"Yes, mother," said little Joe; "and I can whittle my stick going along. I'm afraid Bill Sykes will get his arrows made first; and if I ain't but eight years old, he shan't beat me at anything."
So Joe perched his cap on the top of his head, and started off through the woods, with his jack-knife for company.
"Aunt Elsie" was a widow, who lived just half a mile from Joe's mother's. Everybody loved her, she was so motherly, and so ready to do a kindness; every man, woman and child in the neighborhood, would have run their feet off for her, if it would have done her any good.
Yes, Aunt Elsie was a regular sunbeam; and yet she had known sorrow and trouble enough, for, as I told you, she was a widow; but she looked forward to a better home than any this world can furnish, and so she bore her trials just as one would the little wearinesses and discomforts of a journey, when every hour is bringing him nearer and nearer to his own dear fireside, with its loving hearts.
Well, little Joe went whistling and whittling along, thinking of Bill Sykes and his arrows. Half a mile was no great distance to go; he might finish one arrow going along; that is, if his jack-knife didn't break, or if he didn't whittle off one of his fingers by mistake. He wished the wood wasn't quite so hard: he wondered whether Bill Sykes would make his arrows of hickory: he wondered whether Bill's brother Tom, wouldn't make them for him—just as like as not, now, he would, and then Bill would be sure to have the best ones: too bad! Joe wished he had a brother, too; he wished——ph-e-w! What's that?
A bear! as sure as you are alive! (and may not be long.) What's to be done now? Joe was a nice fat little boy, and the bear might be hungry. He wasn't afraid: pooh!—no. A little backwoods boy afraid? They are made of different stuff than the little ruffled-collar boys that tag about with the nursery maid at their heels, in Broadway.
Joe examined his jack-knife, and took another look at the bear, as he lay behind the bushes. Old Bruin was fast asleep.
All right;—Joe's mother wouldn't have to wait for her flat-irons; so he stepped carefully along (not to disturb Bruin's nap) and reached Aunt Elsie's, with a whole skin.
Aunt Elsie was very glad to see Joe, for she loved children, and always ran to the cupboard to get them a piece of wholesome frontier pie, or gingerbread, or bit of hoe-cake; but Joe said he couldn't stop; because his mother had her clothes already sprinkled and folded ready for the irons, and had told him to hurry back as fast as ever he could.
Did he tell Aunt Elsie about the bear? Do you suppose a frontier boy would take refuge under a woman's apron?