“There! Listen,” said Betty. “Look at the fox squirrel, the big brownish red one. I call him the Captain, because he always wants to boss the others. I had another fox squirrel, older than this fellow, and he ran things to suit himself, until one day the grays united their forces and routed him. I think they would have killed him had I not freed him. Well, this one is commencing the same way. Do you hear that odd clicking noise? That comes from the Captain’s teeth, and he is angry and jealous because I show so much attention to this one. He always does that, and he would fight too if I were not careful. It is a singular fact, though, that the white squirrel has not even a little pugnacity. He either cannot fight, or he is too well behaved. Here, Mr. Clarke, show Snowball this nut, and then hide it in your pocket, and see him find it.”
Alfred did as he was told, except that while he pretended to put the nut in his pocket he really kept it concealed in his hand.
The pet squirrel leaped lightly on Alfred’s shoulder, ran over his breast, peeped in all his pockets, and even pushed his cap to one side of his head. Then he ran down Alfred’s arm, sniffed in his coat sleeve, and finally wedged a cold little nose between his closed fingers.
“There, he has found it, even though you did not play fair,” said Betty, laughing gaily.
Alfred never forgot the picture Betty made standing there with the red cap on her dusky hair, and the loving smile upon her face as she talked to her pets. A white fantail pigeon had alighted on her shoulder and was picking daintily at the piece of cracker she held between her lips. The squirrels were all sitting up, each with a nut in his little paws, and each with an alert and cunning look in the corner of his eye, to prevent, no doubt, being surprised out of a portion of his nut. Caesar was lying on all fours, growling and tearing at his breakfast, while the dog looked on with a superior air, as if he knew they would not have had any breakfast but for him.
“Are you fond of canoeing and fishing?” asked Betty, as they returned to the house.
“Indeed I am. Isaac has taken me out on the river often. Canoeing may be pleasant for a girl, but I never knew one who cared for fishing.”
“Now you behold one. I love dear old Izaak Walton. Of course, you have read his books?”
“I am ashamed to say I have not.”
“And you say you are a fisherman? Well, you have a great pleasure in store, as well as an opportunity to learn something of the ‘contemplative man’s recreation.’ I shall lend you the books.”
“I have not seen a book since I came to Fort Henry.”
“I have a fine little library, and you are welcome to any of my books. But to return to fishing. I love it, and yet I nearly always allow the fish to go free. Sometimes I bring home a pretty sunfish, place him in a tub of water, watch him and try to tame him. But I must admit failure. It is the association which makes fishing so delightful. The canoe gliding down a swift stream, the open air, the blue sky, the birds and trees and flowers—these are what I love. Come and see my canoe.”
Thus Betty rattled on as she led the way through the sitting room and kitchen to Colonel Zane’s magazine and storehouse which opened into the kitchen. This little low-roofed hut contained a variety of things. Boxes, barrels and farming implements filled one corner; packs of dried skins were piled against the wall; some otter and fox pelts were stretched on the wall, and a number of powder kegs lined a shelf. A slender canoe swung from ropes thrown over the rafters. Alfred slipped it out of the loops and carried it outside.
The canoe was a superb specimen of Indian handiwork. It had a length of fourteen feet and was made of birch bark, stretched over a light framework of basswood. The bow curved gracefully upward, ending in a carved image representing a warrior’s head. The sides were beautifully ornamented and decorated in fanciful Indian designs.
“My brother’s Indian guide, Tomepomehala, a Shawnee chief, made it for me. You see this design on the bow. The arrow and the arm mean in Indian language, ‘The race is to the swift and the strong.’ The canoe is very light. See, I can easily carry it,” said Betty, lifting it from the grass.
She ran into the house and presently came out with two rods, a book and a basket.
“These are Jack’s rods. He cut them out of the heart of ten-year-old basswood trees, so he says. We must be careful of them.”
Alfred examined the rods with the eye of a connoisseur and pronounced them perfect.
“These rods have been made by a lover of the art. Anyone with half an eye could see that. What shall we use for bait?” he said.
“Sam got me some this morning.”
“Did you expect to go?” asked Alfred, looking up in surprise.
“Yes, I intended going, and as you said you were coming over, I meant to ask you to accompany me.”
“That was kind of you.”
“Where are you young people going?” called Colonel Zane, stopping in his task.
“We are going down to the sycamore,” answered Betty.
“Very well. But be certain and stay on this side of the creek and do not go out on the river,” said the Colonel.
“Why, Eb, what do you mean? One might think Mr. Clarke and I were children,” exclaimed Betty.
“You certainly aren’t much more. But that is not my reason. Never mind the reason. Do as I say or do not go,” said
