bravely across the waters. The door between her
brother’s room and her own was always left open at night, for she had
had a care of him ever since he was a baby and she glanced through it
as she went back to bed. She stopped in amaze, for there was no dark
head on the pillow there. Where was Ronnie? She was in the room in a
minute, and looking in the closet, under the bed, in the corners, then
back in her own room where perhaps the boy might be hiding and trying
to frighten her. No, no Ronnie there.

She ran to her mother’s door with a cry, and Mrs. McLean, hearing,
lifted her head to say, “What is it, Lesley? Are you sick?”

“No, Mother, but I can’t find Ronnie,” with a little gasp of fear.

“Not find Ronnie!”--and in a moment Mrs. McLean had hurried on slippers
and an old shawl and was in her boy’s room. In another moment Malcolm
was there, too, gathering some clothing about him as he came, and
together they looked in every likely and unlikely place upstairs. Then
Malcolm hurried to the floor below, calling back that every door was
shut and bolted on the inside.

“The cellar!” cried Mrs. McLean, but no, that door was also closed and
bolted.

“He must be in the tower, then,” exclaimed Father, hurrying to the
second floor again, and Lesley and her mother followed him as he ran up
the corkscrew stairs to the Light.

All was peaceful there; the lamp blazed like a splendid sun and the
speckless glass protected it from all wandering breezes. All was
peaceful, but the little door in the masonry was open and the three
dived through it into the gallery that ran around the tower.

“Hush!” whispered Mrs. McLean, “don’t speak to him! He’s walking in his
sleep.”

That is just what the boy was doing, in fact--walking on the gallery in
his little white nightgown, his eyes fast closed, as calmly as if he
had been at play on the grass.

“Get behind him, quietly, Malcolm,” whispered Mrs. McLean again, “so
that he won’t fall, but don’t speak to him now. Let him alone and
perhaps he’ll come in, himself.”

They watched silently as Ronald came toward them, went back again and
then, with arms outstretched, seemed trying to climb the tower, still
with fast-closed eyes. Half-clothed and shivering in the night air,
they watched him make this attempt three times and then pass them by,
totally unconscious of their presence, slip in through the little door,
and make his way downstairs to bed.

The boy did not waken even when his mother wrapped the blankets more
closely about him, but slept on sweetly while the watchers hung above
his bed.

“Has he ever walked in his sleep before, Lesley?” asked Malcolm,
anxiously.

“No, Father, no; I never saw such a thing. He always talks in his sleep
a lot, you know, but he doesn’t get up.”

“It’s likely he won’t remember anything about this in the morning,
Lesley, and we’ll tell him when he comes downstairs,” said Mother.
“I’ll fasten his door now and then we’ll get some sleep. Thank Heaven,
we found him in time!”

In the morning when his astonishing feat had been related to Ronald,
he only half-believed it until the evidence of three pairs of eyes was
brought forward.

“What were you trying to do, Ronnie?” asked Lesley, curiously--“trying
to climb up the tower?”

“Oh, I remember!” cried the boy, “I remember now. It was a dream I had
and I was climbing up a rock to reach an eagle’s nest.”

“Then, in future,” said his father, good-humoredly, “as you seem
determined to climb by night as well as by day, you will please tie a
string to your toe when you go to bed and hitch the other end of it
to Lesley’s bedpost. Then, at least, you’ll have a companion when you
start on your midnight rambles.”




CHAPTER VIII

THE WHITE SLIPPER


It was not long after Ronald’s sleep-walking adventure when the
faithful Stumpy was stricken with a sharp rheumatic attack that made
it necessary for him to come up to the Lighthouse and be nursed by
Mrs. McLean. On the whole he found his illness rather agreeable than
otherwise, for Ronald and Lesley were his constant companions and the
Lightkeeper laughingly said more than once that he didn’t know when he
hired Stumpy whether he had engaged a nurse for his children, or an
assistant for his own work.

When the old fellow was recovering and could limp about almost as well
as usual, he rambled out one balmy day with his young friends and they
all sat together on the rocks in the sun. Not a feather of breeze was
blowing, a thing most remarkable and to be remembered, for King Æolus
was supposed to have his cave in the immediate vicinity of the island
and to let out from it all his romping, roaring winds every morning.

Jenny Lind, though not invited, had joined the party and was looking
down upon them, benevolently, from a high rock; several sheep were
scrambling about near by and a rabbit occasionally appeared, stood on
his hind legs, sniffed the air, and disappeared again. Jim Crow was
there, perched on the donkey’s back and croaking certain remarks in a
low tone about this being a hard world, anyway, and it was a strange
thing, so it was, that a poor crow couldn’t have a red ribbon around
his neck, like Lesley. From time to time he eyed the steel chain that
hung from Stumpy’s pocket with such a covetous air that its owner
clapped his hand over it in pretended alarm and cried laughingly, “Oh,
you Jim Crow! You young, handsome bird! You no want take chain from
poor old man.”

“Jim-ery Crow-ery, never-y you-ery mind-ery!” cried Lesley,
affectionately. “Bad-ery Stump-ery, tease-ery you-ery!”

“Oh-ery you-ery think-ery Jim-ery never-y bad-ery!” exclaimed Ronald.

“Oh, that secret language! When I learn?” sighed Stumpy. “I tell you
many times you better learn Spanish.”

“Well, we’re willing,” answered Lesley, cheerfully. “We always were.
Teach us some now. We know ‘_Viva México!_’ to begin with.”

“I think you not even know my name in Spanish,” said the old man,
seriously. “My name Francisco Lopez, or Pancho Lopez, if you want use
little name. In Mexico children like you call me Don Pancho.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Ronald. “I’ll call you that, and now we
know four words.”

“If we learn eight more words this afternoon and that will make twelve,
will you tell ‘The White Slipper?’” asked Lesley, eagerly.

“Sure I will,” agreed Don Pancho, and the children set to work at
once and learned the Spanish for _donkey_, _crow_, _sheep_, _lamb_,
_rabbit_, _man_, _boy_ and _girl_.

“Well, that’s done,” said Ronnie with a sigh of content, “and now ‘The
White Slipper.’”

Here is the story, but it would best be told as the little Pancho heard
it at his mother’s knee and not in the halting English he had learned
since then.


THE WHITE SLIPPER[1]

“There was once a king of great riches and a great kingdom whose
queen was no longer living and who would have been very lonely
on his golden throne had it not been for his beautiful daughter,
Diamantina.

“Only fifteen years old was Diamantina, but how beautiful and how
graceful! When she rode through the streets of the city, her eyes
and her jewels shone like the sun at midday and she had more lovers
than there are grasses in the meadow. For all that, her father, King
Balancin, had no idea of marriage for her and indeed she was too busy
with her birds and her flowers to think about a husband.”

“But where is the White Slipper?” the children interrupted.

“Well, that is exactly what Balancin wanted to know,” said Stumpy, “and
I will tell you all about it this very minute.

“Everybody in this world, my dears, no matter how happy he seems
to be, has yet some trouble to bear, be it small or great, and
Balancin’s trouble was of very good size.

“The monarch was devoted to the sport of hunting and one day, while
pursuing the wild boar, he fell from his horse into a ravine where
his face and hands were torn with thorns and his foot received a
grievous wound.

“All the doctors in the kingdom were summoned to him, one after
the other, but no one of them cured the wound which kept the poor
king in constant pain. At length a learned physician from another
country was heard of, was offered a magnificent fee and summoned to
the palace, and after examining the injured foot he declared that he
could not cure it, but that he could make a sandal or slipper for it
that would quiet the pain. This offer Balancin eagerly accepted, and
the physician gave orders for the slipper, which was to be made of
kid-skin, beautifully soft and white and was guaranteed to last one
thousand years from that date.

“When this wonderful object was delivered, the monarch naturally
wished to try it at once, but the physician warned him that it must
first be soaked for eight days in a liquid which he, only, could
manufacture, if it were to be of any service.

“This was done, the famous White Slipper was finally put on and, oh,
joy! Balancin was comfortable once more. His delight was such that
he made the physician the most extravagant offers to remain at his
court, but the learned man replied that he had many patients awaiting
him in his own country, and he departed, at length, laden with the
richest of presents.

“The king was now as happy as the sun on Easter Day and so was the
charming Diamantina who had shared to the full in her father’s
distress, but, alas! children of my heart, the joys of this world are
fleeting!

“The date of the king’s birthday now drew near and great preparations
were made for the occasion. There was to be a water festival, an
afternoon of sports and games, a grand banquet at night, fireworks
and an illumination of the palace. The king and his beautiful
daughter appeared early upon the streets, arrayed in the greatest
magnificence and were cheered and applauded wherever they went. The
day was spent in gayety, but, at night, as Balancin stepped into the
boat which was to take him back to the palace his foot caught on one
of the thwarts and, shaking it, in a moment of impatience with the
pain, off fell the White Slipper into the stream!

“The king cried out in distress, but, as it was already dusk, no one
noticed his loss, and he fell swooning into the bottom of the boat
before any one understood what had happened.

“The courtiers rushed to his rescue, but in their haste they
overturned the boat in so doing and upset the unfortunate monarch
into the water. Diamantina fainted, at once, on seeing her father’s
plight, and parent and child were carried insensible to the palace
where an end was immediately made to all festivities.

“Balancin remained insensible for three days and therefore could not
order a search for the White Slipper; Diamantina, however, recovered
on the morning after the accident, inquired for the treasure which
none of the careless attendants had even thought of up to that time,
and, finding that it was missing, immediately fainted away again.
When she came to herself she at once organized search-parties both
by land and by water in every direction, but neither then nor at any
other time was so much as an inch of the White Slipper ever found.

“The king, again pursued by pain both night and day, fell into the
deepest gloom, the princess wept like a fountain, and the court was
plunged into mourning. Messengers were dispatched for the foreign
physician, but, alas! in spite of all his learning he had departed
this life.

“The unfortunate monarch now posted notices in every part of his
kingdom offering the hand of Diamantina and the succession to the
throne to whosoever would find the White Slipper. The princess,
ready to sacrifice all for her beloved father, watched from the
palace windows the swarm of youths who swam and dived in the
neighboring stream in search of the missing treasure. The town looked
like a seaside resort in the bathing season and, wherever you went,
showers of drops were scattered over your garments as the dripping
figures, with chattering teeth, darted in and out of the waters.

“At last, when Balancin was completely discouraged and ready to put
an end to his life, he heard a disturbance one day in an antechamber
of the palace and sending to inquire the cause found out that a
fellow of the streets, a mere nobody from nowhere, as the servants
expressed it, had had the impudence to call at the palace and ask to
measure His Majesty’s foot for another shoe like the one he had lost.

“‘And what did you do with the fellow?’ asked Balancin.

“‘We packed him off at once,’ cried the servants, ‘and gave him a
good drubbing besides for his insolence.’

“‘Very ill done,’ frowned the king. ‘The meanest of my subjects has a
right to attempt, at least, to do me a service. Send for the youth.
I can hear what he has to say, if I can do no more.’

“The poor fellow was sent for at once, and, appearing before the
monarch and giving him a respectful salutation, begged permission to
measure the injured foot and to place upon the wound a small plaster
that would ease the pain until he could complete the cure.

“Balancin was astonished at the ease and assurance of the youth,
but he liked his face and his manner and allowed him to make the
examination, which he did with the greatest care. The plaster was
scarcely laid on the wound when the king felt some relief and, more
astonished still at this result, he asked his caller’s name.

“‘I am very well known in the city, Your Majesty,’ the youth answered
humbly, ‘although I have no kinsfolk and never knew my parents. When
I was little they called me “Goldfinch,” because I always sang in
spite of my troubles and they call me “Goldfinch” still.’

“‘And you think you can cure me, Master Finch?’ asked Balancin.

“‘I am sure of it, sire.’

“‘And how long will it take?’

“‘I can hardly manage it in less than fifteen days, sire,’ answered
Goldfinch.

“‘And what do you require for the cure?’ inquired the king.

“‘A good horse, strong and swift, Your Majesty.’

“Balancin was astonished again, and the courtiers could hardly
restrain their laughter, but the monarch replied at once: ‘The horse
shall be yours, Master Goldfinch, and in fifteen days I shall expect
you here again. If you succeed in the cure, you know what the reward
will be; if you fail, your daring will receive a fitting punishment.’

“Goldfinch made a profound bow and withdrew; the horse was provided
at once, and the youth left the city followed by the hoots and jeers
of the entire populace.

“Now I must tell you, my children, who Goldfinch was and how he became
possessed of so much medical knowledge.

“His parents having died in his infancy he was taken in, out of
charity, by an old apothecary who had nothing left of his business
but his learning and his library.

“As the boy grew, he applied himself to study the books with which
the walls were lined and was greatly assisted and encouraged by his
benefactor, who, upon his death, bequeathed to his charge all the
weighty volumes. The youth gained a light employment to support his
scanty needs and spent his remaining time in study, whereby, one day,
he found a marvelous specific for wounds which, however, required
the use of a plant only to be found at a great distance and was thus
completely out of his reach, as he possessed neither horse nor money.

“He had often seen the Princess Diamantina in her royal progress
through the city and cherished for her a passionate affection, but
had had no hope, even of speaking to her, until he saw the king’s
proclamation published in the streets and so was emboldened to call
at the palace and offer a substitute for the White Slipper.

“Astride his good horse, Goldfinch now galloped away for six whole
days, stopping hardly to eat and only to snatch an hour’s sleep at
night, and finally, in the depths of a thick wood, he found the plant
so much desired. He plucked it, placed it carefully in his bosom, and
_Katakées, katakás, katakées, katakás_, he was off again, galloping
back to the city.

“Reasoning that if the king were willing to give his daughter and
his kingdom to the man who should furnish him with a shoe to ease
his pain, he would be even more grateful to one who should cure him
altogether, the youth prepared his balsam according to directions and
mixed within it the juices of the precious plant.

“This done and before the fifteen days had quite expired, Goldfinch
presented himself at the palace and asked for an audience with
the king. All was immediately prepared for his reception and the
court assembled, the beautiful Diamantina entering by her father’s
side. She saw at once that the new physician was young and of good
appearance and, modestly casting down her eyes, awaited her fate.

“Goldfinch approached His Majesty and after the usual salutations
inquired of him whether he would prefer another White Slipper, or a
complete cure of the wounded foot. Balancin naturally replied that
a complete cure was what most he longed for in the world, whereupon
Goldfinch at once applied his precious balsam to the wound. A few
moments slipped by, and the king, the courtiers, and most of all the
princess, waited with bated breath.

“Suddenly Balancin started to his feet, he walked, he ran across the
floor, and finally, in a transport of ecstasy, he danced gayly about
the room, tossing his crown before him like a ball into the air.

“‘Approach, my benefactor, approach, Prince Goldfinch!’ he cried,
‘and I will gladly give thee thy reward.’

“Drawing toward him his beloved daughter, who was blushing like a
white cloud in the setting sun, Balancin joined the hands of the
young couple and ordered the immediate celebration of their wedding.

“Prince Goldfinch, attended by respectful courtiers, withdrew to a
sumptuous apartment in the palace and shortly issued clad in white
velvet embroidered in gold. Diamantina, in garments frosted with lace
and glittering with gems, joined him at the altar and amid the cheers
of the populace the marriage took place.

“The new-made prince filled equally well his double offices of
husband and son-in-law, and on the death of Balancin reigned over the
kingdom many years in peace and contentment.”

[Illustration: HE DANCED GAYLY ABOUT THE ROOM, TOSSING HIS CROWN BEFORE
HIM LIKE A BALL]

“Oh, what a good story!” cried Lesley.

  “Stump-ery, true-ery
   I love you-ery!”

and she pressed close to the blue-clad arm beside her.

“Much obliged to you, Don Pancho,” said Ronald in an offhand, manly way.

Nobody else said anything, for Jenny Lind had wandered away and Jim
Crow had flapped his wings once or twice and departed, crying as he
went, “Caw! Caw! I know a better story than that, about a pirate and a
buried treasure.”

There had been a rabbit in almost constant attendance upon the party,
but he had popped up and popped down so frequently that it was hard
to tell at any given time whether it was himself or his brother, and
probably timidity would have hindered either of them from giving
applause even to a better story than that of the White Slipper.




CHAPTER IX

LESLEY TO THE RESCUE!


Many seemingly uneventful weeks slipped by after Stumpy’s recovery and
return to the storehouse, but you may be sure that they were far from
uneventful to the folk of the island. Life is never very dull when,
like the gulls, the murres, the gannets, and the rabbits, you have to
seek out your daily food and shelter and go without it, if you find
nothing suitable. The domestic animals on the island were well provided
for; still, there were daily and exciting climbing-parties among the
goats and kids, and Jenny Lind amused herself by hiding away from the
Lightkeeper whenever there seemed a chance that she might be asked to
draw the little car to the shore.

The children had books and lessons, fishing and gathering sea-moss and
shells for their occupations, and on days of blinding fog, or unusually
fierce wind, they always sought Humpty Dumpty Land, where they played
with dolls, arranged their collections, used their tools, cut out
and pasted pictures, or dressed up Jim Crow with beads and ribbons,
sometimes tying a long silken trail to his inky feathers and seeing
him walk about the attic, mincing along like an elderly lady on a
slippery ballroom floor.

  “Ho! ho! ho!
   Old Jim Crow,
   You’re the funniest kind of a bird,
   I ever did know!”

sang Ronald one morning when they had dressed their pet to particular
advantage.

“Oh, Ronnie!” cried Lesley, “that’s not a good verse.”

“Why not, then? It sounds good to me.”

“No, it’s too long in the middle. It ought to be,

  “Ho! ho! ho!
   Old Jim Crow,
   You’re just a funny bird;
   And that I know!”

“Well, maybe that _is_ better,” agreed Ronald, “and I can dance it,
any way.” And he began to whirl about the playroom, stamping out the
measure with a will.

“Oh, hush, Ronnie!” cried Lesley; “you’ll tear the house down.... I
wonder,” she added slowly, holding the crow to her cheek while he
caressed her with his beak, “if Father will let us take old Jim if we
go away.”

“Why, shan’t we take _everything_?” questioned Ronald, with wondering
eyes. “Jenny Lind and Jim Crow and the goats and--no, not the rabbits,
o’ course.”

“And--not Jenny Lind, nor the goats either,” said Lesley, shaking her
head. “They belong to the Gov’ment, you know, like Father says the
Light does.”

“And does Stumpy belong to the Gov’ment?” in awe-stricken tones.

“I don’t know,” answered Lesley, cautiously, “but I believe he _must_
belong to us, so prob’ly we could take him.”

This question, not of the removal of Jim Crow and Stumpy, but of the
entire family, had been one that had prevented Mr. and Mrs. McLean for
some time from finding life dull or unexciting. The Lighthouse tender
had come in since Stumpy’s illness began and had brought a letter from
the “Gov’ment,” a big one with a big seal, to Malcolm McLean.

It looked on the outside just like an ordinary letter, with a check in
it for salary, perhaps, or a notice of oil that had been shipped for
the Light, but in fact it held a bomb that exploded when the envelope
was opened and filled the whole house with surprise and excitement.

The “Gov’ment” said, and said it very handsomely, that Malcolm
McLean’s work as Lightkeeper on Friar’s Island had long been known and
appreciated and that, considering his fine record and his length of
service, it had been decided to appoint him to the care of the Santa
Barbara Light, which was on the mainland, had a good house with plenty
of ground for cultivation, was within easy reach of the town, with its
churches and schools, and commanded a better salary.

It seemed and it was a wonderful appointment, but it was entirely
unexpected and required a great deal of consideration. Ronald declared
that he had never heard such a letter since he lived in this country,
and his father asked him, with a twinkle in his eye, whether it was the
praise of the Lightkeeper, or the thought of leaving the island that so
astonished him.

“’Course I _knew_ you were the best Lightkeeper, ever,” explained
Ronald, carefully; “I knew that when I was a little boy, but I ’spected
we’d live on this island forever’n ever!”

“And I thought so, too,” Lesley chimed in eagerly.

“No wonder they thought so, Malcolm,” smiled Mrs. McLean, turning to
her husband, “when they were both born here and have hardly ever been
away. I don’t know but that I thought so, myself, and it will be hard
to leave the old place, if we decide to go. Still,” hesitatingly,
“there’s the church and the schools for the children.”

“Well,” said McLean, “we’ve talked it over till we’ve nearly worn it
out, but that letter to the Lighthouse Commissioner has got to be
written to-night one way or the other”--and here he brought his hand
down on the table with a bang--“for it’s got to be sent by the tender
to-morrow.”

“Oh, is the _Vigilant_ coming to-morrow? Oh, goody, goody!” cried
Lesley, jumping up and down and clapping her hands.

“Let’s-ery go-ery to-ery bed-ery earl-ery!” whispered Ronnie, drawing
Lesley into a corner.

“What-ery for-ery?” inquired Lesley, with a look of astonishment.

“To-ery see-ery tug-ery come-ery in-ery first-ery, you-ery goose-ery!”
laughed the boy.

The mother laughed, too, seeing the whispering pair, and inquired,
“Who do you think will understand your ‘secret language,’ if you go to
Santa Barbara?”

“Oh, we’ll teach it to the natives, like the Missionaries did when they
first came to California,” cried Lesley, gayly, jumping out from her
corner.

Of course as the Lighthouse tender was sent only once in two months and
as no other vessel touched the island regularly, to see her come in
was a great event and one always viewed with excitement by the entire
population, with the exception, perhaps, of the sea-birds, the rabbits,
and the fishes, who did not care much for outside gayety.

The Lightkeeper, with Jenny Lind and the car, was early on the shore,
long before the _Vigilant_ could have been hoped for, and Stumpy,
waiting in the storehouse door, saluted the Boss in nautical fashion
and limped to his side to exchange opinions on wind and weather. Mrs.
McLean forsook her usual stroll among the cabbages and, tying herself
up in a shawl against the wind, her head as tightly bandaged as a
sausage, she took her stand at the top of the flight of steps nearest
the Lighthouse where everything could be seen and heard. The children
stood by her side, at first, but soon clattered down the steps and
along the rocky path to the shore, where novelty and gayety seemed more
possible.

It was a gray day with a troubled sea and the air was filled with the
screams of the sea-birds and the dash of the breakers against the black
and jagged rocks. As to that, however, these noises were as familiar
to the island-folk and as little noticed by them, as the rumble of
street-cars and the honk of automobiles are to people of the city.

The children had hardly reached the shore, where Stumpy and the
Lightkeeper were already stationed in their little rowboat, when a
trail of white smoke was seen on the horizon, and jumping up and down
in wild excitement Ronald cried, “There she is, there she is, Lesley!
We were only just in time!”

The _Vigilant_ at last hove in sight, steamed to within a few hundred
feet of the shore and then blew a blast that startled the birds into
louder screaming and greater flapping of wings.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah for the _Vigilant_!” cried the children, and in
a moment out shot their father’s flat-bottomed skiff from the rocks,
dipping down behind each breaker and popping up again when it had been
passed, like a very Jack-in-the-Box.

The “Gov’ment” had never felt it necessary to build a pier at Friar’s
Island, so the only way to land the stores and the barrels of oil
was to lower a few of them at a time from the tender into the little
boat, row them back to the shore, and then haul them up by a derrick
to a small platform that jutted out from the rocks. It was Pacific
Ocean, you know, straight up to the island, with no friendly bay or
shallow water, just wild surf and big breakers to the very base of the
unfriendly cliffs.

The children watched the rocking skiff as the first load was lowered
from the ship’s side, McLean receiving and placing the boxes while
Stumpy balanced the boat with his oars. With eager eyes they watched
the return, and Ronald waded far out to catch the package of papers and
letters which his father threw into his arms. Then there was a scramble
up the rocks and up the steps to Mother, who scurried off at once to
the house, her skirts flapping in the wind, to look over her treasures.

The children ran back again to the shore, Ronald pitching headlong
down most of the last flight of steps, but picking himself up quickly
and calling back to his sister, “No matter, Les’! Nothing but the
nose-bleed!”

His handkerchief held to his nose, he stood by Lesley on the rocks
and watched the slow unloading of the barrels of oil, which formed,
of course, the largest part of the cargo. Then the _Vigilant_ came to
life again, immediately found herself in great haste, puff-puff-puffed
impatiently, as if saying, “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” gave a loud blast of
farewell and made off for her next Lighthouse.

The rolling in to the storehouse and the packing away of the barrels of
oil was not of much interest to the children, so, as their father had
told them that they need not go home until he went up for dinner with
Jenny Lind and the car, they sought for fresh amusement.

“I believe I left a book somewhere down here on the rocks,” said
Lesley. “Let’s get it out and read till Father’s ready.”

“No, no!” shouted Ronald, “I don’t want to read now. Let’s go up higher
and maybe I can fish off the platform.”

“You remind me of that boy in the ‘po’try’ Mother reads us,” grumbled
Lesley, following him slowly, “the one that went through the Alpine
Village holding the banner.”

“Don’t remember him!” said Ronald, stopping halfway up the steps.

“Oh, yes, he’s in the Fifth Reader.”

“Well, say him, then!”

  “The shades of night were falling fast
   When through an Alpine Village passed
   A youth, who bore ’mid snow and ice
   A banner with the strange device,
             Excelsior!”

repeated Lesley, obediently.

“Oh, yes, I remember. Excelsior! Excelsior!”--and up the remaining
steps the boy scampered like a squirrel.

Arrived at the platform above, Lesley settled herself with her book
on a coil of rope and began to read the story of “Perlino,” that
enchanting youth made of wax and sugar and rosewater and roseleaves and
pearls and rubies and sapphires and yellow sewing-silk by the Princess
who was so unsatisfied with the ordinary ready-made lover. Ronald found
his rod and line, baited his hook from a supply that Stumpy always had
on hand, and, sitting down on the edge of the platform, began to fish
for the pink rock cod found in abundance around the island. He had been
trusted to do this for a year, now, so long as some one was with him to
see that he did not attempt any too daring feats, and Lesley felt no
particular uneasiness as she glanced up from her story, only called,
“Be careful, Ronnie, won’t you?”

“’Fraid Cat! ’Fraid Cat!” shouted Ronald, scornfully, turning his head
toward her, but in a moment came a long shrill scream, “Lesley! Lesley!
I’m falling!”--and springing to her feet the frightened girl saw her
brother slip over the edge of the platform borne down by the weight
of his rod. An unusually large fish must have caught suddenly at the
bait, given it a tug when Ronald was not watching, and overbalanced the
little fisherman.

Beneath the platform was a sheer wall of black rock, and below that,
five or six feet of water into which Ronald, screaming for help, was
plunged. Lesley realized, even in that moment of terrible fear, that
her father and Stumpy were near at hand and, screaming for help, too,
she rushed to Ronald’s assistance with a long fish-gaff that stood near
by.

Leaning over the platform she caught it in his clothing and held him
up for a moment, calling, above the noise of the breakers, “All right,
Ronnie, Father’s coming, Father’s coming!”

It was only for a moment, however, for the weight of the struggling and
gasping boy was more than she could hold, and before she knew it she,
too, was dragged over the edge of the platform and down into the depths
below.

The last despairing screams of both children were heard by the men at
the storehouse, and McLean, followed by Stumpy, ran like a deer toward
the sounds, pulling off his coat as he went. He scrambled up a rock
near the platform and seeing, as he expected, the struggling forms in
the depths below, leaped to their rescue. He was only just in time,
for, as he caught them and pulled them to the shore, they hung from his
grasp like mere bundles of clothing, limp and lifeless.

Stumpy had waded deep into the water to meet the stricken father and
carried Ronnie to the land. Together the two men worked over the little
bodies, chafing their hands and working their arms up and down to expel
the water from their lungs, and before long quivering eyelids and
struggles for breath showed the watchers that the two dear lives were
saved.

Dripping with water like a merman, McLean rushed for Jenny Lind and
the car with Lesley in his arms, followed by Stumpy with the boy.
There was a tarpaulin on the car which was to have been used to cover
the groceries as they were hauled up to the Lighthouse, and, throwing
this over the children, Stumpy held them close while McLean urged the
unwilling Jenny Lind over the railway.

Mrs. McLean, whose eyes were never far from the windows when her bairns
were abroad, suddenly caught a glimpse of Jenny galloping, saw the two
men on the car, and the covered heap beside them. What a lifetime of
agony she went through until she reached the door and saw that under
the canvas cover the children were breathing, she never could tell you!
They were gathered in their parents’ arms, carried upstairs, undressed,
dried, rubbed, wrapped in warm flannels, and laid side by side in
bed before they could do more than sob and cry out, “Mother, Mother,
Mother,” over and over again. Ronald did murmur in a low voice, “Not
Lesley’s fault, Mummy; Ronnie’s fault,” but even those few words were
only half-spoken, as he dropped off to sleep, worn-out with terror and
excitement.

Quivering in every limb with the sudden shock and the fright that had
followed it, Mrs. McLean watched her darlings as they slept, while the
father, who had told her as much of the accident as he knew himself,
sat below, waiting for the waking. It is true that the Lightkeeper had
been told nothing as yet of what had happened; but he had found the
fish-gaff still caught in Ronald’s clothing and guessed how it had come
there.

As Margaret McLean sat quietly beside the bed, Lesley opened her eyes.
“Where’s Ronnie?” she asked, with a startled look.

“Here, Lesley, mother’s faithful little Lesley!” cried Margaret,
bending over her. “It was you who saved Ronnie and here he is beside
you!”

“My Ronnie!” crooned Lesley, lovingly, turning her heavy head toward
the round cheek on the pillow, “My Ronnie!”--and so, relieved and
comforted, sank softly to sleep again.

It was twilight when Mrs. McLean crept down the stair to find her
husband and Stumpy anxiously awaiting her. The old sailor had made two
trips to the shore during the afternoon to see that no thievish rabbit,
goat, or sea-bird had made off with the stores, but he could find
no rest until he had heard the last news of the day from the “little
children of his heart,” as he called them in his caressing Spanish way.

“They’ll do now, Father,” said Margaret, thankfully, leaning wearily
against her husband’s arm. “They’re awake and calling for supper and
they’ve told me all about it. Ronnie only did what he has always done
since we let him use a rod and line, but he says he never felt such a
tug as that fish gave him, ‘since he lived in this country.’”

Here she half-laughed and choked, and so did both her hearers.

Just then a little head appeared at the window above, “Mummy, Daddy,
sing ‘Eternal Father,’ won’t you, and you too, Stumpy? It’s most
evening now. Les’ and I will sing up here--”

  “Eternal Father! strong to save,
   Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
   Who bidst the mighty ocean deep
   Its own appointed limits keep:
   O hear us when we cry to Thee
   For those in peril on the sea!
                                    Amen.”

The words floated into the air from the open doorway and, perhaps,
for the wind was quiet now, the song reached some lonely fishing-boat
cruising about the island. The shadows lengthened, and soon the brave
Light sent out its cheering rays across the waters, while below, saved
from the perils of the sea, the children slept in peace.


THE END




FOOTNOTE:

[1] From the Spanish of Enrique Ceballos Quintana.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN OF THE LIGHTHOUSE ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.