Openings in the Old Trail | Page 8

like "hanging
round" again; and--another secret reason--he was afraid that any
allusion to her husband's interference would bring back that change in
her beautiful face which he did not like. The better to resist temptation,
he went back another way.
It must not be supposed that, while Leonidas indulged in this secret
passion for the beautiful stranger, it was to the exclusion of his boyish
habits. It merely took the place of his intellectual visions and his
romantic reading. He no longer carried books in his pocket on his lazy
rambles. What were mediaeval legends of high-born ladies and their
pages to this real romance of himself and Mrs. Burroughs? What were
the exploits of boy captains and juvenile trappers and the Indian
maidens and Spanish senoritas to what was now possible to himself and
his divinity here--upon Casket Ridge! The very ground around her was
now consecrated to romance and adventure. Consequently, he visited a
few traps on his way back which he had set for "jackass-rabbits" and
wildcats,--the latter a vindictive reprisal for aggression upon an orphan
brood of mountain quail which he had taken under his protection. For,
while he nourished a keen love of sport, it was controlled by a boy's
larger understanding of nature: a pantheistic sympathy with man and
beast and plant, which made him keenly alive to the strange cruelties of
creation, revealed to him some queer animal feuds, and made him a
chivalrous partisan of the weaker. He had even gone out of his way to
defend, by ingenious contrivances of his own, the hoard of a golden
squirrel and the treasures of some wild bees from a predatory bear,
although it did not prevent him later from capturing the squirrel by an
equally ingenious contrivance, and from eventually eating some of the
honey.
He was late home that evening. But this was "vacation,"--the district
school was closed, and but for the household "chores," which occupied
his early mornings, each long summer day was a holiday. So two or
three passed; and then one morning, on his going to the post-office, the
postmaster threw down upon the counter a real and rather bulky letter,
duly stamped, and addressed to Mr. Leonidas Boone! Leonidas was too
discreet to open it before witnesses, but in the solitude of the trail home

broke the seal. It contained another letter with no address--clearly the
one SHE expected--and, more marvelous still, a sheaf of trout-hooks,
with delicate gut-snells such as Leonidas had only dared to dream of.
The letter to himself was written in a clear, distinct hand, and ran as
follows:--
DEAR LEE,--How are you getting on on old Casket Ridge? It seems a
coon's age since you and me was together, and times I get to think I
must just run up and see you! We're having bully times in 'Frisco, you
bet! though there ain't anything wild worth shucks to go to see--'cept
the sea lions at the Cliff House. They're just stunning--big as a grizzly,
and bigger--climbing over a big rock or swimming in the sea like an
otter or muskrat. I'm sending you some snells and hooks, such as you
can't get at Casket. Use the fine ones for pot-holes and the bigger ones
for running water or falls. Let me know when you've got 'em. Write to
Lock Box No. 1290. That's where dad's letters come. So no more at
present.
From yours truly,
JIM BELCHER.
Not only did Leonidas know that this was not from the real Jim, but he
felt the vague contact of a new, charming, and original personality that
fascinated him. Of course, it was only natural that one of HER
friends--as he must be--should be equally delightful. There was no
jealousy in Leonidas's devotion; he knew only a joy in this fellowship
of admiration for her which he was satisfied that the other boy must
feel. And only the right kind of boy could know the importance of his
ravishing gift, and this Jim was evidently "no slouch"! Yet, in
Leonidas's new joy he did not forget HER! He ran back to the stockade
fence and lounged upon the road in view of the house, but she did not
appear.
Leonidas lingered on the top of the hill, ostentatiously examining a
young hickory for a green switch, but to no effect. Then it suddenly
occurred to him that she might be staying in purposely, and, perhaps a
little piqued by her indifference, he ran off. There was a mountain

stream hard by, now dwindled in the summer drouth to a mere trickling
thread among the boulders, and there was a certain "pot-hole" that he
had long known. It was the lurking- place of a phenomenal trout,--an
almost historic fish in the district, which had long resisted the attempt