Floppy And Berties Great Escape (The Adventures Of Floppy And Bertie Book 1)
This may take a moment to load. Why not fix yourself some steamy cocoa or ice-cold lemonade in the meantime? Then you can settle in and peruse some of the best children's books available. These steps taken away from her parents are the first in a long path through the author's ancestry; a path of women who through their sewing and quilting can create a "Show Way," or map to freedom, a quilted code carrying them through slavery and the civil rights era, along to the present day where the author has learned to use words to create a "Show Way" to a better day.
The introduction to each grandmother when she was seven serves as a refrain and gives the young reader an immediate and sympathetic point of reference. Talbott's rich and evocative illustrations create a visual line like a seam through the story, a path of quilt squares carrying each grandmother through time and through the constellations that guide them and promise a better future.
Surely one of the most hopeful and affecting books on black history, this tour de force promises all children a powerful Show Way, using whatever it is that they can do. A troop of toy soldiers come to her rescue, with love and valor rescinding what is hers. Unassuming at first glance, drama, emotional depth and one heck of a good plot is packed into one of the most stirring children's books ever, now reissued in time for a 40th anniversary. I still remember my grandmother reading this one aloud to me, and now its your turn to read it aloud to your goggle-eyed crowd.
In squirrel-talk: you'd have to be nuts not to have this in your collection. More interested in books than timber-shivering or plank-walking, Henry is the laughingstock of the swarthy crew. But when no one heeds his red-sky-at-morning warning and the ship is lost, it is Henry's book-smarts that save the day.
Part of the author's strength is that her subtle turn of phrase and gentle punnery never sacrifices her story for a laugh, and as a result, she makes anyone who reads her titles aloud come off as a natural comic genius. Her trademark humor is perfectly matched by Mander's visual jokes note Calico Jack Rabbit's cabbage tattoo marked with the name "Beatrix" and broad, bouncy line.
But besides being a wildly funny book with plenty of occasion to utilize a pirate voice, this is a tribute to the worth of books and the people who read them, clearly every bit as valuable as pieces of eight. In short, this little sister is f-a-n-c-y FANCY, and she's generously willing to share her expertise in private lessons. But when an embarassing mishap occurs involving spilled parfaits in a restaurant, Fancy Nancy may need some plain old love.
Strong character voice puts Nancy at the tea-party table with characters like Eloise and Olivia. Sporting a cover appropriately bedeckled in pink glitter and curly-swirly illustrations brimming with accessories of course , this book is as delightful as a cupcake with extra sprinkles and a must-must-must for your favorite fancy girl, dahhhling!
And sang to each other. And built a nest together. Several groups of three or more young boys have appeared at various times. The Railway Series. At Maron , Edward told James of the time he had to push Gordon up a hill. James laughed so much he surprised an old lady as she was carrying some parcels. She dropped them and the stationmaster and some porters had to pick them up for her.
This old lady left her umbrella lying on the platform in Thomas and the Guard. When Thomas was about to leave, the guard tripped on the umbrella. By the time he had gotten up again, Thomas had left. The fire brigade were first seen riding a fire engine in Gordon's Whistle after hearing Gordon whistling and mistaking the noise for a fire alarm.
Three foolish boys found it fun to drop stones on Henry as he passed underneath a bridge, causing minor damage to several carriage windows and Henry's boiler and hitting the fireman on the head. Although the passengers wanted to call the police, Henry's crew persuaded them to let them get their own revenge by showering them, as well as some friends who came to watch, with ashes from Henry's fire. Music Videos. The Hatt family employs two butlers, in one told The Fat Controller, who was in the middle of having his breakfast toast and marmalade , he was wanted on the telephone, to which The Fat Controller then found out about Thomas getting into trouble with the police and had to go at once.
The doctor tended to Mrs. Kyndley in Mrs. Kyndley's Christmas after Thomas' crew saw her dressing-gown waving from her window and suspected the worst. As it was, she had only fainted from the effort of warning them about a landslide ahead. Annual Stories. Bert and Alf are two cleaners who washed Gordon down in Leaves after he derailed from the turntable in a ditch at Vicarstown Sheds.
He lost his footing in the smoke and fell. His fall was luckily broken by a tarpaulin draped over Henry's cab, but his paint-pot landed on Henry's dome, making him look, in the Fat Controller's words, like an iced cake. These two ill-behaved boys wandered into James' cab and started him off, prompting a high-speed chase by Edward. Although that is not her real name, she gained the nickname because she was always late to arrive at the station. Harold the Helicopter has a pilot and co-pilot. Their uniform consists of dark blue trousers, a black tie, a white shirt with a dark blue jacket over it and a dark blue cap.
He only appeared in the story Percy's Promise ; in the television series, he was replaced by the Vicar of Wellsworth. The new signalman is a signalman at Killdane who refused to listen to Toby's driver about Toby having small water tanks. He told them that they had to clear the line for James and that they could get more water from the next station. He later apologised and said that he did not understand Toby's situation. Among the members illustrated is a vicar and a man in a bow-tie, both looking at Duck ; Eric Marriott theorised they may have been the Rev.
Awdry showing C. Reginald Dalby what Duck really looked like. This man set up a barbershop in Crosby , unwisely placed at the end of the siding. After Duck crashed into the wall, the furious barber covered Duck's face in shaving cream. He later washed it off after realising that Duck prevented a potentially fatal accident, and the North Western Railway gladly paid for the repairs.
Peter Sam and Sir Handel, recalling the same happening on the Mid Sodor Railway , at first feared the railway was going to be closed. They later returned to the railway to film a documentary for Skarloey and Rheneas ' th birthday in Very Old Engines. Three gentlemen talked to the Fat Controller after Douglas accidentally shunted the special coach in a siding in The Missing Coach. They later accompanied him when he disciplined Douglas. All her days were alike as far as hard work and dullness went, but she accepted them cheerfully and uncomplainingly.
But she did resent having to look after the baby when she wanted to write her letter. She carried the baby to her room, spread a quilt on the floor for him to sit on, and gave him a box of empty spools to play with. Fortunately he was a phlegmatic infant, fond of staying in one place, and not given to roaming about in search of adventures; but Sidney knew she would have to keep an eye on him, and it would be distracting to literary effort. She got out her box of paper and sat down by the little table at the window with a small kerosene lamp at her elbow.enter site
bogeys dirty bertie Manual
The room was small—a mere box above the kitchen which Sidney shared with two small cousins. Her bed and the cot where the little girls slept filled up almost all the available space. The furniture was poor, but everything was neat—it was the only neat room in the house, indeed, for tidiness was no besetting virtue of Aunt Jane's. Opposite Sidney was a small muslined and befrilled toilet-table, above which hung an eight-by-six-inch mirror, in which Sidney saw herself reflected as she devoutly hoped other people did not see her.
Just at that particular angle one eye appeared to be as large as an orange, while the other was the size of a pea, and the mouth zigzagged from ear to ear. Sidney hated that mirror as virulently as she could hate anything.
It seemed to her to typify all that was unlovely in her life. The mirror of existence into which her fresh young soul had looked for twenty years gave back to her wistful gaze just such distortions of fair hopes and ideals. Half of the little table by which she sat was piled high with books—old books, evidently well read and well-bred books, classics of fiction and verse every one of them, and all bearing on the flyleaf the name of Sidney Richmond, thereby meaning not the girl at the table, but her college-bred young father who had died the day before she was born.
Her mother had died the day after, and Sidney thereupon had come into the hands of good Aunt Jane, with those books for her dowry, since nothing else was left after the expenses of the double funeral had been paid. One of the books had Sidney Richmond's name printed on the title-page instead of written on the flyleaf. It was a thick little volume of poems, published in his college days—musical, unsubstantial, pretty little poems, every one of which the girl Sidney loved and knew by heart.
Sidney dropped her pointed chin in her hands and looked dreamily out into the moonlit night, while she thought her letter out a little more fully before beginning to write. Her big brown eyes were full of wistfulness and romance; for Sidney was romantic, albeit a faithful and understanding acquaintance with her father's books had given to her romance refinement and reason, and the delicacy of her own nature had imparted to it a self-respecting bias. Presently she began to write, with a flush of real excitement on her face.
In the middle of things the baby choked on a small twist spool and Sidney had to catch him up by the heels and hold him head downward until the trouble was ejected. Then she had to soothe him, and finally write the rest of her letter holding him on one arm and protecting the epistle from the grabs of his sticky little fingers. It was certainly letter-writing under difficulties, but Sidney seemed to deal with them mechanically. Her soul and understanding were elsewhere. Four years before, when Sidney was sixteen, still calling herself a schoolgirl by reason of the fact that she could be spared to attend school four months in the winter when work was slack, she had been much interested in the "Maple Leaf" department of the Montreal weekly her uncle took.
It was a page given over to youthful Canadians and filled with their contributions in the way of letters, verses, and prize essays. Noms de plume were signed to these, badges were sent to those who joined the Maple Leaf Club, and a general delightful sense of mystery pervaded the department. Often a letter concluded with a request to the club members to correspond with the writer.
One such request went from Sidney under the pen-name of "Ellen Douglas. Only one answer came to "Ellen Douglas," and that was forwarded to her by the long-suffering editor of "The Maple Leaf. He wrote that, although his age debarred him from membership in the club he was twenty, and the limit was eighteen , he read the letters of the department with much interest, and often had thought of answering some of the requests for correspondents.
He never had done so, but "Ellen Douglas's" letter was so interesting that he had decided to write to her. Would she be kind enough to correspond with him? Life on the Bar N, ten miles from the outposts of civilization, was lonely. He was two years out from the east, and had not yet forgotten to be homesick at times. Sidney liked the letter and answered it.
Since then they had written to each other regularly. There was nothing sentimental, hinted at or implied, in the correspondence.
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Whatever the faults of Sidney's romantic visions were, they did not tend to precocious flirtation. The Plainfield boys, attracted by her beauty and repelled by her indifference and aloofness, could have told that. She never expected to meet John Lincoln, nor did she wish to do so. In the correspondence itself she found her pleasure.
John Lincoln wrote breezy accounts of ranch life and adventures on the far western plains, so alien and remote from snug, humdrum Plainfield life that Sidney always had the sensation of crossing a gulf when she opened a letter from the Bar N. As for Sidney's own letter, this is the way it read as she wrote it:.
The very best letter I can write in the half-hour before the carriage will be at the door to take me to Mrs. Braddon's dance shall be yours tonight. I am sitting here in the library arrayed in my smartest, newest, whitest, silkiest gown, with a string of pearls which Uncle James gave me today about my throat—the dear, glistening, sheeny things! And I am looking forward to the "dances and delight" of the evening with keen anticipation. You asked me in your last letter if I did not sometimes grow weary of my endless round of dances and dinners and social functions.
No, no, never! I enjoy every one of them, every minute of them. I love life and its bloom and brilliancy; I love meeting new people; I love the ripple of music, the hum of laughter and conversation. Every morning when I awaken the new day seems to me to be a good fairy who will bring me some beautiful gift of joy. The gift she gave me today was my sunset gallop on my grey mare Lady. The thrill of it is in my veins yet. I distanced the others who rode with me and led the homeward canter alone, rocking along a dark, gleaming road, shadowy with tall firs and pines, whose balsam made all the air resinous around me.
Before me was a long valley filled with purple dusk, and beyond it meadows of sunset and great lakes of saffron and rose where a soul might lose itself in colour. On my right was the harbour, silvered over with a rising moon. Oh, it was all glorious—the clear air with its salt-sea tang, the aroma of the pines, the laughter of my friends behind me, the spring and rhythm of Lady's grey satin body beneath me! I wanted to ride on so forever, straight into the heart of the sunset.
Then home and to dinner. We have a houseful of guests at present—one of them an old statesman with a massive silver head, and eyes that have looked into people's thoughts so long that you have an uncanny feeling that they can see right through your soul and read motives you dare not avow even to yourself. I was terribly in awe of him at first, but when I got acquainted with him I found him charming.
He is not above talking delightful nonsense even to a girl. I sat by him at dinner, and he talked to me—not nonsense, either, this time. He told me of his political contests and diplomatic battles; he was wise and witty and whimsical. I felt as if I were drinking some rare, stimulating mental wine. What a privilege it is to meet such men and take a peep through their wise eyes at the fascinating game of empire-building! I met another clever man a few evenings ago. A lot of us went for a sail on the harbour. Braddon's house party came too.
We had three big white boats that skimmed down the moonlit channel like great white sea birds. There was another boat far across the harbour, and the people in it were singing. The music drifted over the water to us, so sad and sweet and beguiling that I could have cried for very pleasure.
One of Mrs. Braddon's guests said to me:. I hadn't thought about him before—I hadn't even caught his name in the general introduction. He was a tall, slight man, with a worn, sensitive face and iron-grey hair—a quiet man who hadn't laughed or talked. But he began to talk to me then, and I forgot all about the others. I never had listened to anybody in the least like him. He talked of books and music, of art and travel. He had been all over the world, and had seen everything everybody else had seen and everything they hadn't too, I think.
I seemed to be looking into an enchanted mirror where all my own dreams and ideals were reflected back to me, but made, oh, so much more beautiful! On my way home after the Braddon people had left us somebody asked me how I liked Paul Moore! The man I had been talking with was Paul Moore, the great novelist! I was almost glad I hadn't known it while he was talking to me—I should have been too awed and reverential to have really enjoyed his conversation.
As it was, I had contradicted him twice, and he had laughed and liked it. But his books will always have a new meaning to me henceforth, through the insight he himself has given me. It is such meetings as these that give life its sparkle for me. But much of its abiding sweetness comes from my friendship with Margaret Raleigh. You will be weary of my rhapsodies over her. But she is such a rare and wonderful woman; much older then I am, but so young in heart and soul and freshness of feeling!
She is to me mother and sister and wise, clear-sighted friend. To her I go with all my perplexities and hopes and triumphs. She has sympathy and understanding for my every mood. I love life so much for giving me such a friendship! This morning I wakened at dawn and stole away to the shore before anyone else was up. I had a delightful run-away. The long, low-lying meadows between "The Evergreens" and the shore were dewy and fresh in that first light, that was as fine and purely tinted as the heart of one of my white roses. On the beach the water was purring in little blue ripples, and, oh, the sunrise out there beyond the harbour!
All the eastern Heaven was abloom with it. And there was a wind that came dancing and whistling up the channel to replace the beautiful silence with a music more beautiful still. The rest of the folks were just coming downstairs when I got back to breakfast. They were all yawny, and some were grumpy, but I had washed my being in the sunrise and felt as blithesome as the day. Oh, life is so good to live! Tomorrow Uncle James's new vessel, the White Lady , is to be launched.
We are going to make a festive occasion of it, and I am to christen her with a bottle of cobwebby old wine. But I hear the carriage, and Aunt Jane is calling me. I had a great deal more to say—about your letter, your big "round-up" and your tribulations with your Chinese cook—but I've only time now to say goodbye.
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You wish me a lovely time at the dance and a full programme, don't you? Aunt Jane came home presently and carried away her sleeping baby. Sidney said her prayers, went to bed, and slept soundly and serenely. She mailed her letter the next day, and a month later an answer came. Sidney read it as soon as she left the post office, and walked the rest of the way home as in a nightmare, staring straight ahead of her with wide-open, unseeing brown eyes. John Lincoln's letter was short, but the pertinent paragraph of it burned itself into Sidney's brain.
He wrote:. I am going east for a visit. It is six years since I was home, and it seems like three times six. I shall go by the C. You will let me call and see you, won't you? I shall have to take your permission for granted, as I shall be gone before a letter from you can reach the Bar N. I leave for the east in five days, and shall look forward to our meeting with all possible interest and pleasure. Sidney did not sleep that night, but tossed restlessly about or cried in her pillow. She was so pallid and hollow-eyed the next morning that Aunt Jane noticed it, and asked her what the matter was.
Sidney had never spoken sharply to her aunt before. The good woman shook her head. She was afraid the child was "taking something. I'll fix you a dose of quinine. Sidney refused to lie around and take it easy. She swallowed the quinine meekly enough, but she worked fiercely all day, hunting out superfluous tasks to do. That night she slept the sleep of exhaustion, but her dreams were unenviable and the awakening was terrible.
Any day, any hour, might bring John Lincoln to Plainfield. What should she do? Hide from him? Refuse to see him? But he would find out the truth just the same; she would lose his friendships and respect just as surely. Sidney trod the way of the transgressor, and found that its thorns pierced to bone and marrow.
Everything had come to an end—nothing was left to her! In the untried recklessness of twenty untempered years she wished she could die before John Lincoln came to Plainfield. The eyes of youth could not see how she could possibly live afterward. Some days later a young man stepped from the C. After getting his supper he asked the proprietor if he could direct him to "The Evergreens. Sartin I kin tell you whar' to find it. You see that road out thar'? Well, just follow it straight along for a mile and a half till you come to a blacksmith's forge.
Jim Conway's house is just this side of it on the right—back from the road a smart piece and no other handy. You can't mistake it. John Lincoln did not expect to mistake it, once he found it; he knew by heart what it appeared like from Sidney's description: an old stately mansion of mellowed brick, covered with ivy and set back from the highway amid fine ancestral trees, with a pine-grove behind it, a river to the left, and a harbour beyond. He strode along the road in the warm, ruddy sunshine of early evening.
It was not a bad-looking road at all; the farmsteads sprinkled along it were for the most part snug and wholesome enough; yet somehow it was different from what he had expected it to be. And there was no harbour or glimpse of distant sea visible. Had the hotel-keeper made a mistake? Perhaps he had meant some other James Conway. Presently he found himself before the blacksmith's forge. Beside it was a rickety, unpainted gate opening into a snake-fenced lane feathered here and there with scrubby little spruces. It ran down a bare hill, crossed a little ravine full of young white-stemmed birches, and up another bare hill to an equally bare crest where a farmhouse was perched—a farmhouse painted a stark, staring yellow and the ugliest thing in farmhouses that John Lincoln had ever seen, even among the log shacks of the west.
He knew now that he had been misdirected, but as there seemed to be nobody about the forge he concluded that he had better go to the yellow house and inquire within. He passed down the lane and over the little rustic bridge that spanned the brook. Just beyond was another home-made gate of poles. Lincoln opened it, or rather he had his hand on the hasp of twisted withes which secured it, when he was suddenly arrested by the apparition of a girl, who flashed around the curve of young birch beyond and stood before him with panting breath and quivering lips.
James Conway—'The Evergreens. James Conway's house," said the girl, with the tragic air and tone of one driven to desperation and an impatient gesture of her hand toward the yellow nightmare above them. I am Sidney Richmond. For a moment they looked at each other across the gate, sheer amazement and bewilderment holding John Lincoln mute.
Sidney, burning with shame, saw that this stranger was exceedingly good to look upon—tall, clean-limbed, broad-shouldered, with clear-cut bronzed features and a chin and eyes that would have done honour to any man. John Lincoln, among all his confused sensations, was aware that this slim, agitated young creature before him was the loveliest thing he ever had seen, so lithe was her figure, so glossy and dark and silken her bare, wind-ruffled hair, so big and brown and appealing her eyes, so delicately oval her flushed cheeks.
He felt that she was frightened and in trouble, and he wanted to comfort and reassure her. But how could she be Sidney Richmond? This is my home. We are poor. Everything I told you about it and my life was just imagination. I never thought of such a thing. When you asked me to write to you I wanted to, but I didn't know what to write about to a stranger.
I just couldn't write you about my life here, not because it was hard, but it was so ugly and empty. So I wrote instead of the life I wanted to live—the life I did live in imagination. And when once I had begun, I had to keep it up. I found it so fascinating, too!
Those letters made that other life seem real to me. I never expected to meet you. These last four days since your letter came have been dreadful to me. Oh, please go away and forgive me if you can! I know I can never make you understand how it came about. Sidney turned away and hid her burning face against the cool white bark of the birch tree behind her. It was worse than she had even thought it would be. He was so handsome, so manly, so earnest-eyed! Oh, what a friend to lose! John Lincoln opened the gate and went up to her. There was a great tenderness in his face, mingled with a little kindly, friendly amusement.
Best of Geneva
I'm not such a dull fellow as you take me for. After all, those letters were true—or, rather, there was truth in them. You revealed yourself more faithfully in them than if you had written truly about your narrow outward life. Sidney turned her flushed face and wet eyes slowly toward him, a little smile struggling out amid the clouds of woe. This young man was certainly good at understanding. And for my own part, I am glad you are not what I have always thought you were.
If I had come here and found you what I expected, living in such a home as I expected, I never could have told you or even thought of telling you what you have come to mean to me in these lonely years during which your letters have been the things most eagerly looked forward to.
I should have come this evening and spent an hour or so with you, and then have gone away on the train tomorrow morning, and that would have been all. And as a result I mean to stay a week at Plainfield and come to see you every day, if you will let me. And on my way back to the Bar N I mean to stop off at Plainfield again for another week, and then I shall tell you something more—something it would be a little too bold to say now, perhaps, although I could say it just as well and truly.
All this if I may. May I, Sidney? He bent forward and looked earnestly into her face. Sidney felt a new, curious, inexplicable thrill at her heart. Ernest Hughes, the twelve-year-old orphan boy whom Uncle "boarded and kept" for the chores he did, suddenly stopped eating. Uncle Richard stared at him. Never before, in the five years that Ernest had lived with him, had the quiet little fellow spoken without being spoken to, much less ventured to protest against anything Uncle Richard might do.
Lawson," said Ernest, rising to his feet, his small, freckled face crimson. Please , Mr. Lawson, don't sell him! He was a man who brooked no opposition from anybody, and who never changed his mind when it was once made up. I can't live if Laddie goes away. Oh, don't sell him, Mr. He is sold, and that is all there is about it. Go on with your dinner.
But Ernest for the first time did not obey. He snatched his cap from the back of his chair, dashed it down over his eyes, and ran from the kitchen with a sob choking his breath. Uncle Richard looked angry, but Aunt Kate hastened to soothe him. He's had to do with him ever since he was a pup, and no doubt he feels badly at the thought of losing him. I'm rather sorry myself that you have sold the dog. I don't say but that the dog is a good dog. But he is of no use to us, and twenty dollars will come in mighty handy just now. He's worth that to Bob, for he is a good watch dog, so we've both made a fair bargain.
Nothing more was said about Ernest or Laddie. I had taken no part in the discussion, for I felt no great interest in the matter. Laddie was a nice dog; Ernest was a quiet, inoffensive little fellow, five years younger than myself; that was all I thought about either of them. I was a great favourite with Uncle Richard, partly because he had been much attached to my mother, his only sister, partly because of my strong resemblance to his only son, who had died several years before.
Uncle Richard was a stern, undemonstrative man, but I knew that he entertained a deep and real affection for me, and I always enjoyed my vacation sojourns at his place. I started for the shore about two o'clock. Ernest was sitting on the woodpile as I passed through the yard, with his arms about Laddie's neck and his face buried in Laddie's curly hair. Laddie was a handsome and intelligent black-and-white Newfoundland, with a magnificent coat.
He and Ernest were great chums. I felt sorry for the boy who was to lose his pet. Perhaps he'd listen to you. You'll have to reconcile yourself to losing Laddie, I'm afraid. Ernest's tow-coloured head went down on Laddie's neck again, and I, deciding that there was no use in saying anything more, proceeded towards the shore, which was about a mile from Uncle Richard's house. The beach along his farm and for several farms along shore was a lonely, untenanted one, for the fisher-folk all lived two miles further down, at Rowley's Cove. About three hundred yards from the shore was the peculiar formation known as Island Rock.
This was a large rock that stood abruptly up out of the water. Below, about the usual water-line, it was seamed and fissured, but its summit rose up in a narrow, flat-topped peak. At low tide twenty feet of it was above water, but at high tide it was six feet and often more under water. I pushed Uncle Richard's small flat down the rough path and rowed out to Island Rock. Arriving there, I thrust the painter deep into a narrow cleft. This was the usual way of mooring it, and no doubt of its safety occurred to me. I scrambled up the rock and around to the eastern end, where there was a broader space for standing and from which some capital views could be obtained.
The sea about the rock was calm, but there was quite a swell on and an off-shore breeze was blowing. There were no boats visible. The tide was low, leaving bare the curious caves and headlands along shore, and I secured a number of excellent snapshots. It was now three o'clock. I must wait another hour yet before I could get the best view of the "Hole in the Wall"—a huge, arch-like opening through a jutting headland to the west of me.
I went around to look at it, when I saw a sight that made me stop short in dismay. This was nothing less than the flat, drifting outward around the point. The swell and suction of the water around the rock must have pulled her loose—and I was a prisoner! At first my only feeling was one of annoyance. Then a thought flashed into my mind that made me dizzy with fear.
The tide would be high that night. If I could not escape from Island Rock I would inevitably be drowned. I sat down limply on a ledge and tried to look matters fairly in the face. I could not swim; calls for help could not reach anybody; my only hope lay in the chance of somebody passing down the shore or of some boat appearing.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past three. The tide would begin to turn about five, but it would be at least ten before the rock would be covered. I had, then, little more than six hours to live unless rescued. The flat was by this time out of sight around the point. I hoped that the sight of an empty flat drifting down shore might attract someone's attention and lead to investigation. That seemed to be my only hope. No alarm would be felt at Uncle Richard's because of my non-appearance. They would suppose I had gone to Uncle Adam's. I have heard of time seeming long to a person in my predicament, but to me it seemed fairly to fly, for every moment decreased my chance of rescue.
I determined I would not give way to cowardly fear, so, with a murmured prayer for help, I set myself to the task of waiting for death as bravely as possible. At intervals I shouted as loudly as I could and, when the sun came to the proper angle for the best view of the "Hole in the Wall," I took the picture. It afterwards turned out to be a great success, but I have never been able to look at it without a shudder. At five the tide began to come in. Very, very slowly the water rose around Island Rock.
Up, up, up it came, while I watched it with fascinated eyes, feeling like a rat in a trap. The sun fell lower and lower; at eight o'clock the moon rose large and bright; at nine it was a lovely night, dear, calm, bright as day, and the water was swishing over the highest ledge of the rock. With some difficulty I climbed to the top and sat there to await the end. I had no longer any hope of rescue but, by a great effort, I preserved self-control. If I had to die, I would at least face death staunchly.
But when I thought of my mother at home, it tasked all my energies to keep from breaking down utterly. Suddenly I heard a whistle. Never was sound so sweet. I stood up and peered eagerly shoreward. Coming around the "Hole in the Wall" headland, on top of the cliffs, I saw a boy and a dog. I sent a wild halloo ringing shoreward. The boy started, stopped and looked out towards Island Rock.
The next moment he hailed me. It was Ernest's voice, and it was Laddie who was barking beside him. The tide will be over the rock in half an hour! Hurry, or you will be too late! Instead of starting off at full speed, as I expected him to do, Ernest stood still for a moment, and then began to pick his steps down a narrow path over the cliff, followed by Laddie.
Ernest had by this time reached a narrow ledge of rock just above the water-line. I noticed that he was carrying something over his arm. Laddie and I will save you. Is there anything there you can tie a rope to? I've a coil of rope here that I think will be long enough to reach you. I've been down to the Cove and Alec Martin sent it up to your uncle. I looked about me; a smooth, round hole had been worn clean through a thin part of the apex of the rock.
For answer Ernest tied a bit of driftwood to the rope and put it into Laddie's mouth. The next minute the dog was swimming out to me. As soon as he came close I caught the rope. It was just long enough to stretch from shore to rock, allowing for a couple of hitches which Ernest gave around a small boulder on the ledge. I tied my camera case on my head by means of some string I found in my pocket, then I slipped into the water and, holding to the rope, went hand over hand to the shore with Laddie swimming beside me.
Ernest held on to the shoreward end of the rope like grim death, a task that was no light one for his small arms. When I finally scrambled up beside him, his face was dripping with perspiration and he trembled like a leaf. We hurried home and arrived at Uncle Richard's about ten, just as they were going to bed. When Uncle Richard heard what had happened, he turned very pale, and murmured, "Thank God!
I slept like a top and felt none the worse for my experience the next morning. At the breakfast table Uncle Richard scarcely spoke. But, just as we finished, he said abruptly to Ernest, "I'm not going to sell Laddie. You and the dog saved Ned's life between you, and no dog who helped do that is ever going to be sold by me. Henceforth he belongs to you. I give him to you for your very own. I never saw a boy look so happy. As for Laddie, who was sitting beside him with his shaggy head on Ernest's knee, I really believe the dog understood, too. The look in his eyes was almost human.
Uncle Richard leaned over and patted him. Fate, in the guise of Mrs. Emory dropping a milk-can on the platform under his open window, awakened Murray that morning. Had not Mrs. Emory dropped that can, he would have slumbered peacefully until his usual hour for rising—a late one, be it admitted, for of all the boarders at Sweetbriar Cottage Murray was the most irregular in his habits. Emory was wont to remark sagely and a trifle severely, "prowls about that pond half of the night, a-chasing of things what he calls 'moonlight effecks,' it ain't to be wondered at that he's sleepy in the morning.
And it ain't the convenientest thing, nuther and noways, to keep the breakfast table set till the farm folks are thinking of dinner. But them artist men are not like other people, say what you will, and allowance has to be made for them. And I must say that I likes him real well and approves of him every other way. If Murray had slept late that morning—well, he shudders yet over that "if. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never seen a sunrise on the pond.
Doubtless it would be very lovely down there in those dewy meadows at such a primitive hour; he decided to get up and see what the world looked like in the young daylight. He scowled at a letter lying on his dressing table and thrust it into his pocket that it might be out of sight. He had written it the night before and the writing of it was going to cost him several things—a prospective million among others.
So it is hardly to be wondered at if the sight of it did not reconcile him to the joys of early rising. Emory, pausing in the act of scalding a milk-can when Murray emerged from a side door. You ain't sick now, surely? I told you them pond fogs was p'isen after night! If you've gone and got—".