Paradise Garden | Page 8

line of deadfalls, and rabbit snares; had made a pair of
snowshoes and a number of vessels of birch bark, and except for the tea
and flour had been self-supporting, items compensated for by the value
of our labors.
In that time we had two snows, one a severe one, but our cabin roof
was secure and we defied it. Jerry wanted to stay at the cabin all winter,

a wish that I might easily have shared, for the life in the open and the
companionship of the boy had put new marrow into my dry bones. I
had smuggled into camp three books, "Walden," "Rolf in the Woods"
and "Treasure Island," one for Jerry's philosophy, one for his practical
existence and one for his imagination. In the evenings sometimes I read
while Jerry whittled, and sometimes Jerry read while I worked at the
snowshoes or the vessels of birch bark.
[Illustration: "In the evenings sometimes I read while Jerry whittled."]
In those two months was formed the basis of Jerry's idea of life as seen
through the philosophy of Roger Canby. We had many talks, and Jerry
asked many questions, but I answered them all, rejoicing in his
acuteness in following a line of thought to its conclusion, a procedure
which, as I afterward discovered, was to cause me anxious moments.
"Walden" made him thoughtful, but he caught its purpose and
understood its meaning. "Rolf in the Woods" made his eyes bright with
the purpose of achievement in woodcraft and a desire (which I
suppressed) to stalk and kill a deer. But "Treasure Island" touched
some deeper chord in his nature than either of the other books had done.
He followed Jim and the Squire and John Silver in the Hispaniola with
glowing eyes.
"But are there bad men like that now out in the world, Mr. Canby?" he
broke in excitedly.
"There are bad men in the world, Jerry," I replied coolly.
"Like John Silver?"
"Not precisely. Silver's only a character. This didn't really happen, you
know, Jerry. It's fiction."
"Fiction!"
"A story, like Grimm's tales."
"Oh!" His jaw dropped and he stared at me. "What a pity!"

I had wanted to stir in him a knowledge of evil and chose the
picturesque as being the least unpleasant. But he couldn't believe that
old John Silver and the Squire and Benn Gunn hadn't been real people.
The tale dwelt in his mind for days, but the final defeat of the mutineers
seemed to satisfy him as to the intention of the narrative.
"If there are evil men in the world like those mutineers, Mr. Canby, it
must be a pretty bad place to live in," was the final comment, and I
made no effort to undeceive him.
CHAPTER III
JERRY GROWS
It is not my intention to dwell too long upon the first stages of my
tutorship, which presented few difficulties not easily surmounted, but it
is necessary in order to understand Jerry's character that I set down a
few facts which show certain phases of his development. Of his
physical courage, at thirteen, I need only relate an incident of one of
our winter expeditions. We were hunting coons one night with the dogs,
a collie and the bull pup, which now rejoiced in the name of Skookums,
already mentioned. The dogs treed their game three miles from the
Manor house, and when we came up were running around the tree,
whimpering and barking in a high state of excitement. The night was
dark and the branches of the tree were thick, so we could see nothing,
but Jerry clambered up, armed with a stout stick, and disappeared into
the gloom overhead.
"Do you see him?" I called.
"I see something, but it looks too big for a coon," he returned.
"What does it look like?"
"It looks more like a cat, with queer-looking ears."
"You'd better come down then, Jerry," I said quickly.

"It looks like a lynx," he called again, quite unperturbed.
It was quite possible that he was right, for in this part of the Catskill
country lynxes were still plentiful.
"Then come down at once," I shouted. "He may go for you."
"Oh, I'm not worried about that. I have my hunting knife," he said
coolly.
"Come down, do you hear?" I commanded.
"Not until he does," he replied with a laugh.
I called again. Jerry didn't reply, for just then there was a sudden
shaking of the dry leaves above me, the creaking of a bough and the
snarl of a wild animal, and the sound of a blow.
"Jerry!" I cried. No reply, but the sound of the struggle overhead
increased, dreadful sounds of snarling and of scratching, but no sound
of Jerry. Fearful of imminent tragedy, I climbed quickly, amid the
uproar of