IX.
SEEKING THE LOST LAMB IN VAIN.
Darkness retired. The twilight glimmered on the tallest trees. Morning, so wearily watched-for, came. The clouds broke in masses, and rolled tardily down the sky. Day gilded the heavens, and the tranquil bosom of the low Cayuga mantled in his beams, and reflected the glory of his face. But to the Waldron Settlement that smiling day brought little hope, and no enjoyment. A favorite child was lost from a goodly family, and ill feelings were agitated, and all hearts ran after him through thicket and field, over hill and valley, like shepherds after a lost lamb. Comfortless and faint, the family assembled at the morning altar, and one general sob of grief, and one leaping pulse of anxiety went round. They kneeled for prayer; and the venerable father bore their petitions before the Lord. He prayed for grace to sustain them in the trial. He acknowledged their errors; but bending at the feet of Infinite Kindness, he was encouraged to ask for a Father's blessing. He prayed for more faith in Providence. He prayed that they might have resignation, and that comfort might come to their hearts in the recovery of their little boy.
Grief brooded not over that altar alone. It sat upon every face; it occupied every home; it assailed every heart in the settlement. Tilly Troffater even seemed to share somewhat of the general sorrow, though seldom shedding a sympathetic tear.
"I never tuck a great likin' to childern," said he; "but I kindy liked little Clint; his cheeks was so soft, and smooth, and his eyes snapped sich funny fire; and he was olers so full o' his cunnin' jabber. I hope the painters haint ketched him. They yelled despotly last night; but I hope they haint ketched him yit. I'd like to see him agin, and baird his dimple face for him; the pretty mischief."
"He's worth a long hunt," said Colwell, "and my farm won't suffer if I search a month."
"I did not see how I could leave my work," said Wilson; "but I must give one hunt for Clinton; I must."
"We mustn't give him up yet. O, we can't give him up," added Uncle
Walter; "we couldn't spare a soul from the settlement; we couldn't
spare the leastest of your little brats, Troffater! But where are
Matthew and the Major?"
"They followed Julia to the woods, very early, to see if they could find a trace of the boy," replied Mother Fabens.
"Then we must follow them in a trice," said Uncle Walter; and a general council was had, and it was agreed that they should form a line of all the men and women, four rods apart, and sweep the woods for a distance round; and with horns and bells to give salutes, and luncheon to refresh them when hungry, they marched through the moaning woods.
Night overtook them while they looked still for day, and they returned heavy-hearted and weary to their homes. Large and diligent had been the search, and all the kind Indians were out with them, but no trace could be found of the lost boy. The Indians shook their heads dolefully, and gave signs of despair, though little was said in discouragement, and all volunteered to continue the search the next day. No fires were kindled that night, and only once, in an hour, the horn was sounded, from each house, to give signs of watchfulness, and keep the wild beasts in their distant dens. Morning returned, and another council convened to compare suggestions, and commence another search. Mother Fabens related a dream of the last night, and all gathered around, to hear it. She dreamed that Clinton was passing near the sugar camp, and a creature standing on his hind legs, rushed upon the boy, and bore him off to a multitude that looked like the creature, and let him go free among them. That Clinton wept at first, and tried to get away, but after awhile he looked cheerful again, and stayed with them till she awoke.
"Dreadful!" cried poor comfortless Julia; "can it, say, can it be true?"
"But that does not show he's killed; and I will not give him up yet," said Uncle Walter.
"The wolves hev muttoned him afore this, you may depend," said
Troffater.
"I don't believe that," said Colwell.
"And I don't believe you do aither," said Mr. Waldron, to Troffater.
"There's a good 'eal in that dream, I say now; and it gives me hope.
Come, let's give another good hunt."
"Hugh!" groaned an Indian, dolefully; "he gone, he dead; we no find 'im."
"So I b'lieve," added Troffater. "I dremp las night tew, as wal as Granny Fabens; but then our dreams don't agree azackly. I dremp a shaggy wolf ketched 'im.—O, don't cry so, Miss Fabens!—as I was goin' to say—I dremp a shaggy wolf ketched 'im, and craunched the little feller down, as ye'd eat a tender quail. Miss Fabens, don't cry now!—he was all out o' misery perty quick. I dremp he was dead afore he was stript, or his little dimple hands was chanked to mince-meat; don't cry now."
"You good-for-nothing torment, hold your lying tongue!" said Uncle
Walter, in a rage; "who wants to hear your dream? I'd call for a
polecat's dream as quick. Shut your lips. You talk about crying!
Why, your very words tear open the woman's heart. I'm struck with what
Mother Fabens tells."
"It seemed as if I must be awake," resumed Mother Fabens, "it was all so plain and natural. How I did feel when the creature sprung and catched little Clinton in his paws!—Awful! But then, I've a little more hope from the dream."
"So've I, Miss Fabens," responded Uncle Walter, in a tone of great animation. "So've I. Come on, boys, let's look awhile longer. Come, Wilson, come, Colwell and Teezle. Come, Uncle Mose, your eyes are keen for a look as they were when you hunted Hessians in the Jarsies. But Troffater may step out, we can very well spare him."
Three or four gave over, and went home. Troffater winked and crossed his black and blue eyes, took in a quid, spit through his teeth, struck up a whistle, and departed; and the Indians manifested less zeal than yesterday; but a large company took up the march and searched a day longer. As night returned once more with its first faint shadows, while yet there was light on the thin carpet of newly-fallen leaves to discern colors plainly, a cry of "here's blood!" rang out in a fearful shriek on their ears, and they halted, and gathered at the spot to which attention was directed. "It is blood!" said another; and "here's more!" cried another. "See, it is sprinkled all around here!" "And there! see there, it looks as if there had been a scuffle!" added another.
A cold thrill of horror ran around from heart to heart, and it was well for the Fabenses that they did not arrive, or hear the cry, until a glance before the grieving company showed them the remains of a deer, and reserved a faint hope for the morrow.
To-morrow came and went, with no tidings of poor Clinton. Another and another day was spent by several, who still insisted that the boy must be alive. Mother Fabens' dream made a strong impression, and it held them up from utter despair; while the Indians added a little more to their courage by denying that the captive fawn was killed by them; for they had not killed a fawn in a great while. The white people all believed more or less in portents, warnings and dreams; and trusting a little to their vaticination now, they could not yield the lingering hope that he was still alive. But when they came to reason, that hope was quite extinguished. Had he been alive, and within any reasonable distance, he would have been discovered. But no trace of him could be found even by the sharp-sighted Indians; and then the screams of those panthers, on the first dismal night, increased the probability of his awful fate. Still a search was continued by three or four, and on the fifth day, they discovered a hat about a mile from the path he was pursuing, and it was found to be Clinton's, and a present to him from a cousin in Cloverdale. Again was the settlement set in commotion, and again many surmises and opinions were expressed regarding the poor boy's fate.
But after that, no trace in wood or field was discovered to clear up the painful mystery. The people settled down into the belief that a panther had taken him, and after he had carried him that distance, on the way to his dark lair in the forest, the hat fell from his drooping head, and the loose leaves settled partly over it, and concealed it from view on the first day's search. The parents of the child, and all his friends, except Mother Fabens, were forced at last to the dreadful conclusion which assured them their little fondling was no more; and their grief was deep and lasting. And Mother Fabens grieved sadly with the others; but the impression of her dream still whispered hope to her soul; and the liberation of the fawn she had never forgotten. And when she sickened and died a few months after, she said "it was more than possible that Matthew and Julia might live long enough to see Clinton alive again on earth."
But her kindly-attempted consolations could rally their hopes no more. It was a thought that wrung their desolate hearts; but they were forced to regard their lost boy as having perished in the grasp of some wild beast. And that was the grief of griefs. With all the faith and hope they could command, it shook them and bowed them down, and all the bright world for a while looked dreary and sad on their account. It gave them ghastly dreams. It burdened their waking reveries. It wailed in the winds, it wound the sunbeams, flowers and trees with weeds of melancholy wo. [Transcriber's note: woe?]
In the darkest day, however, their faith and hope did not quite desert them; and after the first heavy stroke, these Christian graces rose up and strengthened them; and never were comforts so sweet as those received from the Scriptures and from their religious trusts.
"God is good," said Fabens. "He may give us trials and griefs—and we have had a portion. He may tear our beloved from us when least of all it may seem we can spare them. His Providence may appear in the storm and tempest; in anguish, bereavement and death; still he is good, and he will bring good out of evil."