Alice Wilde. Metta Victoria Fuller Victor

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      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066170448

Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I.

       CHAPTER II.

       CHAPTER III.

       CHAPTER IV.

       CHAPTER V.

       CHAPTER VI.

       CHAPTER VII.

       CHAPTER VIII.

       CHAPTER IX.

       CHAPTER X.

       CHAPTER XI.

       CHAPTER XII.

       CHAPTER XIII.

       CHAPTER XIV.

       CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER I.

       Table of Contents

      THE CABIN HOME.

      "That ar' log bobs 'round like the old sea-sarpint," muttered Ben Perkins to himself, leaning forward with his pole-hook and trying to fish it, without getting himself too deep in the water. "Blast the thing! I can't tackle it no how;" and he waded in deeper, climbed on to a floating log, and endeavored again to catch the one which so provokingly evaded him.

      Ben was a "hand" employed in David Wilde's saw-mill, a few rods farther up the creek, a young fellow not without claims to admiration as a fine specimen of his kind and calling. His old felt-hat shadowed hair as black as an Indian's, and made the swarthy hue of his face still darker; his cheeks and lips were red, and his eyes blacker than his hair. The striped wammus bound at the waist by a leather belt, and the linen trowsers rolled up to the knees, were picturesque in their way and not unbecoming the lithe, powerful figure.

      Ben had bobbed for saw-logs a great many times in his life, and was a person too quick and dextrous to meet with frequent accidents; but upon this day, whether the sudden sight of a tiny skiff turning the bend of the river just below and heading up the creek threw him off his guard, or what it was, certain it is, that stretching forward after that treacherous log, he lost his balance and fell into the water. He did not care for the ducking; but he cared for the eyes which saw him receive it; his ears tingled and his cheeks burned as he heard the silvery laugh which greeted his misfortune. Climbing up on to a log again, he stood dripping like a merman and blushing like a peony, as the occupant of the boat rowed nearer.

      "Keep out the way them logs, Miss Alice, or ye'll get upsot!" he cried, glad of an excuse for attracting attention from his own mishap.

      "I can take care of myself, thank you," was the gay answer. "Do you see father's boat coming, anywhere in sight, Ben? He was to be home this afternoon; and I took a fancy to go down and meet him."

      "I don't see nuthin' of it. That war a mighty big raft he took down to Centre City; the biggest raft that ever floated on that river, I reckon. He mought not be home for two or three days yet, Miss Alice. Gorry! but won't he hev a heap of money when he sells that ar' raft!"

      "And he'll be sure to bring me something pretty—he always does."

      "He knows what's what," responded Ben, stealing a sidelong, admiring glance at the sweet, young face in the skiff.

      If a compliment was intended, it was not understood by the hearer.

      "Yes, father always knows just what suits me best. Dear father! I hope he will come home to-night. I've been out picking blackberries for supper—just look at my hands," and she held up two pretty, dimpled hands, as if to show how charming they were, instead of to betray the purple-tipped fingers.

      But Alice Wilde did not know they were pretty, in sober truth, for she had never been praised, flattered, nor placed in a situation where she could institute comparisons.

      "Well, Ben, good-by. I shall float down the river a few miles, and if I don't see him, I can row back alone."

      "You're mighty pert with the oars, for a gal. I never seed no woman 't could row a boat like you, Miss Alice."

      "Thank you," she said, with a bright smile, as she turned her little birchen skiff about and struck out into the river again.

      Ben watched that graceful form until it was out of sight, heaving a sigh, as he turned again to his work, which told how absorbed he had been.

      Drifting down the river, under the shadow of precipitous bluffs, while the sunshine flecked with gold the rolling prairie-land upon the opposite side, the young girl sang wild negro-melodies which she had learned of the two old colored people who formed her father's retinue of house-servants. Rich and clear, her voice floated through those beautiful solitudes, heard only by the envious birds in the trees which overtopped the bluffs.

      Presently she had listeners, of whom she was unaware. An abrupt bend in the river hid from her the little boat with its single sail, fluttering like a butterfly against the current. It held two persons—David Wilde, the owner and captain of the raft of which Ben had spoken, a rough, striking-looking man of middle age, attired in a pink calico shirt and brown linen jacket and trowsers, who sat at the tiller smoking his pipe; and a young man of four and twenty, extremely good-looking and fashionably-dressed.

      "What's that?" exclaimed the СКАЧАТЬ