Much as I hated to do it, I thrust in my hand again, and out came a young hawk, biting, scratching, and screaming. I didn't hold it long, but in less time than you can say "Jack Robinson," down it went into Bob's hat.

Just as I threw down the third and last bird I heard Bob shout, "Look out! the old one's coming." Then something hit me on all sides of my head at once, just as if half a dozen school-teachers were boxing my ears at the same time. I put up my hands to defend my eyes, lost my balance, and, crash!-- I didn't know anything more for the next five minutes.

When I came to myself Bob was dashing water in my face by the hatful. I could just manage to say, "Don't drown me."

"Then you're not dead!" exclaimed Bob. "You gave me an awful scare. Why, I couldn't make you speak a word. Don't ever go and do it again."

"I'm not dead yet, Bob, but it was a pretty ugly fall, wasn't it? Where are the young hawks?"

"Oh, they're all right. I've got 'em tied up in my handkerchief. Try and see if you can stand up."

I did try, but the minute I bore my weight on my right ankle such a sharp pain went through it that down I fell, and fainted away again.

When I came to, the second time, I heard a man say, "Guess we'd better carry him right down to the house, and get the doctor to 'tend to him."

Bob had gone to a farm-house near by, and had brought two men to help him take care of me.

"I'm all right now," said I, "except my ankle, and I guess Bob can wheel me home in a wheelbarrow."

"I'll wheel you myself," said one of the men. "You've done a good job breaking up that there hawks' nest, and I owe you something for it."

You'd better believe that the boys stared when they saw Farmer Jones wheeling me home, and Bob carrying three young hawks in his handkerchief. I felt pretty proud, but was laid up for three weeks with my sprained ankle, and I made up my mind that the next time I meddled with a hawk's nest, I'd shoot the old hawk first.

OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.

BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.

No. VII.

JOHN STARK AND THE INDIANS.

In April, 1752, David Stinson, Amos Eastman, William and John Stark, paddled up the Merrimac River in canoes. Just above the junction of the Contoocook River with the Merrimac they pa.s.sed the last log-cabin. From thence all the way to Canada there was not a white man. They made their way forty miles farther, entered a little stream now known as Baker's River, winding through a beautiful valley, built a camp, and set their traps to catch beaver, which were building their dams along the brooks.

There had been war between France and England, but peace had been agreed upon, and the Indians, who had been on the side of France, came from Canada and traded with the settlers along the frontier; but the settlers were ever on the watch, fearing an outbreak of hostilities at any moment.

The young hunters discovered some tracks in the woods, which had been made by Indians.

"The red-skins are about," they said.

It was agreed that it would be best to take up their traps and leave quietly, for the Indians claimed the whole country as their hunting ground. John Stark went out from the camp to take up his traps, when he found himself confronted by several Indians, who made him their prisoner. They had come from the village of St. Francis, in Canada, to Lake Memphremagog, brought their canoes across the divide between the lake and Connecticut River, and had descended that stream to the present town of Haverhill, in New Hampshire, and were on their way to plunder the settlements on the Merrimac. They did not know that John Stark had any companions near at hand, nor did he inform them.

"Why is John gone so long?" was the question asked by the others.

"Perhaps he is lost. Let us fire a gun."

The report of a gun echoed through the forest.

The Indians' eyes twinkled. There were more prisoners to be had. They stole through the woods with John, and came upon his three companions.

Eastman was on sh.o.r.e, his brother William and Stinson in the boat. The Indians seized Eastman.

"Pull to the other sh.o.r.e," shouted John.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "CRACK! CRACK! WENT THE GUNS OF THE INDIANS."]

Crack! crack! went the guns of the Indians. Stinson fell dead, and a bullet split the paddle in the hands of John's brother, who leaped to the other bank, and escaped. Crack! crack! went the guns again, but he was so far away that they did not harm him. The Indians, enraged at William's escape, gave John a whipping; but instead of whining, he laughed in their faces. They gathered up the hunters' beaver-skins, took their guns and traps, piled them upon John and Eastman, and started for their canoes, greatly pleased with their luck. The Indians divided, one party going over the Green Mountains with the furs which they had captured, going to Albany, where they could get better prices than in Canada, and the other, with John and Eastman, going up the Connecticut to Lake Memphremagog, descending the St. Francis River to their village on the St. Lawrence.

It was a wearisome journey, and John had a heavy pack to carry, but he was young, strong, brave, and was not in the least down-hearted. He did not think that the Indians would harm him; they could do better--sell him to the French.

The Indian town of St. Francis was a collection of miserable cabins and wigwams. The Jesuit fathers had been among the tribe for many years, and had won their confidence; had converted them to Christianity; that is, the Indians had been baptized; they counted their beads, and mumbled a few prayers that the priests had taught them; but they had learned nothing of the justice, mercy, or love pertaining to the Christian religion. They were the same blood-thirsty creatures that they had always been, and were happiest when killing and scalping the defenseless settlers.

The whole population--warriors, squaws, and children--came out to welcome the returning party. True, the French and English were not at war; neither were the English at war with the Indians; but what of that?

Had they not made war on their own account? There was no one to rebuke them, for were not the English always considered as their enemies?

The Indians of St. Francis always made their prisoners run the gauntlet.

It is not quite certain what the word comes from, but it means running between two files of men armed with sticks and clubs, each Indian to give the runner a whack as he pa.s.ses.

The Indians, squaws, children, and all, paraded in two lines about four feet apart. Eastman was the older, and was the first to run. Whack!

whack! went the sticks and clubs, beating him black and blue.

"Your turn now," said an Indian to John.

He is thirty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles like springs of steel. He has an iron will, and is quick to think and act.

The Indians grasp their cudgels more firmly to give him a good drubbing.

What fun it will be to bring them down upon his broad shoulders, and see him cringe!

John comes upon the run. Quick as a flash he seizes the cudgel in the hands of the first Indian, swings it about his head with the strength of a giant. Whack! it goes upon the skull of one, whack! again upon the forehead of the Indian opposite, knocking them right and left. The next two catch it, the third and fourth. They go down as the Philistines fell before Samson. His blows fall so fast that the Indians take to their heels: he breaks up the gauntlet, and marches over the ground like a conqueror. The Indians, instead of punishing him, are greatly pleased.

It is midsummer, and the corn which the Indians have planted needs hoeing. They take him into the field, put a hoe into his hands to work with the squaws.

"You hoe corn," they say. John Stark hoe corn for the Indians! Not he.

He cuts up weeds and corn alike, giving a few strokes, doing what damage he can, and then flings the hoe into the river.

"Squaws hoe corn. Braves fight," he says.

Do they beat him? On the contrary, they pat him on the shoulder.

"Bono! bono!" (good! good!) they say.

The Indians look down upon work as degrading. They make their wives do all the drudgery. Women were made to work, men to fight. To humiliate their prisoners they put them to work, degrading them to the condition of women. John Stark understood their character, and acted accordingly, and his captors were so delighted that they wanted him to become an Indian.

"We make you chief," they said.

"You be my son. I give you my daughter," said the chief.

But John Stark had no idea of becoming an Indian. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes and ears open. He studied their ways. They showed him how to follow a trail over the dead leaves of the forest--how the leaves would be rustled here and there, turned up at the edges, or pressed down a little harder where men had set their feet. He saw what cowards they were unless the advantage was all on their side, and how wily they were to steal upon their enemies. He picked up a little of their language. He was ready to go with them upon a deer-hunt; but as for working, he would not.