The Dog Crusoe and His Master | Page 3

born; here he sprawled in
the early morn of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged his
shaggy tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood; and from the wooden
portals of this block-house he bounded forth to the chase in all the fire,
and strength, and majesty of full-grown doghood.

Crusoe's father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders. There
was no doubt as to their being of the genuine breed, for Major Hope
had received them as a parting gift from a brother officer, who had
brought them both from Newfoundland itself. The father's name was
Crusoe, the mother's name was Fan. Why the father had been so called
no one could tell. The man from whom Major Hope's friend had
obtained the pair was a poor, illiterate fisherman, who had never heard
of the celebrated "Robinson" in all his life. All he knew was that Fan
had been named after his own wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from
a friend, who had got him from another friend, whose cousin had
received him as a marriage-gift from a friend of _his_; and that each
had said to the other that the dog's name was "Crusoe," without reasons
being asked or given on either side. On arriving at New York the
major's friend, as we have said, made him a present of the dogs. Not
being much of a dog fancier, he soon tired of old Crusoe, and gave him
away to a gentleman, who took him down to Florida, and that was the
end of him. He was never heard of more.
When Crusoe, junior, was born, he was born, of course, without a name.
That was given to him afterwards in honour of his father. He was also
born in company with a brother and two sisters, all of whom drowned
themselves accidentally, in the first month of their existence, by falling
into the river which flowed past the block-house--a calamity which
occurred, doubtless, in consequence of their having gone out without
their mother's leave. Little Crusoe was with his brother and sisters at
the time, and fell in along with them, but was saved from sharing their
fate by his mother, who, seeing what had happened, dashed with an
agonized howl into the water, and, seizing him in her mouth, brought
him ashore in a half-drowned condition. She afterwards brought the
others ashore one by one, but the poor little things were dead.
And now we come to the harrowing part of our tale, for the proper
understanding of which the foregoing dissertation was needful.
One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season of the American year
called the Indian summer, there came a family of Sioux Indians to the
Mustang Valley, and pitched their tent close to the block-house. A

young hunter stood leaning against the gate-post of the palisades,
watching the movements of the Indians, who, having just finished a
long "palaver" or talk with Major Hope, were now in the act of
preparing supper. A fire had been kindled on the greensward in front of
the tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended a large tin
camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured Indian woman, or squaw,
who, besides attending to the contents of the pot, bestowed sundry
cuffs and kicks upon her little child, which sat near to her playing with
several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire. The master of the
family and his two sons reclined on buffalo robes, smoking their stone
pipes or calumets in silence. There was nothing peculiar in their
appearance. Their faces were neither dignified nor coarse in expression,
but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, which formed a striking contrast to
the countenance of the young hunter, who seemed an amused spectator
of their proceedings.
The youth referred to was very unlike, in many respects, to what we are
accustomed to suppose a backwoods hunter should be. He did not
possess that quiet gravity and staid demeanour which often characterize
these men. True, he was tall and strongly made, but no one would have
called him stalwart, and his frame indicated grace and agility rather
than strength. But the point about him which rendered him different
from his companions was his bounding, irrepressible flow of spirits,
strangely coupled with an intense love of solitary wandering in the
woods. None seemed so well fitted for social enjoyment as he; none
laughed so heartily, or expressed such glee in his mischief-loving eye;
yet for days together he went off alone into the forest, and wandered
where his fancy led him, as grave and silent as an Indian warrior.
After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. The boy followed
implicitly the dictates of nature within him. He was amiable,
straightforward, sanguine, and intensely earnest. When he