THE OLD PROSPECTOR
Loon Lake lay in the afternoon sunlight, shimmering in its glory of prismatic colours, on one side reflecting the rocks and the pines that lined the shore and the great peaks that stood further back, and the other lapping the grasses and reeds that edged its waters and joined it to the prairie.A gentle breeze now and then breathed across the lake, breaking into myriad fragments the glassy surface that lay like sheets of polished multi-coloured metal of gold and bronze and silver, purple and green and blue.
A young girl of about sixteen years, riding a cayuse along the lake shore, suddenly reined in her pony and sat gazing upon the scene.
"After all," she said aloud, "it is a lovely spot, and if only father could have stayed, I wouldn't mind."Her tone was one of discontent.Her face was not beautiful, and its plainness was increased by a kind of sullen gloom that had become its habit.After gazing across the lake for some minutes she turned her horse and cantered toward a little cluster of buildings of all sizes and shapes that huddled about the end of the lake and constituted Loon Lake village.As she drew near the largest of the houses, which was dignified by the name of Loon Lake Stopping Place, she came upon a group of children gathered about a little cripple of about seven or eight years of age, but so puny and poorly developed that he appeared much younger.The little lad was sobbing bitterly, shrieking oaths and striking savagely with his crutch at the children that hemmed him in.The girl sprang off her pony.
"Oh, shame on you!" she exclaimed, rushing at them."You bad children, to tease poor Patsy so.Be off with you.Come, Patsy, never mind them.I am going to tell you a story.""He was throwin' stones at us, so he was," said his brother, a sturdy little red-headed lad of six."And he hit Batcheese right on the leg, too.""He pu--pu--pulled down my mountain right to the ground," sobbed Patsy, lifting a pale, tear-stained face distorted with passion.
"Never mind, Patsy," she said soothingly, "I'll help you to build it up again.""And they all laughed at me," continued Patsy, still sobbing stormily."And I'll knock their blank, blank heads off, so I will!"And Patsy lifted his crutch and shook it at them in impotent wrath.
"Hush, hush, Patsy! you must not say those awful words," said the girl, laying her hand over his mouth and lifting him onto her knee.
"Yes, I will.And I just wish God would send them to hell-fire!""Oh, Patsy, hush!" said the girl."That's awful.Never, never say such a thing again.""I will!" cried Patsy, "and I'll ask God to-night, and mother said He would if they didn't leave me alone.""But, Patsy, you must not say nor think those awful things.Come now and I'll tell you a story.""I don't want a story," he sobbed."Sing.""Oh, I'll tell you a story, Patsy.I'll come into the house to-night and sing for you.""No, sing," said the little lad imperiously, and so the girl began to sing the thrilling love story of The Frog and The Mouse, till not only was Patsy's pale face wreathed in smiles, but the other children were drawn in an enchanted circle about the singer.So entranced were the children and so interested the singer that they failed to notice the door of the Stopping Place open.A slovenly woman showed a hard face and dishevelled hair for a moment at the door, and then stole quietly away.In a few moments she returned, bringing her husband, a huge man with a shaggy, black head and repulsive face.
"Jist be afther lookin' at that now, will ye, Carroll!" she said.
As the man looked his face changed as the sun breaks through a storm-cloud.
"Did ye iver see the loikes av that?" she said in a low voice.
"She'd draw the badgers out av their holes with thim songs av hers.
And thim little divils have been all the mornin' a-fightin' and a-scrappin' loike Kilkenny cats."
"An' look at Patsy," said her husband, with wonder and pity in his eyes.
"Yis, ye may say that, for it's the cantankerous little curmudgeon he is, poor little manny.""Cantankerous!" echoed her husband."It's that blank pain av his.""Whist now, Tim.There's Thim that'll be hearin' ye, an' it'll be the worse f'r him an' f'r you, beloike.""Divil a fear have Oi av Thim," said her sceptical husband scornfully.
"Aw, now, do be quiet, now," said his wife, crossing herself."Sure, prayin' is jist as aisy as cursin', and no harrum done, at all." She shut the door.
"Aw, it's the beautiful singer she is," as the girl struck up a new song."Listen to that now."Full, clear, soft, like the warbling of the thrush at evening, came the voice through the closed door.The man and his wife stood listening with a rapt look on their faces.
"Phat in Hivin's name is she singin', at all?" said Mrs.Carroll.
"Whisht!" said her husband, holding up his hand."It's like a wild burrd," he added, after listening a few moments.
"The pore thing.An' it's loike a wild burrd she is," said Mrs.
Carroll pityingly."Left alone so soon afther comin' to this sthrange counthry.It's a useless man altogether, is that ould Prospector."Carroll's face darkened.
"Useless!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "he's a blank ould fool, crazy as a jack rabbit! An' Oi'm another blank fool to put any money into 'im.""Did ye put much in, Tim?" ventured Mrs.Carroll.
"Too much to be thrown away, anyhow."
"Thin, why does ye do it, Tim?"
"Blanked if Oi know.It's the smooth, slippin' tongue av 'im.He'd talk the tale aff a monkey, so he would."At this moment a loud cry, followed by a stream of oaths in a shrill childish voice, pierced through the singing.
"Phat's that in all the worrld?" exclaimed Mrs.Carroll."Hivin preserve us, it's little Patsy.Tim, ye'll 'av to be spakin' to that child for the swearin'.Listen to the oaths av 'im.The Lord forgive 'im!"Tim strode to the door, followed by his wife.
