He was happy enough I was sure. There was a complacent satisfaction in every line of his fat, mottled body. And as I watched him my mind very naturally reverted to the “Pickwick Papers,” and I repeated Mrs. Lyon-Hunter’s deathless ode, beginning:
Can I see thee panting, dying, On a log, Expiring frog!
The big, green frog beside me listened with polite attention, but, on the whole, seemed strangely unmoved. Remembering the book in my pocket, I took it out; an old book, with battered leathern covers, which has passed through many hands since it was first published, more than two hundred years ago.
Indeed it is a wonderful, a most delightful book, known to the world as “The Compleat Angler,” in which, to be sure, one may read something of fish and fishing, but more about old Izaac’s lovable self, his sunny streams and shady pools, his buxom milkmaids, and sequestered inns, and his kindly animadversions upon men and things in general. Yet, as I say, he does occasionally speak of fish and fishing, and amongst other matters, concerning live frogs as bait, after describing the properest method of impaling one upon the hook, he ends with this injunction:
Treat it as though you loved it, that it may live the longer!
Up till now the frog had preserved his polite attentiveness in a manner highly creditable to his upbringing, but this proved too much; his over-charged feelings burst from him in a hoarse croak, and he disappeared into the river with a splash.
“Good-afternoon, Uncle Dick!” said a voice at my elbow, and looking round, I beheld Dorothy. Beneath one arm she carried the fluffy kitten, and in the other hand a scrap of paper.
“I promised Reginald to give you this,” she continued, “and - oh yes - I was to say ‘Hist!’ first.”
“Really! And why were you to say ‘Hist’ ?”
“Oh, because all Indians always say ‘Hist!’ you know.”
“To be sure they do,” I answered; “but am I to understand that you are an Indian?”
“Not ta-day,” replied Dorothy, shaking her head. “Last time Reginald painted me Auntie was awfull’ angry - it took her and nurse ages to get it all off - the war-paint, I mean - so I’m afraid I can’t be an Indian again!”
“That’s very unfortunate!” I said.
“Yes, isn’t it; but nobody can be an Indian chief without any war-paint, can they?”
“Certainly not,” I answered. “You seem to know a great deal about it.”
“Oh, yes,” nodded Dorothy. “Reginald has a book all about Indians and full of pictures - and here’s the letter,” she ended, and slipped it into my hand.
Smoothing out its many folds and creases, I read as follows:
To my pail-face brother:
Ere another moon, Spotted Snaik will be upon the war-path, and red goar shall flo in buckkit-fulls.
“It sounds dreadful, doesn’t it?” said Dorothy, hugging her kitten.
“Horrible!” I returned.
“He got it out of the book, you know,” she went on, “but I put in the part about the buckets - a bucket holds such an awful lot, don’t you think? But there’s some more on the other page.” Obediently I turned, and read:
‘ere another moon, scalps shall dangel at belt of Spotted Snaik, for in his futsteps lurk deth, and distruksion. But fear not pail-face, thou art my brother - fairwell. Sined SPOTTED SNAIK.
“There was lots more, but we couldn’t get it in,” said Dorothy. Squeezed up into a corner I found this postscript:
If you will come and be an Indian Cheef unkel dick, I will make you a spear, and you can be Blood-in-the-Eye. He was a fine chap and nobody could beat him except Spotted Snaik, will you Unkel dick?
“He wants you to write an answer, and I’m to take it to him,” said Dorothy.
“Blood-in-the-Eye!” I repeated; “no, I’m afraid not. I shouldn’t object so much to becoming a red-skin - for a time - but Blood-in-the-Eye! Really, Dorothy, I’m afraid I couldn’t manage that.”
“He was very brave,” returned Dorothy, “and awfull’ strong, and could - could ‘throw his lance with such unerring aim, as to pin his foe to the nearest tree - in the twinkle of an eye.’ That’s in the book, you know.”
“There certainly must be a great deal of satisfaction in pinning one’s foe to a tree,” I nodded.
“Y-e-e-s, I suppose so,” said Dorothy rather dubiously.
“And where is Spotted Snake - I mean, what is he doing?”
“Oh, he’s down by the river with his bow and arrow, scouting for canoes. It was great fun! He shot at a man in a boat - and nearly hit him, and the man got very angry indeed, so we had to hide among the bushes, just like real Indians. Oh, it was fine!” “But your Auntie Lisbeth said you weren’t to play near the river, you know,” I said.
“That’s what I told him,” returned Dorothy, “but he said that Indians didn’t have any aunts, and then I didn’t know what to say. What do you think about it, Uncle Dick?”
“Well,” I answered, “now I come to consider, I can’t remember ever having heard of an Indian’s aunt.”
“Poor things!” said Dorothy, giving the fluffy kitten a kiss between the ears.
“Yes, it’s hard on them, perhaps, and yet,” I added thoughtfully, “an aunt is sometimes rather a mixed blessing. Still, whether an Indian possesses an aunt or not, the fact remains that water has an unpleasant habit of wetting one, and on the whole, I think I’ll go and see what Spotted Snake is up to.”
“Then I think I’ll come with you a little way,” said Dorothy, as I rose. “You see, I have to get Louise her afternoon’s milk.”
