The Dog Crusoe and his Master | Page 2

the valley its name.
The newcomers gave one satisfied glance at their future home, and then
set to work to erect log huts forthwith. Soon the axe was heard ringing
through the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground, while the
occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters were catering
successfully for the camp. In course of time the Mustang Valley began
to assume the aspect of a thriving settlement, with cottages and waving
fields clustered together in the midst of it.
Of course the savages soon found it out, and paid it occasional visits.
These dark-skinned tenants of the woods brought furs of wild animals

with them, which they exchanged with the white men for knives, and
beads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. But they hated the
"Pale-faces" with bitter hatred, because their encroachments had at this
time materially curtailed the extent of their hunting grounds, and
nothing but the numbers and known courage of the squatters prevented
these savages from butchering and scalping them all.
The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major Hope, a gentleman
whose love for nature in its wildest aspects determined him to
exchange barrack life for a life in the woods. The major was a first-rate
shot, a bold, fearless man, and an enthusiastic naturalist. He was past
the prime of life, and, being a bachelor, was unencumbered with a
family. His first act on reaching the site of the new settlement was to
commence the erection of a block-house, to which the people might
retire in case of a general attack by the Indians.
In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode as the guardian of
the settlement,--and here the dog Crusoe was 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
agonised 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 green