Thomas Bailey Aldrich - "The Queen of Sheba & My Cousin the Colonel"

Jean de La Fontaine - "The Tales and Novels, v7: The Falcon and The Little Dog"

Constant - "The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, v1"

J. Henri Fabre - "The Mason bees"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Pathfinder

J >> James Fenimore Cooper >> The Pathfinder




Mabel repeated the well-known fable, and, as her suitor had desired,
in her own pretty way, which was a way to keep his eyes riveted
on her face, and the whole of his honest countenance covered with
a smile.

"That was like a fox!" cried Pathfinder, when she had ceased; "ay,
and like a Mingo, too, cunning and cruel; that is the way with both
the riptyles. As to grapes, they are sour enough in this part of
the country, even to them that can get at them, though I daresay
there are seasons and times and places where they are sourer to
them that can't. I should judge, now, my scalp is very sour in
Mingo eyes."

"The sour grapes will be the other way, child, and it is Mr. Muir
who will make the complaint. You would never marry that man,
Mabel?"

"Not she," put in Cap; "a fellow who is only half a soldier after
all. The story of them there grapes is quite a circumstance."

"I think little of marrying any one, dear father and dear uncle,
and would rather talk about it less, if you please. But, did I
think of marrying at all, I do believe a man whose affections have
already been tried by three or four wives would scarcely be my
choice."

The Sergeant nodded at the guide, as much as to say, You see how
the land lies; and then he had sufficient consideration for his
daughter's feelings to change the subject.

"Neither you nor Mabel, brother Cap," he resumed, "can have any
legal authority with the little garrison I leave behind on the
island; but you may counsel and influence. Strictly speaking,
Corporal M'Nab will be the commanding officer, and I have endeavored
to impress him with a sense of his dignity, lest he might give
way too much to the superior rank of Lieutenant Muir, who, being
a volunteer, can have no right to interfere with the duty. I wish
you to sustain the Corporal, brother Cap; for should the Quartermaster
once break through the regulations of the expedition, he may pretend
to command me, as well as M'Nab."

"More particularly, should Mabel really cut him adrift while you
are absent. Of course, Sergeant, you'll leave everything that is
afloat under my care? The most d----ble confusion has grown out
of misunderstandings between commanders-in-chief, ashore and afloat."

"In one sense, brother, though in a general way, the Corporal is
commander-in-chief. The Corporal must command; but you can counsel
freely, particularly in all matters relating to the boats, of which
I shall leave one behind to secure your retreat, should there be
occasion. I know the Corporal well; he is a brave man and a good
soldier; and one that may be relied on, if the Santa Cruz can be
kept from him. But then he is a Scotchman, and will be liable to
the Quartermaster's influence, against which I desire both you and
Mabel to be on your guard."

"But why leave us behind, dear father? I have come thus far to be
a comfort to you, and why not go farther?"

"You are a good girl, Mabel, and very like the Dunhams. But you
must halt here. We shall leave the island to-morrow, before the
day dawns, in order not to be seen by any prying eyes coming from
our cover, and we shall take the two largest boats, leaving you
the other and one bark canoe. We are about to go into the channel
used by the French, where we shall lie in wait, perhaps a week, to
intercept their supply-boats, which are about to pass up on their
way to Frontenac, loaded, in particular, with a heavy amount of
Indian goods."

"Have you looked well to your papers, brother?" Cap anxiously
demanded. "Of course you know a capture on the high seas is piracy,
unless your boat is regularly commissioned, either as a public or
a private armed cruiser."

"I have the honor to hold the Colonel's appointment as sergeant-major
of the 55th," returned the other, drawing himself up with dignity,
"and that will be sufficient even for the French king. If not, I
have Major Duncan's written orders."

"No papers, then, for a warlike cruiser?"

"They must suffice, brother, as I have no other. It is of vast
importance to his Majesty's interests, in this part of the world,
that the boats in question should be captured and carried into
Oswego. They contain the blankets, trinkets, rifles, ammunition,
in short, all the stores with which the French bribe their accursed
savage allies to commit their unholy acts, setting at nought our
holy religion and its precepts, the laws of humanity, and all that
is sacred and dear among men. By cutting off these supplies we
shall derange their plans, and gain time on them; for the articles
cannot be sent across the ocean again this autumn."

"But, father, does not his Majesty employ Indians also?" asked
Mabel, with some curiosity.

"Certainly, girl, and he has a right to employ them --God bless him!
It's a very different thing whether an Englishman or a Frenchman
employs a savage, as everybody can understand."

"But, father, I cannot see that this alters the case. If it be
wrong in a Frenchman to hire savages to fight his enemies, it would
seem to be equally wrong in an Englishman. _You_ will admit this,
Pathfinder?"

"It's reasonable, it's reasonable; and I have never been one of
them that has raised a cry ag'in the Frenchers for doing the very
thing we do ourselves. Still it is worse to consort with a Mingo
than to consort with a Delaware. If any of that just tribe were
left, I should think it no sin to send them out ag'in the foe."

"And yet they scalp and slay young and old, women and children!"

"They have their gifts, Mabel, and are not to be blamed for following
them; natur' is natur', though the different tribes have different
ways of showing it. For my part I am white, and endeavor to maintain
white feelings."

"This is all unintelligible to me," answered Mabel. "What is right
in King George, it would seem, ought to be right in King Louis."

As all parties, Mabel excepted, seemed satisfied with the course
the discussion had taken, no one appeared to think it necessary to
pursue the subject. Supper was no sooner ended than the Sergeant
dismissed his guests, and then held a long and confidential
dialogue with his daughter. He was little addicted to giving way
to the gentler emotions, but the novelty of his present situation
awakened feelings that he was unused to experience. The soldier
or the sailor, so long as he acts under the immediate supervision
of a superior, thinks little of the risks he runs, but the moment
he feels the responsibility of command, all the hazards of his
undertaking begin to associate themselves in his mind: with the chances
of success or failure. While he dwells less on his own personal
danger, perhaps, than when that is the principal consideration, he
has more lively general perceptions of all the risks, and submits
more to the influence of the feelings which doubt creates. Such
was now the case with Sergeant Dunham, who, instead of looking
forward to victory as certain, according to his usual habits, began
to feel the possibility that he might be parting with his child
for ever.

Never before had Mabel struck him as so beautiful as she appeared
that night. Possibly she never had displayed so many engaging
qualities to her father; for concern on his account had begun to
be active in her breast; and then her sympathies met with unusual
encouragement through those which had been stirred up in the
sterner bosom of the veteran. She had never been entirely at her
ease with her parent, the great superiority of her education creating
a sort of chasm, which had been widened by the military severity
of manner he had acquired by dealing so long with beings who could
only be kept in subjection by an unremitted discipline. On the
present occasion, however, the conversation between the father and
daughter became more confidential than usual, until Mabel rejoiced
to find that it was gradually becoming endearing, a state of feeling
that the warm-hearted girl had silently pined for in vain ever
since her arrival.

"Then mother was about my height?" Mabel said, as she held one of
her father's hands in both her own, looking up into his face with
humid eyes. "I had thought her taller."

"That is the way with most children who get a habit of thinking of
their parents with respect, until they fancy them larger and more
commanding than they actually are. Your mother, Mabel, was as near
your height as one woman could be to another."

"And her eyes, father?"

"Her eyes were like thine, child, too; blue and soft, and inviting
like, though hardly so laughing."

"Mine will never laugh again, dearest father, if you do not take
care of yourself in this expedition."

"Thank you, Mabel -- hem -- thank you, child; but I must do my duty.
I wish I had seen you comfortably married before we left Oswego;
my mind would be easier."

"Married! -- to whom, father?"

"You know the man I wish you to love. You may meet with many gayer,
and many dressed in finer clother; but with none with so true a
heart and just a mind."

"None father?"

"I know of none; in these particulars Pathfinder has few equals at
least."

"But I need not marry at all. You are single, and I can remain to
take care of you."

"God bless you, Mabel! I know you would, and I do not say that
the feeling is not right, for I suppose it is; and yet I believe
there is another that is more so."

"What can be more right than to honor one's parents?"

"It is just as right to honor one's husband, my dear child."

"But I have no husband, father."

"Then take one as soon as possible, that you may have a husband
to honor. I cannot live for ever, Mabel, but must drop off in the
course of nature ere long, if I am not carried off in the course of
war. You are young, and may yet live long; and it is proper that
you should have a male protector, who can see you safe through life,
and take care of you in age, as you now wish to take care of me."

"And do you think, father," said Mabel, playing with his sinewy
fingers with her own little hands, and looking down at them, as if
they were subjects of intense interest, though her lips curled in
a slight smile as the words came from them, -- "and do you think,
father, that Pathfinder is just the man to do this? Is he not,
within ten or twelve years, as old as yourself?"

"What of that? His life has been one of moderation and exercise,
and years are less to be counted, girl, than constitution. Do you
know another more likely to be your protector?"

Mabel did not; at least another who had expressed a desire to that
effect, whatever might have been her hopes and her wishes.

"Nay, father, we are not talking of another, but of the Pathfinder,"
she answered evasively. "If he were younger, I think it would be
more natural for me to think of him for a husband."

"'Tis all in the constitution, I tell you, child; Pathfinder is a
younger man than half our subalterns."

"He is certainly younger than one, sir -- Lieutenant Muir."

Mabel's laugh was joyous and light-hearted, as if just then she
felt no care.

"That he is -- young enough to be his grandson; he is younger
in years, too. God forbid, Mabel, that you should ever become an
officer's lady, at least until you are an officer's daughter!"

"There will be little fear of that, father, if I marry Pathfinder,"
returned the girl, looking up archly in the Sergeant's face again.

"Not by the king's commission, perhaps, though the man is even now
the friend and companion of generals. I think I could die happy,
Mabel, if you were his wife."

"Father!"

"'Tis a sad thing to go into battle with the weight of an unprotected
daughter laid upon the heart."

"I would give the world to lighten yours of its load, my dear sir."

"It might be done," said the Sergeant, looking fondly at his child;
"though I could not wish to put a burthen on yours in order to do
so."

The voice was deep and tremulous, and never before had Mabel witnessed
such a show of affection in her parent. The habitual sternness of
the man lent an interest to his emotions which they might otherwise
have wanted, and the daughter's heart yearned to relieve the father's
mind.

"Father, speak plainly!" she cried, almost convulsively.

"Nay, Mabel, it might not be right; your wishes and mine may be
very different."

"I have no wishes -- know nothing of what you mean. Would you
speak of my future marriage?"

"If I could see you promised to Pathfinder -- know that you were
pledged to become his wife, let my own fate be what it might, I
think I could die happy. But I will ask no pledge of you, my child;
I will not force you to do what you might repent. Kiss me, Mabel,
and go to your bed."

Had Sergeant Dunham exacted of Mabel the pledge that he really so
much desired, he would have encountered a resistance that he might
have found it difficult to overcome; but, by letting nature have
its course, he enlisted a powerful ally on his side, and the
warm-hearted, generous-minded Mabel was ready to concede to her
affections much more than she would ever have yielded to menace.
At that touching moment she thought only of her parent, who was
about to quit her, perhaps for ever; and all of that ardent love
for him, which had possibly been as much fed by the imagination
as by anything else, but which had received a little check by the
restrained intercourse of the last fortnight, now returned with a
force that was increased by pure and intense feeling. Her father
seemed all in all to her, and to render him happy there was no
proper sacrifice which she was not ready to make. One painful,
rapid, almost wild gleam of thought shot across the brain of the
girl, and her resolution wavered; but endeavoring to trace the
foundation of the pleasing hope on which it was based, she found
nothing positive to support it. Trained like a woman to subdue
her most ardent feelings, her thoughts reverted to her father, and
to the blessings that awaited the child who yielded to a parent's
wishes.

"Father," she said quietly, almost with a holy calm, "God blesses
the dutiful daughter."

"He will, Mabel; we have the Good Book for that."

"I will marry whomever you desire."

"Nay, nay, Mabel, you may have a choice of your own -- "

"I have no choice; that is, none have asked me to have a choice,
but Pathfinder and Mr. Muir; and between _them_, neither of us
would hesitate. No, father; I will marry whomever you may choose."

"Thou knowest my choice, beloved child; none other can make thee
as happy as the noble-hearted guide."

"Well, then, if he wish it, if he ask me again -- for, father,
you would not have me offer myself, or that any one should do that
office for me," and the blood stole across the pallid cheeks of
Mabel as she spoke, for high and generous resolutions had driven
back the stream of life to her heart; "no one must speak to him
of it; but if he seek me again, and, knowing all that a true girl
ought to tell the man she marries, he then wishes to make me his
wife, I will be his."

"Bless you, my Mabel! God in heaven bless you, and reward you as
a pious daughter deserves to be rewarded!"

"Yes, father, put your mind at peace; go on this expedition with a
light heart, and trust in God. For me you will have now no care.
In the spring -- I must have a little time, father -- but in the
spring I will marry Pathfinder, if that noble-hearted hunter shall
then desire it."

"Mabel, he loves you as I loved your mother. I have seen him weep
like a child when speaking of his feelings towards you."

"Yes, I believe it; I've seen enough to satisfy me that he thinks
better of me than I deserve; and certainly the man is not living
for whom I have more respect than for Pathfinder; not even for you,
dear father."

"That is as it should be, child, and the union will be blessed.
May I not tell Pathfinder this?"

"I would rather you would not, father. Let it come of itself, come
naturally." The smile that illuminated Mabel's handsome face was
angelic, as even her parent thought, though one better practised
in detecting the passing emotions, as they betray themselves in
the countenance, might have traced something wild and unnatural
in it. "No, no, _we_ must let things take their course; father,
you have my solemn promise."

"That will do, that will do, Mabel, now kiss me. God bless and
protect you, girl! you are a good daughter."

Mabel threw herself into her father's arms -- it was the first time
in her life -- and sobbed on his bosom like an infant. The stern
soldier's heart was melted, and the tears of the two mingled; but
Sergeant Dunham soon started, as if ashamed of himself, and, gently
forcing his daughter from him, he bade her good-night, and sought
his pallet. Mabel went sobbing to the rude corner that had
been prepared for her reception; and in a few minutes the hut was
undisturbed by any sound, save the heavy breathing of the veteran.



CHAPTER XX.

Wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial stone, aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness, left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been.
CAMPBELL.


It was not only broad daylight when Mabel awoke, but the sun had
actually been up some time. Her sleep had been tranquil, for she
rested on an approving conscience, and fatigue contributed to render
it sweet; and no sound of those who had been so early in motion
had interfered with her rest. Springing to her feet and rapidly
dressing herself, the girl was soon breathing the fragrance of
the morning in the open air. For the first time she was sensibly
struck with the singular beauties, as well as with the profound
retirement, of her present situation. The day proved to be one of
those of the autumnal glory, so common to a climate that is more
abused than appreciated, and its influence was every way inspiriting
and genial. Mabel was benefitted by this circumstance; for, as she
fancied, her heart was heavy on account of the dangers to which a
father, whom she now began to love as women love when confidence
is created, was exposed.

But the island seemed absolutely deserted. The previous night,
the bustle of the arrival had given the spot an appearance of life
which was now entirely gone; and our heroine had turned her eyes
nearly around on every object in sight, before she caught a view of
a single human being to remove the sense of utter solitude. Then,
indeed, she beheld all who were left behind, collected in a group
around a fire which might be said to belong to the camp. The
person of her uncle, to whom she was so much accustomed, reassured
Mabel; and she examined the remainder with a curiosity natural to
her situation. Besides Cap and the Quartermaster, there were the
Corporal, the three soldiers, and the woman who was cooking. The
huts were silent and empty; and the low but tower-like summit of
the blockhouse rose above the bushes, by which it was half concealed,
in picturesque beauty. The sun was just casting its brightness
into the open places of the glade, and the vault over her head
was impending in the soft sublimity of the blue void. Not a cloud
was visible, and she secretly fancied the circumstance might be
taken as a harbinger of peace and security.

Perceiving that all the others were occupied with that great concern
of human nature, a breakfast, Mabel walked, unobserved, towards
an end of the island where she was completely shut out of view by
the trees and bushes. Here she got a stand on the very edge of
the water, by forcing aside the low branches, and stood watching
the barely perceptible flow and re-flow of the miniature waves
which laved the shore; a sort of physical echo to the agitation
that prevailed on the lake fifty miles above her. The glimpses of
natural scenery that offered were very soft and pleasing; and our
heroine, who had a quick eye for all that was lovely in nature,
was not slow in selecting the most striking bits of landscape. She
gazed through the different vistas formed by the openings between
the islands, and thought she had never looked on aught more lovely.

While thus occupied, Mabel was suddenly alarmed by fancying that
she caught a glimpse of a human form among the bushes that lined
the shore of the island which lay directly before her. The distance
across the water was not a hundred yards; and, though she might be
mistaken, and her fancy was wandering when the form passed before
her sight, still she did not think she could be deceived. Aware
that her sex would be no protection against a rifle bullet, should
an Iroquois get a view of her, the girl instinctively drew back,
taking care to conceal her person as much as possible by the leaves,
while she kept her own look riveted on the opposite shore, vainly
waiting for some time in the expectation of the stranger. She was
about to quit her post in the bushes and hasten to her uncle, in
order to acquaint him of her suspicions, when she saw the branch
of an alder thrust beyond the fringe of bushes on the other island,
and waved towards her significantly, and as she fancied in token
of amity. This was a breathless and a trying moment to one as
inexperienced in frontier warfare as our heroine and yet she felt
the great necessity that existed for preserving her recollection,
and of acting with steadiness and discretion.

It was one of the peculiarities of the exposure to which those who
dwelt on the frontiers of America were liable, to bring out the
moral qualities of the women to a degree which they must themselves,
under other circumstances, have believed they were incapable of
manifesting; and Mabel well knew that the borderers loved to dwell
in their legends on the presence of mind, fortitude, and spirit that
their wives and sisters had displayed under circumstances the most
trying. Her emulation had been awakened by what she had heard on
such subjects; and it at once struck her that now was the moment
for her to show that she was truly Sergeant Dunham's child. The
motion of the branch was such as she believed indicated amity; and,
after a moment's hesitation, she broke off a twig, fastened it to
a stick and, thrusting it through an opening, waved it in return,
imitating as closely as possible the manner of the other.

This dumb show lasted two or three minutes on both sides, when Mabel
perceived that the bushes opposite were cautiously pushed aside,
and a human face appeared at an opening. A glance sufficed to
let Mabel see that it was the countenance of a red-skin, as well
as that of a woman. A second and a better look satisfied her that
it was the face of the Dew-of-June, the wife of Arrowhead. During
the time she had travelled in company with this woman, Mabel had
been won by the gentleness of manner, the meek simplicity, and
the mingled awe and affection with which she regarded her husband.
Once or twice in the course of the journey she fancied the Tuscarora
had manifested towards herself an unpleasant degree of attention;
and on those occasions it had struck her that his wife exhibited
sorrow and mortification. As Mabel, however, had more than compensated
for any pain she might in this way unintentionally have caused her
companion, by her own kindness of manner and attentions, the woman
had shown much attachment to her, and they had parted, with a deep
conviction on the mind of our heroine that in the Dew-of-June she
had lost a friend.

It is useless to attempt to analyze all the ways by which the
human heart is led into confidence. Such a feeling, however, had
the young Tuscarora woman awakened in the breast of our heroine;
and the latter, under the impression that this extraordinary visit
was intended for her own good, felt every disposition to have a
closer communication. She no longer hesitated about showing herself
clear of the bushes, and was not sorry to see the Dew-of-June imitate
her confidence, by stepping fearlessly out of her own cover. The
two girls, for the Tuscarora, though married, was even younger than
Mabel, now openly exchanged signs of friendship, and the latter
beckoned to her friend to approach, though she knew not the manner
herself in which this object could be effected. But the Dew-of-June
was not slow in letting it be seen that it was in her power; for,
disappearing in a moment, she soon showed herself again in the end
of a bark canoe, the bows of which she had drawn to the edge of
the bushes, and of which the body still lay in a sort of covered
creek. Mabel was about to invite her to cross, when her own name
was called aloud in the stentorian voice of her uncle. Making a
hurried gesture for the Tuscarora girl to conceal herself, Mabel
sprang from the bushes and tripped up the glade towards the sound,
and perceived that the whole party had just seated themselves
at breakfast; Cap having barely put his appetite under sufficient
restraint to summon her to join them. That this was the most
favorable instant for the interview flashed on the mind of Mabel;
and, excusing herself on the plea of not being prepared for the meal,
she bounded back to the thicket, and soon renewed her communications
with the young Indian woman.