Darrel of the Blessed Isles | Page 2

or a
certain clock tinker that travelled from door to door in the olden time,
send your horse to the stable and God-speed them!--it is a long tale, and
you may listen far into the night.
"See the big pines there in the dale yonder?" some one will ask. "Well,
Theron Allen lived there, an' across the pond, that's where the moss
trail came out and where you see the cow-path--that's near the track of

the little red sleigh."
Then--the tale and its odd procession coming out of the far past.

I
The Story of the Little Red Sleigh
It was in 1835, about mid-winter, when Brier Dale was a narrow
clearing, and the horizon well up in the sky and to anywhere a day's
journey.
Down by the shore of the pond, there, Allen built his house. To-day,
under thickets of tansy, one may see the rotting logs, and there are
hollyhocks and catnip in the old garden. He was from Middlebury, they
say, and came west--he and his wife--in '29. From the top of the hill
above Allen's, of a clear day, one could look far across the tree-tops,
over distant settlements that were as blue patches in the green canopy
of the forest, over hill and dale to the smoky chasm of the St. Lawrence
thirty miles north. The Allens had not a child; they settled with no
thought of school or neighbour. They brought a cow with them and a
big collie whose back had been scarred by a lynx. He was good
company and a brave hunter, this dog; and one day--it was February,
four years after their coming, and the snow lay deep--he left the dale
and not even a track behind him. Far and wide they went searching, but
saw no sign of him. Near a month later, one night, past twelve o'clock,
they heard his bark in the distance. Allen rose and lit a candle and
opened the door. They could hear him plainer, and now, mingled with
his barking, a faint tinkle of bells.
It had begun to thaw, and a cold rain was drumming on roof and
window.
"He's crossing the pond," said Allen, as he listened. "He's dragging
some heavy thing over the ice."
Soon he leaped in at the door, the little red sleigh bouncing after him.
The dog was in shafts and harness. Over the sleigh was a tiny cover of
sail-cloth shaped like that of a prairie schooner. Bouncing over the
door-step had waked its traveller, and there was a loud voice of
complaint in the little cavern of sail-cloth. Peering in, they saw only the
long fur of a gray wolf. Beneath it a very small boy lay struggling with
straps that held him down. Allen loosed them and took him out of the
sleigh, a ragged but handsome youngster with red cheeks and blue eyes

and light, curly hair. He was near four years of age then, but big and
strong as any boy of five. He stood rubbing his eyes a minute, and the
dog came over and licked his face, showing fondness acquired they
knew not where. Mrs. Allen took the boy in her lap and petted him, but
he was afraid--like a wild fawn that has just been captured--and broke
away and took refuge under the bed. A long time she sat by her bedside
with the candle, showing him trinkets and trying to coax him out. He
ceased to cry when she held before him a big, shiny locket of silver,
and soon his little hand came out to grasp it. Presently she began to
reach his confidence with sugar. There was a moment of silence, then
strange words came out of his hiding-place. "Anah jouhan" was all they
could make of them, and they remembered always that odd
combination of sounds. They gave him food, which he ate with eager
haste. Then a moment of silence and an imperative call for more in
some strange tongue. When at last he came out of his hiding-place, he
fled from the woman. This time he sought refuge between the knees of
Allen, where soon his fear gave way to curiosity, and he began to feel
her face and gown. By and by he fell asleep.
They searched the sleigh and shook out the robe and blanket, finding
only a pair of warm bricks.
A Frenchman worked for the Allens that winter, and the name, Trove,
was of his invention.
And so came Sidney Trove, his mind in strange fetters, travelling out of
the land of mystery, in a winter night, to Brier Dale.

II
The Crystal City and the Traveller
The wind, veering, came bitter cold; the rain hardened to hail; the
clouds, changed to brittle nets of frost, and shaken