Part 22 (2/2)

By the time Jimmy and his father arrived, crowds of people had descended with stones and sticks anything they could lay their hands on--and were beating the remaining spark of life out of the helpless birds, then seizing and quarrelling over the bodies, without one word of pity or regret for the dreadful catastrophe, so long as they could secure the coveted specimens of this rare migratory bird. Then Jimmy noticed that some few had actually escaped injury, but, before he could reach them, older and stronger people had rushed upon the terrified and weakened creatures, and were clubbing them to death.

”Stop it! stop it!” he shouted. ”Those birds are not injured! Save them!

Let them go!”

”Not if _I_ know it!” yelled back a huge fellow with the face of a greedy demon. ”Why, these birds are worth twenty dollars apiece!”

he blurted, ”and I'm going to have every one of them.”

Down, down, down, went one after another as they tried to rise and spread their magnificent wings, until only one remained. With the quickness of a cat, Jimmy flung his thin little body between the flopping victim and the upraised club.

”You strike that swan if you dare!” he cried, fiercely, glaring up at the would-be murderer with indignant eyes.

”h.e.l.lo, bantam! You after twenty dollars, too?” sneered the man.

”No; I'm after this swan's life, and I'm going to have it!” growled the boy. ”The bird is mine!”

”Yes, Jimmy,” said his father, approaching sadly. ”And it's the only one that has life. I have counted one hundred and sixteen, either dead or slain.”*

[*It is a fact that occurred in April, 1908, that a company of one hundred and sixteen whistling swans were carried over Niagara Falls, and that the only one which escaped the weapons of destroyers was rescued by a little boy, and cared for exclusively by him.]

The boy took off his coat, wrapping it about the superb bird, then carried it carefully to the elevator, and, soon after reaching the summit of the sh.o.r.e, had it fed and tended, then gently crated for s.h.i.+pment home. The tired bird submitted without protest to being measured. From tip to tail it measured fifty-one inches, with the magnificent expansion of wing of eighty-one inches, the only survivor of that glorious white company that was whistling its way to the North. And it was the kindly, boyish hand of little Jimmy Duffy, youngest member of the ”Animal Rescue Club,” that had saved it from a crueller death than even old, heartless Niagara could have given it, and it was his hands that gently removed the bars of the crate in the Duffys' big backyard.

”There, you beautiful thing,” he said, as he removed the last slat, ”stay with us if you can, but go when and where you want. There are no prisons around here.”

But the next morning the swan was still in the yard. The ducks talked to it, but its sad, wondering eyes and listless wings spoke louder than words of its weariness and woe. Scores of boys came to see it that day, and the evening brought Benson's father. After hearing the story all he could say was: ”It's a good thing for me that I was not there. I'm a pretty big fellow, and can lick chaps that are even bigger than I am, and if I'd caught that brute killing those uninjured birds, I'd have thrown him into the Whirlpool Rapids, sure as you're born; I'd be in jail now, and probably get hanged in the autumn. Yes, taking it altogether, I'm glad I wasn't there!”

Of course, many of the townspeople were for having Jimmy confine the bird, or at least send it to a museum, or enclose it in a wire netting; but the boy replied:

”No, thanks. I have seen enough of them die, and I don't want my swan to die of a broken heart.”

But the swan stayed on day after day, seemingly content and happy. Then there dawned a beautiful day in May. The sun shone hot and level on the little backyard. In the middle of the morning a clear, musical, distinct whistle brought Jimmy running to the side door. The swan's head was uplifted, its crimson beak pointing away from the sun. Presently it spread its regal wings and floated up, up, up. One more clear, lingering whistle, and it was away, while Jimmy watched it with eyes both dumbly sad and unspeakably glad, until it was but a radiant white speck sailing into the north, to search for others of its kind.

The Delaware Idol*

[*This tale is absolutely true. The writer's father was the boy who destroyed the Delaware idol, the head of which is at this time one of the treasures in the family collection of Indian relics and curios.]

Young ”Wampum” sat listening to the two old hunters as they talked and chuckled, boasted and bragged, and smoked their curious stone pipes hour after hour. He was a splendid boy, this Wampum of the Mohawks, as quick and lithe as a lynx. His face was strikingly handsome, for it lacked the usual melancholy of the redman, having in its place a haughty, daring expression that gave it the appearance of extreme bravery, and even a dash of wild majesty. That he was a favorite with the older men of his tribe was generally acknowledged, for he was a magnificent hunter, an unerring shot, and, best of all, he could go without food for untold hours, always a thing to be very proud of among the Indian people. So the two old hunters told their stories and laughed over adventures with the same freedom as if the boy had not been present.

”Yes,” said old ”Fire-Flower,” beginning his story, ”that was the strangest bear hunt the Grand River ever saw. These white men think they can come here and kill game, but a bear knows more than a paleface, at least that one did.”

”Fish-Carrier,” the other hunter, nodded his head understandingly, refilled his stone pipe, and said tauntingly, ”I know some Indians that don't know as much as a bear.”

Fire-Flower chuckled, pa.s.sing the insinuation with a knowing smile. ”No bear knows more than _this_ Indian,” he boasted. ”At least no bear I ever came across could outwit me.”

”We'll hear what you have to tell,” answered Fish-Carrier, with great condescension.

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