The Red Moccasins: A Story

by Morrison Heady

Meg. "If Sprigg has not manifested the deepest sorrow and repentance for what he has done to-day. Does he not mourn to think of the pain and distress which, by his most undutiful conduct, he is causing his dear father and his dear, dear mother?"

Nick. (With a sad shake of the head.) "Not with heart-grief, I fear; not with heart-grief! He mourns over the ills which he has brought upon himself by his undutiful conduct, rather than over the wrong thereof, or because of the pain and distress which it must be causing his dear mother and his dear, dear father!" And again Nick shook his head, as were it a desperate case almost beyond hope.

Meg. (With almost as hopeless a shake of the head as Nick.) "Ah, me! who would have thought it? Who could have thought it? Why, Nick, he is as bad as Robinson Crusoe, is he not?"

Nick. "Oh, worse than Robinson Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe, it is true, ran away from home against the command of his father and the prayers of his mother. But he used no deception in the matter. Robinson did not go a-sneaking off, with a lie in his mouth and his shoes in the water bucket; a-sneaking off like a spit-thief dog, to use your own expressive words. And yet, even his case was considered serious enough for a putting through on a desert island. Yes! A good deal worse than Robinson Crusoe, else no need were there of putting him through so."

Meg. "But come, now, Nick; you can't stand there and tell me that Sprigg is as bad a boy as Jack Bean-Stalk?"

Nick. "Well, no; not so bad as that. Not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk. Jack Bean-Stalk was so near the very tipping-over edge of total depravity that I have often wondered since—in fact, wondered at the time—that it did not require a more tremendous putting-through than sliding up and down, between earth and moon, for developing such a hard case of a boy into an honest man. Perhaps, the man in the moon, while the rogue was up there, lent us a helping hand, not suffering him to come down to earth again, excepting on condition that he would thenceforth keep his shadow, as much as possible, in the sunshine; as little as possible in the moonshine; sow no more wild oats, plant no more wild beans."

Meanwhile, the subject of this moral confab remained comfortably seated upon his charger's back. The matter and the manner of the confab smacked so much of the kind he was used to, that he was beginning to feel himself quite at home, and fancied that he could have little to fear for life or limb, so long as he found himself in the company of people, with feeling so home-like in their hearts, and with words so home-like on their lips. Therefore, the more home-like grew the moralizers, the more Sprigg-like grew the subject. But, bearing in mind how sensitive he was to ridicule, you can well imagine how he winced to hear himself compared to a "spit-thief dog;" and how he squirmed to find his secret designs on young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant, which he had not openly owned to himself, thus come popping out into the tell-tale light of Will-o'-the-Wisp. The wispy lamp was now not only burning as a living flame, but twinkling like a living eye, which winked or blinked or stared at the boy, as were it perfectly cognizant of all that was passing among them. But if it was all a dream, as Sprigg by this time was half persuaded it must be, what mattered it, though Will-o'-the-Wisp did snuff his lamp into a tell-tale brightness, for Meg of the Hills to show a "spit-thief dog" in, or for Nick of the Woods to hold up a bug-bear lie in? It was only a dream, which, coming soon to an end, should be wondered over for a moment, then forgotten. Yes, and in the like sense, so is life.

"Then, dear Nick," answered Meg at length, after they had shaken their heads for some moments in silence, "as Sprigg's case is not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk's, it is not yet too late to bring the poor, stray cub back to his milk again. But he must first be made, not only to see, but to feel and acknowledge the error of his ways before we can hope to amend them. Now, how is this to be brought about? How is this case to be treated?"

"My dear Meg, that is the very question I have been asking myself all this time, and to find the answer I must be allowed a few hours' privacy for thinking the matter over. So you and the children go to bed and leave me to my reflections, and in the morning we will hold another consultation."