“And now Gladys,” said Nyoda, “‘there is a tail to you.’”
Gladys placed more wood on the fire, which was burning low, and returned to her seat on the blanket. “Did I ever tell you,” she began, “about my Aunt Beatrice? She and my Uncle Lynn were visiting here from the West with my little cousin Beatrice, who was only six months old. They were staying in a big hotel downtown. One night they went to a party, leaving Beatrice in their room at the hotel in the care of her nurse. At the party there was a fortune teller who amused the guests by reading their palms. When it came my aunt’s turn the woman said to her, ‘You have had one child, who is dead.’ Everybody laughed because they knew Aunt Beatrice had never lost a baby, and little Beatrice was safe and sound in the hotel that very minute. But it worried my aunt almost to death, and she couldn’t enjoy herself the rest of the evening.
“Finally she said to my uncle, ‘I can’t stand it any longer, I must go home,’ so they left the party just as the guests were sitting down to a midnight supper, and everybody made fun of her for being such a fussy young mother. When they got downtown they found the hotel in flames and the streets blocked for a long distance around. Aunt Beatrice finally broke through the fire lines and ran right past the firemen who tried to keep her out, into the burning building, and fought her way up-stairs through the smoke to her room, where she could hear a baby crying. She was blind from the smoke and could hardly see where she was going, but she picked up a rug from the floor, wrapped it around the baby and carried her out in safety. When she got outside they found it was not little Beatrice at all that she had saved, it was a strange baby. She had mistaken the room up-stairs in the smoke and carried out someone else’s child. The building collapsed right after she came out and no one could go in any more. Beatrice and her nurse were lost in the fire.” A murmur of horrified sympathy went around the circle in the tepee. “And,” continued Gladys, “my Aunt Beatrice has never been herself since. She can’t bear even to see a baby.”
“Is that the reason you wouldn’t let me bring Marian Simpson’s baby over the day she left it with me to take care of?” asked Hinpoha. “I remember you said your aunt was visiting you.”
“Yes, that was why,” said Gladys. “And now, Mr. Landsdowne,” she added, “‘there is a tail to you!’”
Farmer Landsdowne stared thoughtfully into the fire for a moment, and then a reminiscent smile began to wrinkle the corners of his eyes. “Would you like to hear a story about the old house?” he asked.
“You mean Onoway House?” asked Migwan.
Mr. Landsdowne nodded. “Only it seems strange to be calling it ‘Onoway House.’ It has always been known as ‘Waterhouse’s Place,’ because old Deacon Waterhouse built it. Well, like most old houses, there are different stories told about it, but whether they are true or not, no one knows. People are so apt to believe anything they want to believe. Well, I started out to tell you the story about the gas well. But before I tell you about the gas well I suppose I ought to tell you about the Deacon’s son. Mind you, the things I am telling you are only what I have heard from the folks around here; I never knew Deacon Waterhouse. He was dead and the house empty before the farm was split up, and it wasn’t until the part that I now own was offered for sale that I ever came into this neighborhood. Well, to return to the Deacon’s son. They say that there never was a finer looking young fellow than Charley Waterhouse. He was a regular prince among the country boys. But he didn’t care a rap about farming. All he wanted to do was read; that and take the horse and buggy and drive to town. The old Deacon was terribly disappointed, of course, for Charley was his only son, and he couldn’t see that the boy wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. He railed about his love of books and wouldn’t give him money for schooling. Charley stood it until he was eighteen and then he ran away, after forging the Deacon’s name to a check. The folks around here never saw him again. Mrs. Waterhouse died of a broken heart, they say. They also say,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “that she died before she had her attic cleaned, and that her ghost comes back at night and sets the old furniture straight up there.” Migwan and Hinpoha exchanged glances.
“Now about the gas well,” resumed Mr. Landsdowne. “The Deacon was digging for water on the farm. The old well had dried up during a long, hot spell and he was bound to go deep enough this time. Down they went—two, three hundred feet, and still no good water. The ground had turned into slate and shale. The well digger lit a match down in the hole when suddenly there was a terrific explosion which caved in the sides of the well and all the dirt which was piled around the outside slid in again, completely filling it up. A vein of gas had been struck. That very day the Deacon received word that his son was in San Francisco, dying, and wanted to see him. He forgot his anger over Charley’s disgrace and started west that very night. He never came back. He stayed in San Francisco a whole year and then died out there. While he was there he mentioned the gas well to several people, or they say he did, and that’s how the story got round. But if such a thing did happen, there was never any trace of it afterward. Personally I do not believe it ever happened. But superstitious folks around here say they can still hear the buried well digger striking with his pick against the earth that covers him.”
“Two ghosts at Onoway House!” said Nyoda, “we are uncommonly well supplied,” and the girls shivered and drew near together in mock fear. Thus, with various stories the evening wore away, until Farmer Landsdowne, looking at his big, old-fashioned silver watch with a start, remarked that he should have been in bed an hour ago, whereupon the company broke up. Calvin Smalley went home reluctantly. That evening spent by the fire in the tepee had been a sort of wonderland to him, unused as he was to family festivities of any kind.